The Burning Land

by George Alagiah

  Lindi saw her dress and underclothes on the floor. She thought the shower had cleansed her but she felt again the revulsion in her guts. She swallowed hard. She checked her rucksack, made sure the torch was working, topped up the half-empty bottle of water from the tap in the corner of the room and went into the kitchen. She’d declined the meal that was on offer and had asked, instead, for a light snack. Under a wire-mesh cloche she found several pieces of fried chicken, pumpkin fritters, a quadrangle of what looked like a custard pie and a saucer of honey – she found out later that it was a dip for the fritters. There wasn’t a salad leaf in sight.

  Even at the best of times, Lindi was a rather mechanical eater. She ate because she needed to rather than because she enjoyed it. Going out for a meal was about the company, the food a sideshow. Left on her own of an evening, as she often was back in London, she was happy with a tub of hummus, sticks of carrot or celery and a boiled egg. Now she ate a piece of chicken, which she enjoyed more than she expected, and a couple of the fritters, but left the tart untouched.

  ‘Good homemade Afrikaner melktert,’ Mrs Venter had said. Lindi made a mental note to come up with an excuse for not trying it.

  She went outside to the stoep again and was glad of the jumper she had put on. Even here in the low-lying east of the country the evening temperature had dipped. The sun, which had now slipped below the horizon, still managed to illuminate the sky with its purple-orange after-burn but its power was spent. She sat on the cane sofa again, the cushions still moulded to her shape.

  She had a few minutes before Father Petro de Freitas was due to pick her up. The Catholic bishop in Nelspruit, whom she had met earlier in the day, had introduced her to Father Petro.

  ‘He’s the man you should be talking to,’ the bishop had said. ‘They flock to his masses because he speaks Shangaan, their language.’

  Father Petro had said he would take her to meet some migrant families.

  Lindi shut her eyes. She felt she hadn’t really dealt with the day’s events, just reacted to them. And that wasn’t enough: she couldn’t sleep or rest easy until she had properly absorbed the day. Even as a child, when the Seatons were on a family holiday and Lindi and Ralph had had to share a room, it had annoyed her, the way Ralph would simply turn over in bed and fall asleep even after the most exciting of days. Harry would invariably find her wide-eyed and exasperated when he did his lights-out check, so he’d taught her a trick to deal with it.

  ‘Shut your eyes, not tight-tight, just let them droop down, down.’ She could hear his voice, deep and warm, as if it were yesterday. ‘Now imagine a long, long, long train.’ He would always repeat words, stretching them out so that they were at once sonorous and soporific. ‘I think it’s a steam train. See all those carriages it’s pulling? Take everything that’s happened today and put each one in a different carriage. In they go, one by one by one by one. When they’re all in safely, tell the engine driver he can pull away. Now watch the train go. Slowly, slowly, slowly. It’s going, going. You can hardly see it now, just a little puff of smoke far away. It’s going to go round that bend and into that tunnel. There goes the first carriage, then the next … and there’s the last. It’s gone, the sleep train is gone.’

  Lindi employed a version of her father’s trick now: a carriage for each segment of a day that had begun in the dawn calm of Greenside and the journey here to Mpumalanga.

  Paulo Simbini had refused to come back to sit with her after the coach had pulled out of Middleburg. And who could blame him? His picture, with the body lying prone at the bottom of a burning Ponte City, was still in her notebook, a rebuke to her it’ll-be-all-right-in-the-morning reassurances.

  Unlike those frenetic childhood nights when the whole point of the exercise was to fold away the day and see it disappearing, she realised she didn’t want to forget this one. Every part of it, from the cussed early-morning taxi driver who’d taken her to Park station, the casual prejudice she’d encountered there, the terror of Middleburg, even the assault, all of it helped to form a graphic reassurance that she was right to be here. It was the difference between understanding an injustice on paper and feeling it in your bones.

  Lindi had come to South Africa because Anton had wanted her to, but she would stay because she – not just Anton – thought it was the right thing to do. The equivocation, the weighing up of competing arguments, the things that had always made her the careful but dependable one seemed to have gone. She noticed the change in herself in an almost physical way. For once she had been forced to rely on instinct and she’d found the experience liberating. She imagined it was like being high on some drug. She was free – free of herself. She felt good about herself, and wondered if she’d ever really known the feeling before.

  She saw a car turn off the main road. Its lights caught the trees and cast shadows on the walls of the stoep. As it dipped and swerved to avoid the ruts in the gravelled lane, the shadows came together, then drifted apart, like dancers at a ball. A man got out of the vehicle. At first she didn’t recognise Father Petro without his cassock.

  ‘You’ve come in disguise, I see,’ she said, walking up to him.

  ‘Like they say, God works in mysterious ways. Did you get some rest? You’ve had a hell of a day.’

  ‘I had a bit of a nap out here a while ago. Actually, I feel pretty good.’ Lindi smiled, climbing into the passenger seat as Father Petro got back into the car. Inside it smelt of fuel. ‘I’m no mechanic but do you have a leak?’

  ‘A leak? Ah, no, that’s just some spare gas I’ve got in the boot. Apparently none of the tankers got through today. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  Lindi was about to say that might not be such a good idea but decided against it. In any case, by the look of the ashtray the question was purely rhetorical. ‘So what’s the plan, Father Petro?’

  ‘Oh, just call me Petro. Everybody else does, except the bishop. He’s a bit old-school – is that how you say it?’

  ‘I’d say that just about sums him up, yes. I didn’t like the way he started off this afternoon by asking why they had sent a woman to do a man’s work.’

  ‘I think he feels you may not be ready for this.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, I am so let’s go. And, anyway, what do you mean “ready for this”? What’s the “this”? That’s what I want to know.’

  Father Petro steered the car with his left knee, nudging the wheel this way and that, while he used both hands to shield the lighted match. He barely checked the main road before he turned left, back towards Nelspruit.

  ‘Lindi, I don’t have the answer you’re looking for. But I know these people. I have faith in them and when they tell me that it’s impossible Lesedi was killed by one of them, I believe them,’ he said, the cigarette flicking up and down between his lips as if it had a life of its own.

  ‘But there must be tens of thousands of Mozambican farm labourers here, many of them illegal. You can’t vouch for all of them.’

  ‘No, I can’t. That is true. But look at it this way,’ he said, as he swung the car out into the middle of the road to overtake a tractor pulling a trailer loaded with sugarcane stalks but only just avoiding a vehicle coming the other way. ‘Bit late for them to be carrying the cane around. Now what was I saying?’

  ‘You were about to say why you believe what the Mozambicans have been telling you.’ Just before you tried to kill both of us.

  ‘Ah, yes. I was coming to that. Look, there are two issues here. First, the anger about land being sold to foreigners. That is a real problem and it’s done over the heads of local people. But it doesn’t affect the Mozambicans. The new owners are going to need labourers, and these people will work for almost nothing. They are the poorest of the poor.’

  ‘That’s just what a friend of mine told me,’ Lindi said, recalling her conversation with Kagiso outside Regina Mundi.

  ‘Well, your friend is right.’

  Father Petro fingered the breast pocket of his shirt and found another cigaret
te.

  ‘Do you want me to light it for you?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took a sideways glance at her, smiling. ‘I think you’re frightened I’m going to crash the car, my sister.’

  ‘Oh, I wonder why you’d think that,’ replied Lindi, tartly.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re doing God’s work. Nothing can happen to us.’

  ‘You said there were two issues. What’s the second?’

  ‘Did I say that? Two issues? Let me see.’

  Lindi wondered how frustrating it would be if his sermons were anything like this.

  ‘Yes, I have it. The second issue is this Lesedi fellow. He was not greedy like his father. People here know that. On the day he died he was here in Mpumalanga, apparently to listen to people. So why would they kill him?’

  ‘Yes, I heard he visited a charity on the day he was killed. Soil of Africa. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I know it well. It’s run by an interesting fellow. He used to work in government and then he switched sides.’

  ‘Kagiso Rapabane. He’s the guy I was just talking about.’

  ‘I see you have done your homework, sister. Yes, I know Rapabane. We have done some work together on this land business. He’s a good man, a brave man to take on the government like that. He’s made some enemies.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘The people who are making millions out of these deals. You see, when I say something, they just call me a foolish priest. But Rapabane, well, that’s different.’

  ‘In what way different?’

  ‘People listen to him because they know he used to work for government. And the guys in Pretoria don’t like that. They think of him like Judas – he’s a traitor.’

  ‘Do you think he’s in danger?’

  ‘Rapabane? Some people kill for ideology, some for religion. With these people it’s money.’

  ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘I tell him I pray for him.’ The intensity of her questioning prompted him to ask how she knew Kagiso.

  ‘Oh, our families go back a long way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘His mother was our house-worker. It sounds cringe-making but really they were more like family.’

  ‘Cringe what? I don’t know this word.’

  ‘It just means I’m embarrassed to say it now.’

  ‘Sister, you don’t have to be embarrassed. In those days, that was the only relationship a white person could have with a black one. If you were kind to Rapabane’s mother, you were doing something that did not even occur to many white people in this country. Well, here we are, the bright lights of Nelspruit.’

  They drove past the coach park and Lindi remembered that that was the last time she’d seen Paulo, his mother and sister. The boy had waved to her tentatively. Where was he tonight? In whose bed was he sleeping? Would he ever, as she had glibly promised him, see his Johannesburg home again?

  ‘Wait here and I will find the man who is going to help us.’

  Lindi watched Father Petro walk across the car park towards Laeveld Plaza, then along a row of shop fronts. She noticed for the first time that he had a limp. Most of the businesses were closed for the day. Father Petro went into Raja Wholesalers, one of the few that were still open. Lindi got out of the car and looked around to see where the music was coming from. A single speaker, the size of a packing chest, stood guard outside Music Warehouse, just behind their car. The volume had been set to rise above a car park full of shoppers; now the distorted decibels cracked the air. Under a sign saying ‘Now Playing’ she saw the CD cover artwork for Rev Vusi Gama and the Zion Messengers. Lindi looked back towards Raja Wholesalers. No sign of Father Petro. She went into the music shop.

  ‘Howzit?’ Lindi had picked up South Africa’s universal greeting.

  ‘Ah, it’s okay,’ said the youth behind the counter.

  ‘It’s very quiet.’

  ‘Everybody has gone home. They are worried about what’s happening.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘You’re not from here?’

  ‘No, I’m just travelling.’

  He scratched the side of his nose. ‘Then you have to be careful. There are some thugs around here. They are looking for Mozambicans.’

  Lindi knew the script. She didn’t need another run-through. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘The Mozambicans.’

  ‘They have left their homes because these tsotsis destroyed some of them.’

  She nodded. ‘And what about the police? Haven’t they tried to stop it?’

  The young man chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You don’t know our police, ma’am. They are too lazy. They don’t care because people don’t like the Mozambicans. They say they are taking all the jobs. This afternoon the police were laughing with the thugs. Just here in front of the shop.’

  ‘So where are the Mozambicans?’

  ‘They are going back to their country. Many of them are there in the church.’

  Lindi saw Father Petro come out of Raja Wholesalers. ‘Okay, good evening. I’m going to meet my friend.’

  ‘That man, the priest? Father Petro?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Everybody knows him. He’s a nice man but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Ah, no, it’s nothing.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘No, I mean he’s a good man but he likes these Mozambicans.’

  ‘That’s what a priest is supposed to do, isn’t it? Look after people when they are in need,’ Lindi said.

  ‘You’re right, ma’am. But that’s why the police and the tsotsis don’t like him. He is protecting them. The church where they are staying, it’s his church.’

  ‘Is that right? Well, I’d better get going.’

  ‘Good evening, ma’am.’

  Lindi walked across the car park. She met Father Petro in the middle. ‘You didn’t tell me you had Mozambican families in your church.’

  ‘So you’ve caught me, eh?’ He was smiling.

  Lindi marvelled at his equanimity. So this is what faith is about, she thought. Lindi was not religious, but in Father Petro’s presence she could begin to see how liberating it must be to hand your fate over to someone or something else. ‘Couldn’t we just talk to some of the people in your church?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought about that but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. The police are hanging around outside the gate and always asking questions.’ He still had a broad grin across his face. ‘I’m afraid nobody has told those stupid fellows the story of the shepherd and his flock.’

  ‘The chap in the shop said the police don’t like you.’

  ‘He said that? Well … how do you say it? I’m not on their Christmas card list but we get along fine. We understand each other.’

  ‘So why are they hanging around outside your church?’

  ‘They want to go in there and start scaring people, asking their stupid questions. They think I’m hiding someone. Lindi, I’m a fool but not so much, eh?’ He nudged her.

  ‘But from what I’ve seen today, if they really wanted to go in, a church gate or whatever isn’t going to stop them, is it?’

  Lindi noticed a vehicle turn into the car park. Its lights were set on full beam. It swung round and started coming towards them at no more than walking pace. They were lit up, like actors on a stage. Father Petro turned but stood his ground. Lindi reached out to him.

  ‘Don’t worry, let me talk to these fools,’ he said.

  The white bakkie swerved just a couple of metres away and pulled up beside them. The driver wound down his window. ‘So you have a new friend, Father.’ The man still had his sunglasses on.

  ‘You know me, Officer, always happy to help strangers.’

  The driver turned his head towards Lindi, though she couldn’t really tell whether or not he was looking at her.

  ‘You must tell your new friend to
have a nice time in our province and stay away from these Mozambican rubbish people. It’s not her business.’ He started winding the window up again but stopped when it was two-thirds of the way. ‘And, Father, you also must be careful. There are a lot of tsotsis around tonight.’

  The bakkie pulled away.

  ‘If he was trying to frighten me, he succeeded,’ said Lindi. ‘That was sinister.’

  ‘Don’t mind them,’ Father Petro said. He put a hand on Lindi’s shoulder. ‘They can’t harm you. You have your British passport, the best insurance policy.’

  ‘And what about you, Petro? What do you have?’

  ‘Ah! That’s a good question, my sister. I have nothing that I can show you but I have my belief – my belief that everyone has some good in them. Even those bastards! Jesus, forgive me.’

  He lit a cigarette, sucked deeply, and held his breath, savouring its gift of herbal relief.

  ‘Those guys hate because they don’t know love, not real love. And the Mozambicans, they think they have lost everything, but nobody is telling them they have kept the most important thing. Their dignity.’

  He let the smoke drift out, now bereft of its potency. ‘You think I am stupid, yes?’

  ‘No, Father, I don’t. I think secretly I might even admire your faith.’ And Lindi wondered why she had just called him plain ‘Father’ for the first time. It struck her that Father Petro de Freitas’s faith was just about the most certain thing she had encountered in the last forty-eight hours of flux.

  Her adult life had been built on those things you could measure, on goals and outcomes, on research and evidence, on argument and persuasion. They were tools good enough to describe what was happening, a prop to justify a decision, but none of it could help her give it any meaning. Lindi leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re a good man, Petro,’ she said.

  ‘And, you see, I get the girls too!’ He laughed.

  ‘Now don’t be cheeky or I’ll have to take it back. Petro, you ought to know something before we go any further. I think all that was meant for me. I’m pretty sure I’m being followed – they seem to have had their eyes on me from the moment I arrived in SA. Ever since I got here I’ve been warned about meddling. And today at the Nelspruit checkpoint I was given a hard time. It wasn’t random.’