The Burning Land

by George Alagiah

  ‘Yes, they’re all from UK. That’s where I live.’

  ‘Cool! I’m going to race in the Olympics when I grow up. I’m the fastest boy in my class.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be faster than Usain Bolt one day. Do you remember him?’

  ‘There’s a picture of him in my school. My mom says I have to work very hard to be the best. She says one day she’s going to buy me takkies just like Usain Bolt used to wear.’

  ‘And what’s your mom’s name, Paulo?’

  ‘Anastasia. But her boss calls her Anna. I think it’s because they don’t like Mozambican names.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just because it’s shorter. You know, like I said my real name is Lindiwe.’

  Paulo was quiet for a moment. Then: ‘They don’t like people from Mozambique,’ he said. ‘My dad told my mom that they were killing Mozambicans. It was his secret but I heard him tell my mom. That’s why he told us to come on this bus.’

  ‘There are just some very silly people, that’s all. The police will catch them and you’ll soon be able to go back home.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back home. There are angry people there.’

  ‘I tell you what, let’s talk about something else. What else are you good at, apart from running?’

  ‘I’m a very good drawer. I could show you but my books are in a bag.’

  Lindi opened her rucksack again. She found her notebook and one of her pencils languishing at the bottom – she was a compulsive writer of notes in the margins of books. ‘Draw me a picture,’ she said. ‘And if it’s really good I might have something else for you and Britney.’

  ‘What should I draw?’

  ‘Anything you want. Have a little think. You’ve got loads of time.’

  Lindi made a bundle of her denim jacket and used it to cushion her head against the window. She was tired. She was also frightened. Not for herself but for the people around her. Perhaps for the first time since she had landed in South Africa she felt she had a measure of what was happening around her. The conversation with Paulo, the boy’s simple acceptance that his family, his people, were unwanted, had discomfited her – because it was true. In the last hour or so she had seen it for herself.

  An incipient malice was spreading. She’d lost count of the number of times she had come across the casual animosity. There was the street vendor at the previous day’s funeral; then just this morning there had been the soldier and the bus driver. Even the ageing porter, with his off-the-cuff warning about watching out for her things. Together, these encounters had crystallised Anton’s warnings and Kagiso’s fears. What had he said the day before? This thing is running out of control. That was how he’d put it. She felt now, as the rhythmic vibrations of the bus numbed her into sleep, that she understood exactly what he’d meant.

  Lindi knew there was menace in the air even before she opened her eyes. The smell of burning, acrid and invasive. She sat bolt upright, instinctively grabbing her rucksack. There was a moment’s relief when she realised the fire was outside, but her groggy mind registered a new threat. The bus was swaying from side to side. Outside, a mob of about fifty people, youths, were pushing against the side. They worked in unison, taking advantage of the bus’s swinging momentum to effect an even greater movement with each successive shove. Lindi pulled away from the window as another fist pounded on the glass. They were screaming, mouths open, like snarling dogs.

  Lindi looked to her left: Paulo was gone. She got up and saw that he was back with his mother, his face pushed against her chest. From where she sat, all Lindi could see was row upon row of faces, each of them etched now with their own version of fear. For every man, woman and child, a different way to communicate horror. Some of the children had begun to cry.

  The women were gathering their possessions. A couple of the men were arguing with the driver, who was now standing in the aisle next to the door. Still the bus rocked from side to side.

  They were in Middleburg, first stop on the route. Lindi could see the Translux office. In front of it, a crowd of people, fighting each other to get to the front. It made the Johannesburg queue seem positively ordered by comparison. Those at the back couldn’t see what was happening ahead of them but Lindi could. The security grille at the ticket office was down, and behind it a man was gesticulating to the desperate passengers. He was waving them away but they persisted, some of them shaking the grille as if they meant to tear it down.

  Lindi saw a youth approach the back of the crowd. He had a bandana across his nose and mouth and what looked like a metal rod in his hand. He grabbed one of the bags that was lying on the ground. A young woman turned round and made a lunge for it but the youth slammed the rod down. The woman reeled away, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her body doubled up and her crippled left hand tucked under the other armpit.

  The bandana boy dragged the suitcase towards the fire where about a dozen youths – some of them looked no more than in their early teens – were stoking the flames. He was about to throw the bag onto the blaze when one of the others stopped him. Whatever was said between them drew hilarity from the others, now hovering around the suitcase. One came forward with a hammer with which he repeatedly struck the locks on the bag. Within seconds it burst open and the youth pounced on it. Bits of clothing were flung out of the huddle towards the fire. Then, like a magician who reveals his trick, one of the youths emerged from the group, his arms held out wide. He was wearing a brassiere across his chest. The others fell about laughing, grabbing at other garments. One of the gang put a pair of knickers over his head; another tied a cloth around his waist. What was left they hurled onto the flames. The suitcase buckled, then caught fire, emitting a thick plume of black smoke. Somebody pointed to the coach and the gang regrouped. They started swaggering towards it.

  The passengers, who’d seen the mayhem unfold, suddenly realised they might have been watching their own fate foretold. Lindi felt a tightening in her chest.

  ‘Drive the bus,’ one of the passengers shouted. Others took up the call.

  ‘No, I have to go and check with my office.’ The driver looked terrified, the arrogant authority of a couple of hours earlier replaced now with wide-eyed fear.

  ‘This is not my problem,’ he said. He looked at Lindi. ‘Madam, we must go. It is not safe for you.’

  Lindi understood, with a clarity that surprised her, that this was one of those moments that would define her. She had a choice to make, now, immediately. Take a stand or walk away.

  ‘I am not going anywhere and neither are you,’ she said. ‘If you open that door you will be responsible for whatever happens to these people.’ She struggled to control her voice. ‘Get behind the wheel and get us out of here.’

  The gang had arrived at the bus. They were grabbing the door. She was standing toe to toe with the driver. There was an explosive crack behind them and a scream from one of the passengers. A window had been smashed and one of the mob was poking his hand through the shattered glass.

  ‘Do it now!’ she yelled, and firmly pushed the driver towards the cockpit.

  He turned on the ignition and revved the engine, scattering the crowd outside. The driver kept his left hand on the horn and the coach lurched forward. The exit was blocked by another vehicle, a minibus that had obviously been ransacked. The driver pulled the steering wheel around and the bus climbed a traffic island in the centre of the road, leaning so precariously to one side that a shout went up from the passengers. He put his foot down hard on the accelerator and the bus bounced back onto the tarmac. They were clear of the terminus. Another hundred metres and they would be on the open road.

  Lindi went up to the driver.

  ‘Get on your phone. Talk to your office and tell them what’s happened. Ask them to make sure the police are at the next stop before we get there.’

  She returned to her seat. There was total silence in the coach. Lindi felt cold and clammy; she realised she was trembling uncontrollably. She pushed herself back into her s
eat and gripped the armrest. Her eye caught the notebook she’d given Paulo. It was lying on the floor. Lindi picked it up. The image was unmistakable. The Ponte building on fire. Stick people leaned out of the windows with speech bubbles coming out of their heads. ‘Help, help,’ Paulo had written in his precise hand. At the bottom of the building a figure was lying flat on the ground. Next to it she read two words: ‘my father’.

  Lindi shut her eyes. She had to stop herself crying.

  The route further east was clogged with traffic. It seemed as if every minivan and taxi was heading towards Mozambique. She’d been told fares to the border post at Komatipoort had doubled, then trebled in as many days. Everything from armchairs to mattresses had been strapped onto roof racks, dwarfing the vehicles beneath them. At every major intersection on the N4 there was a crowd of people, arms held out, pleading for a lift. The coach driver, surly and silent since Middleburg, would slow down as he approached them, wait till they started gathering their bags and bundles, then accelerate away. He would glance at Lindi with a smug satisfaction, as if he was getting his own back for the earlier humiliation of being told what to do by a woman.

  There were a number of checkpoints where passengers were being made to get off the bus, stand in line and be searched. Lindi was waved through all of them until the coach was pulled over at the last checkpoint before Nelspruit. A policeman ordered everyone off, then spoke to the driver, who flicked a look at Lindi as he answered. The policeman turned away slightly as he spoke into his walkie-talkie. Another officer walked over to the bus, flicking through a clipboard. His eyes settled on Lindi.

  ‘So you want to be friends with these people, eh? You have to be searched just like them. We are going to do it over there.’ He pointed to a windowless prefabricated shed some twenty metres away.

  ‘I have nothing to hide but please get one of your women officers to do it,’ Lindi said firmly.

  ‘They are busy.’

  ‘Then I will wait.’

  Lindi watched as each of the other passengers on the coach was checked and allowed back on board. She had seen a couple of uniformed women chatting to each other.

  ‘What about those two?’ she asked the officer in charge.

  ‘Ah, no, they are very busy. Just wait your turn.’

  ‘The rest of the bus is finished. All of them are back inside.’

  ‘That’s because they are not proud white women like you. I can search you now or you can wait.’

  Passengers from vehicles behind the coach had been allowed past her. The coach driver had leaned out of his window and told her he would have to leave her behind if she carried on with her nonsense. Some of the other passengers had started to call out to her. She looked up to see Paulo, fear and anxiety written all over his face. She knew she couldn’t hold out any longer.

  ‘Oh, so you are finally ready,’ the officer said, as he swaggered over to Lindi. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pointing to the shed. Lindi turned to look at the anxious faces on the coach. She started walking, following the officer.

  She hesitated. The officer pushed her in and shut the door. There was an overpowering smell of cheap beer and stale food. It was pitch black. The contrast with the outside couldn’t have been greater. Lindi turned round and tried to get past the man. He grabbed her arm and swung her back. She tripped and hit her head on the back wall. She was sweating profusely, her heart pounding. She filled her lungs, trying to regain her balance. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two or three steps and the officer was in front of her. She felt his beery breath.

  ‘If you make this difficult, we are going to make it difficult for you.’ He was smiling. ‘Just do as I say and you will be back with your friends now-now’

  ‘I will be reporting this to your superiors,’ Lindi said, unconvinced, even as she spoke, that it would make any difference.

  ‘You can talk to anybody. We have a terrorist situation here and we have orders to be very strict.’

  ‘Do I look like a terrorist?’

  ‘I don’t know till I have searched you. Now, hold out your arms.’

  He put his hands around her shoulders and round her armpits, allowing his thumbs to settle over her breasts. He was looking her in the eye. Lindi grabbed his wrists, but it made no difference. His arms were like a clamp.

  ‘We’re just doing our job,’ he said. ‘Sometimes we are supposed to ask the women to take their clothes off. I can do it now if I want to,’ he said, still staring at Lindi and moving his hands down her body. He ran his hands along the waistband of her knickers, which he could feel through her linen skirt. (What on earth had made her wear a skirt? She regretted the choice.) Then he pushed hard between her thighs, before carrying on down to her ankles.

  ‘Turn around.’ He was breathing harder. Lindi didn’t budge. He reached up, held Lindi by the hips. She tried, again, to get out of his grasp. It was useless. He forced her round and pushed her hard against the wall. Lindi tilted her head sideways – it was the only way she could breathe. He started running his hands up Lindi’s legs. This time he reached under her skirt.

  ‘No,’ she screamed, and started banging her fists against the timber wall.

  ‘No one is going to hear you. And no one is listening. You understand?’

  He stood up, leaving his right hand between her legs. ‘Now I have some questions for you. So what are you doing with these people?’

  ‘I’m not with these people. I’m just travelling on the same bus,’ she screamed at him.

  Lindi felt his finger as he worked it under her pants. She felt sick and retched. The man pulled away from her. Lindi turned around and, without thinking, she spat at him. He slapped her, slashing her cheek with his nails as she tried to evade the blow.

  ‘I have to charge you now for assaulting a police officer. You are going to be in big trouble.’

  It was the last thing she needed. She had drawn attention to herself. She thought through her options.

  ‘Look, I should not have done that. I apologise.’

  The officer moved closer to her again. ‘So what are you going to do for me? I have to have some compensation.’ That smile again. That foetid breath again. He placed his arms above her shoulders. ‘We can try again. This time you can enjoy it.’

  ‘Look, those people have been waiting for me. I’ve got some money in my bag. It’s in the coach. Let me go and you can have your compensation.’

  ‘The driver told me that you are defending them, those Mozambicans.’

  ‘That’s because they have done nothing wrong. You should be helping them, not harassing them.’

  ‘Don’t tell us how to do our jobs in South Africa. We don’t need people like you here. You are a troublemaker. We can send you back to your own country.’

  Lindi ducked under his arms. He didn’t stop her, just looked at her with disgust and spat, ‘Okay, go and fetch your money.’

  He followed her out. She made a dash for the coach, which she was relieved to see was still there. Once inside she found her wallet and pulled out fifty rand, then another fifty. She decided to stay in her seat and beckoned the police officer to come on board the bus.

  ‘Come out! You have to come out,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m staying where I am. If you want the money you have to come and get it.’

  Resistance at last. Only a gesture but it felt good all the same.

  The officer turned around. The man in charge was back. He looked at the driver. ‘You can go now.’ As the coach pulled away, Lindi looked at the officer. He pointed at her and drew a finger across his neck.

  Lindi was furious: she had become the centre of attention. The officer had made sure of that. It wasn’t her fault. She told herself she hadn’t had a choice. But now what? For all she knew her presence on the bus was being conveyed from one police post to the next. She had to get below the radar. She thought about calling Anton, but what could he do? She was on her own. There had been a time when the thought might have unsettled her, crippled her confid
ence. Not now, not any more.

  First things first. Lindi decided to change her accommodation in Nelspruit. A private B&B outside the city was probably wisest. She pulled out her phone and turned it on. Glancing at her emails, she saw Anton had already been in contact – he had sent a web link to Radio 702. It was reporting that the violence was spreading, much of it in Mpumalanga Province. Hundreds of homes belonging to Mozambicans had been ransacked and their belongings burned. The plumes of smoke she’d seen twisting out of virtually every town they’d passed began to make sense.

  Back in Johannesburg, the death toll at Ponte City was not conclusive but was rising. The report said the final count would almost certainly be in the dozens. Mozambicans had been asked to report to their local police to have their identity documents checked, ‘for their own safety’. Huge queues had formed outside the stations. Anyone with connections to Mpumalanga Province or who had been there in the previous few days was pulled aside. Radio 702 quoted a number of Mozambicans saying the police had asked for money before releasing them. Anton’s email had been characteristically robust: If we don’t make a breakthrough soon there won’t be a conflict to resolve, just bodies to bury.

  15

  Lindi went back inside her room at the Mirabel Guesthouse, careful not to let the insect screen slam shut. She needn’t have worried. As far as she could tell there was no one else in the place. She’d been sitting on the stoep for about half an hour, catching the last of the sun as it floated down towards the serried ranks of citrus trees on the adjoining estate. Her room was unremarkable, apart from a solid stinkwood riempie bench, its rawhide thongs stretched and sagging. Lindi had been reluctant to put her bag on it when Mrs Venter, the landlady, had shown her to the room.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s carried a lot of heavier weights than that,’ she’d said. ‘It belonged to my great-grandfather. I’m told he used to sit on it most of the day, smoking his pipe, after they brought him back from Ceylon.’

  Her voice had trailed away with those last few words, as if the incarceration of Boer prisoners of war on that Indian Ocean island was an injustice she could still feel.