‘Give me a fucking break.’ Sharmi was looking straight at Kagiso. ‘It may come as a surprise to you but this is what the struggle looks like, and if you’re finding it so difficult to swallow why don’t you just leave the rest of us to get on with it? Just for the record, I for one think he was fair game.’
‘Cut it out, both of you.’ Now it was François’s turn to shout.
‘No, no. Sharmi wants me to spell it out so here it is. Who knew where Lesedi was going to be last Thursday? The folk in Malelane: they hero-worship the Motlantshes so I think it’s safe to count them out. Probably his family: they may be corrupt bastards but I don’t think even they would stoop to killing their own children. And then there’s the four people in this—’
‘If you two don’t stop this, I’m out of here.’ François turned to Kagiso. He put his hands on the other man’s shoulders. ‘Come on, man,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to be coming up with this kak. What’s done is done. Now we got to ride this thing.’
Kagiso pulled away from him and stared out of the window. The other three stared at his silhouette, a figure disembodied from the man they thought they knew but one who had, in just the few minutes since his arrival, dismantled the brittle foundations of their clandestine enterprise. Finally he turned around. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Okay, okay, let’s just crack on,’ François said, as if he were calling a residents’ association meeting to order. His mundane tone convinced no one in the room but they latched on to it, like drowning men will reach for almost anything that might keep them afloat.
‘There is somebody else,’ said Two-Boy.
‘What you talking about?’ asked François.
‘Kagiso just listed the people who knew about Lesedi’s movements. There’s somebody else. Willemse knew.’
‘Who? That minister, the rural-affairs guy?’
‘Yes, he sent a message to the news editor to make sure SABC wouldn’t cover the meeting in Malelane. I saw the email.’
‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he wanted him dead,’ said François.
‘I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ said Two-Boy.
‘Especially if he’d got wind of what Lesedi was up to,’ said Kagiso. He was relieved: Two-Boy had offered another direction in which he could take his suspicions. He’d asked the question, had any of them been implicated? He wasn’t really sure he wanted the answer. There was only one person in the room who’d have had the nerve. ‘Lesedi told me he’d tried on a number of occasions to talk to his father and Willemse about doing things differently.’
‘And think about it. Think what happened to the last person who questioned the land deals,’ said Two-Boy.
‘You mean the guy who was supposed to be in charge of land affairs or something over there in the provincial government? I wouldn’t say he was questioning the deals. He just didn’t think enough cash was coming his way. What the hell was his name?’ asked François.
‘Gwethu, Simon Gwethu. No saint, that’s true, but two days after he gives an interview saying not enough money was staying in Mpumalanga he has a car accident.’
‘Jissis! You’re damn right, Two-Boy. Remember?’ François looked around the room. ‘The investigation lasted a couple of days and they declared it an accident.’
‘What do you think?’ Kagiso looked at Two-Boy.
‘I certainly would not rule Willemse out, or whoever is pulling his strings. If we’re right and this thing is being orchestrated by some big players here and abroad, and there’s billions of rands at stake, they’d do anything to make sure the money keeps flowing,’ Two-Boy said.
‘I don’t think they’re nearly as loth to bump people off as you seem to think they are,’ said François, looking at Kagiso.
‘I’m with François on this one,’ said Two-Boy.
‘Which bit exactly?’ said Kagiso.
‘All of it. I think Willemse and his mob are perfectly capable of silencing Lesedi and I think his death means we know where we stand. Those bastards have drawn a line in the sand.’
‘Okay, that settles it for me,’ said François. ‘From now on we have to assume that anyone in their way will get the same treatment. If they get wind of who we are, we’re targets too.’
‘Well, they’ve already sort of got wind of who we are,’ said Two-Boy.
Sharmi said, ‘You’ve heard something, haven’t you?’
‘Look, I was doing my usual trawl through the news editor’s inbox and he’s having some interesting correspondence with the top floor. It seems Pretoria is leaning on the CEO, so he’s leaning on the news editor.’
‘What have they got on us?’ asked Sharmi.
‘They don’t have anything on us as individuals but they’ve obviously read Kagiso’s last entry.’
‘What was in it? I’ve lost track,’ said François.
‘It’s the one in which Kagiso talked about being in that squatter camp outside Nelspruit, you know, defending the Mozambicans,’ said Two-Boy.
‘I’m still not with you. How does that identify us?’ François turned to Kagiso. ‘You took all the usual precautions?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Look, Pretoria knows they’re going to have to stop blaming the Mozambicans and so on sooner or later …’
‘If they can,’ said Sharmi.
‘Yeah, that’s right. But they know they have to try. If they can’t point to any evidence that it was a Mozambican, they’re going to start looking pretty silly. The Mozambican ambassador has already handed a note of protest to Foreign Affairs and the UN’s refugee woman here has put out a statement condemning the violence and saying it’s the government’s job to put a stop to it. You probably saw it.’
‘Yaah. “Impending genocide” was a bit melodramatic but I thought it put the government on the spot all right,’ said François.
‘Anyway, they know they’re running out of time. They need someone or something else to take the place of the Mozambicans as the bad guys. And that’s where you come in.’ Two-Boy corrected himself. ‘That’s where WE come in.’
‘How can they make it stick?’ asked François. ‘We’re on record condemning the murder.’
‘They don’t know who we are – do they?’ said Sharmi. What had started off as a statement ended as a question.
‘No, they don’t but the boss wants SABC to play its part in finding out,’ said Two-Boy. ‘How did he put it in the email? “We are an independent broadcaster but when national security is at stake, we have to play our part.” I think that’s what he said, anyhow.’
‘If SABC is an independent broadcaster then I’m a black man,’ said François. ‘I think he meant job security, not national security. Your fokken boss is so far up the ANC’s arse he wouldn’t remember the way out even if he wanted to get out.’
‘Anyway, tonight’s late news will have an item raising suspicions about a shadowy group that’s trying to derail land reform. They’ve even found some academic at the University of Johannesburg to say he’s been monitoring our statements and that it all adds up to a conspiracy. That’s harmless stuff. But this is the bit that matters – he’ll say this underground group is probably responsible for Lesedi’s murder and that it could be the first of many.’
‘It’s nice to know someone is actually reading the stuff,’ said Sharmi. It raised a chuckle around the room. ‘How does that feel? Some greasy-haired academic poring over every word you write.’
Two-Boy reached for the bottle of Klipdrift – conspicuously avoiding Kagiso’s eyes – and poured himself a generous glass, which he topped up with what was left of the Coke. He lowered himself halfway down to the floor, then let his bulk drop the rest of the way. His head resting against a wall, he shut his eyes and took a long swig of the drink. It seemed to give him a second wind.
‘The bottom line is this – they’re looking for you,’ he said, pointing at Kagiso. ‘Well, not you by name, but whoever is responsible for the statements. The case is being handed over to the a
nti-terror unit, the Cheetah Squad, or whatever they’re calling it these days. I’ve seen some of the stuff they’re sending the news guys. They think you – I mean the writer – are either a meddling journalist, because they’re written statements, or some sort of extremist. They think you’re being helped, and they’re hoping the help is coming from abroad. That way they get to call it a foreign plot. The report will say a member of an underground extremist group has been in the area and will ask people who’ve seen strangers to come forward.’
‘Did they describe the person they’re looking for?’ asked Sharmi. ‘You know – did they say whether it was a man or woman? Any racial description?’
‘No. But they did say they’re getting evidence that someone from outside the province was in the area and probably organised the murder … I think they called it “a planned assassination”.’
‘What kind of evidence?’ Sharmi again.
‘Didn’t say. My guess is they’re bluffing and all they have to go on is Kagiso’s last entry. I think that’s the only reason they know we’ve been in the area,’ said Two-Boy. ‘But I can’t be sure. It’s possible someone might have noticed you when you went to the camp that was attacked.’
‘But so what if they noticed Kagiso? It doesn’t prove anything – doesn’t mean you’re linked to the Land Collective. It’s your job at Soil of Africa to visit farms and so on,’ said François, looking at Kagiso for reassurance.
‘Yeah, visit farms, but squatter camps is another thing. I’d never been into that one till the other day. So I probably stood out as an outsider.’
‘You’re seen in the camp and the next thing the Land Collective mentions the camp. It all adds up. It’s not exactly rocket science,’ Two-Boy added, stating what now seemed blindingly obvious.
Nobody else spoke for a minute or so. They had known there would come a moment when they would have to account for what they had embarked on all that time ago. They hadn’t recognised it at first, but this was it. Up till now their secret campaign had been precisely that: secret. It wasn’t attached to them. Now it was turning personal, the authorities were going to make it that way.
Kagiso looked at each of them in turn, as if he were seeing them for the first time. Each had had a different motive for being involved. Their commitment to the cause was as varied as their characters. For François, this was a mission of atonement, making up for a privileged past. As for Two-Boy, there were times when Kagiso wondered what he was doing in the same room as the rest of them. He sometimes thought it was no more than the sheer mischievous joy of cheating the system, breaking through virtual walls that kept Two-Boy onside. And Sharmi?
She was the genuine article, the real deal – he knew that. Sharmi was in it head and heart. She, more than any of them, had the sheer audacity and courage to take on the establishment, however explosive the outcome might be. In truth, he admired her conviction, even if the consequences for all of them could be disastrous, not to say fatal. The thing that made Sharmi so dangerous was that she was so alluring.
‘It’s going to get messy,’ he said. ‘Are we ready for this?’
One of his phones rang. It was the number he gave to friends and family. He looked at the others. ‘Shit! I’m sorry. Today was hectic, man, and I just forgot to turn the thing off. Let me answer it quickly.’
Kagiso slid his finger across the screen, put the phone to his ear and heard a voice that seemed familiar, but one he couldn’t place. He walked over to the window, turning his back on the others.
‘Guess who?’ said a female voice.
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s me, Lindi.’
‘What? Where are you?’
‘Didn’t Maude tell you I was coming?’
‘We’ve not talked for a while. I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you back. About half an hour.’ And then Kagiso added, ‘It’s great to hear from you.’
He turned the phone off and was about to speak. Sharmi interrupted. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just an old friend.’
‘All very furtive,’ she said. ‘Your fault for keeping your phone on, but for your penalty you have to tell us who it is.’
‘It’s no one you know.’
‘Ooh! We getting a bit irritable, are we?’ She looked at the others. ‘I think our little bush-boy from Mpumalanga has got a dirty little secret here in the big city. Planning a bit of a fumble tonight, are we, Kagiso?’
‘Look, it’s late. We need to move. I’m going to Lesedi’s funeral tomorrow, then back to Malelane. Let’s catch up in a few days’ time.’
‘Hang on a minute. What have we decided? Ponte City is on fire, foreigners are being hacked to death and we’re just going to carry on as normal? This is surreal,’ said François.
‘There’s nothing to decide,’ said Kagiso. ‘At least, the decision has been made for us. We have to assume we’re wanted, or I am, anyway. We need to lie low and work out what our next step is. My advice is that you suspend any hits you’ve got in the pipeline. If you’ve got into a routine, stick to it. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t normally do. If you’ve left tracks, get rid of them. If you’ve got any bridges to burn, now is the time to do it.’
‘Should we switch to the back-up phones?’ asked Two-Boy. He was looking at Kagiso.
‘Yes, but remember, we use them only to contact each other and only in an emergency, to warn someone of an imminent threat. If we don’t hear from each other, that’s good. I’ll call when we need to meet next.’
‘Amen,’ said François. ‘All right, let’s go. Two-Boy, you first – through the front. I’ll go next through the shop. Kagiso, you staying or going?’
‘I’ll tidy up and leave last,’ said Kagiso.
‘Okay, that means you’re out the front, Sharmi.’
They had parted like this on many occasions before but this was the first time the precaution actually seemed necessary. They were like soldiers who – faced with the reality of conflict – suddenly realise what all that training was for. When her turn came Sharmi half opened the apartment door and looked back into the front room.
Kagiso was still sitting on the sofa. Apart from the packing case there was hardly any other furniture in the room. He looked marooned.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine. And thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘For asking.’
Sharmi lingered, perhaps thinking there was more to say or hoping there was.
Kagiso put an end to that possibility. ‘Just turn the light off as you go. I’ll hang around for a few minutes,’ he said, then added, ‘Sharmi, we’re on our own now. It’s each to his or her own for the next few days, maybe weeks. You can’t afford to make any mistakes.’
‘I know.’ Sharmi waited by the door. ‘I know what I’m doing, Kagiso. You all think I’m over the top but I’m serious about this.’
‘I’ve never doubted that … or your guts,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got to think with your head, not your heart.’
‘Is that what you do?’
Kagiso ignored the question. ‘Okay, I’ll see you.’
‘Yeah, see you.’
Kagiso heard the front door latch click into place. He found himself staring at the space where Sharmi had been standing. It was as if there was a gap, like looking at a stencil of her shape. She’d taken something with her, her high-voltage presence. The room, the air, was thinner, poorer without her in it. That was how it seemed. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt that way after he’d been with her, even on those frequent occasions, such as this one, when they had fought. Especially when they had fought. The fighting always brought to mind its opposite. What was that? Tenderness? Not really. Intimacy? Of a kind. Attraction? Yes, he knew where that came from. It went way back, but not so far that he couldn’t remember its intensity, the sheer intoxicating thrill of meeting her, arguing with her – yes, even then. That first time, the only time, their mutual desire
had emerged in the physicality of the encounter: there hadn’t been time for affection, just energy. Now only the energy remained, finding expression in the words they used, ugly ones, hurtful ones. It was a relationship of sorts, a substitute for what they might achieve if only they could break the habit, make room for something else.
Kagiso was not a man given to impulse but he wondered if he might catch Sharmi before she left the building. Not now, he told himself. Another time, maybe when all this was over.
He got up, walked over to the window and opened it wider. The pungent air caught the back of his throat. He could see the Ponte building as he looked east, the windows of its lower façade intermittently reflecting the blue and red flashes from the emergency vehicles. From this distance it resembled a light show. Normally, you might hear the brassy beat of West African Hi-Life blaring out of one of the other apartments. Now there was nothing, except the shrill sound of sirens, the mechanical scream of a city in trouble. Across the street, each window framed a silhouette. Directly opposite him, he could make out a huddle of people. They, too, were looking east. What they saw was not a building but an uncertain future.
Kagiso imagined looking down on all this. He pictured one of those satellite images you could download. There he was, a tiny speck. Some distance away in Ponte City, its summit still advertising the good life on a huge screen, a family crouched in one room, faceless and dumb. Could there really be a connection between their predicament and the actions of the Collective? He remembered the game they used to play at Stellenbosch, trying to prove there were only six degrees of separation between any two people on the planet. The idea, then, was to make the link. Today he wanted to prove the theory wrong. He didn’t want any responsibility for what was happening outside and what had once been set in motion in this very room. Kagiso shut the window, as if that would absolve him of any blame for what was unfolding outside.
He glanced around the room, picked up the mugs, the plastic cups and the nearly empty bottle of Klipdrift and took them into the kitchen. He found the Pick ’n’ Pay bag that Two-Boy must have used to carry the liquor and emptied the soggy cigarette butts into it. He pulled the kettle plug from its socket. Across the narrow hallway he checked the single bedroom. As usual, the mattresses, discoloured and stained, were leaning against a wall. There were several holdalls on the floor. Ahmadu had always said they belonged to his tenants, though Kagiso had never seen any. There was one last thing to do before he left.
The Burning Land Page 10