The Burning Land

by George Alagiah

  ‘Jerry, it’s Priscilla here.’ She flipped from English to Zulu and back again, thanking him for taking the time to attend the funeral. ‘I know this is a very busy time for you, with all these Mozambicans being killed and what-what.’

  ‘Ah, no. I always have time for a Motlantshe. And how are you, my dear?’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, I am a mother without her son. I want to see punishment for those people who took him away from his mother.’

  ‘We are working day and night to find him.’

  ‘Who? You know who it is? Josiah told me it was the work of some underground people.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Josiah is right. By the way has he left for Dubai?’

  ‘Oh, you knew he was going there?’ You are all in it together. The words formed in her mind. She was probably the last person to know about her husband’s return to the Gulf. ‘So who is this person you are looking for?’

  ‘The police tell me they are following every lead that they have.’ Priscilla noted a change of tone: the avuncular had been replaced by the official. ‘There is some chap Lesedi met just a few hours before he was … before he was murdered.’

  ‘And are they close to catching him?’

  ‘The police say he has disappeared. He has not been to his office or home in Malelane. His mother in Soweto says she has no idea where he is. The police say he is on the run, he must have something to hide.’

  ‘Okay. Jerry, I know you will push these people to catch whoever took Lesedi. You will tell me if anything happens?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. You will be the first person to know. Oh, and, Prissy, if this fellow contacts you, you must let me know, eh?’

  Nobody had called her that for years, not since their Soweto days when Josiah and his fellow activists would sit round her kitchen table demanding more of her stews. He must think I am simple, Priscilla thought. Just by evoking the familiarity of my old nickname he thinks I am going to give him everything he wants.

  ‘Why should he contact me? He doesn’t know me.’

  ‘Ah, no, we, the police, think he was trying to befriend Lesedi. Did Lesedi speak to you before – before he … Did he say anything about meeting someone?’

  ‘No, no. He used to tell me about all his friends but I don’t remember him mentioning anyone new. Okay, Jerry, I have to go. Let’s talk again when Josiah is back.’

  Priscilla was glad she’d made the call. She knew she had to reach Kagiso before Mhlanga and his people did.

  20

  Kagiso woke up with a start. He must have fallen asleep almost as soon as the taxi pulled out of the rank in Nelspruit. They were crossing Crocodile River, the wheels of the minibus hurdling the ramps where the tarmac met the bridge. He was on his own. He prayed that Lindi was in a taxi ahead of him. Kagiso was sitting in the front of the cab and instinctively checked that he still had the bag that Ma Khethiwe had given him. The driver had insisted he take the seat next to him, not with the ‘smelly’ Mozambicans crammed into the benches at the back.

  The lush, irrigated plantations around Nelspruit were mostly behind them. Ahead, the landscape opened up: untamed scrubland framed by a line of hills, their contours masked by a diaphanous haze. Dotted here and there were the bare-branched umsinsi trees, though Kagiso always preferred their colloquial label, lucky bean tree. He was no naturalist, and what little he did know about the flora and fauna in this part of the country came from the hand-me-down knowledge of the night watchman at Soil of Africa.

  Tobias had never left Mpumalanga and his only foray into Nelspruit, to work as a janitor in an office block in his twenties, had left him with a lifelong revulsion for the city. He was now in his sixties, that was what he said, though Kagiso suspected he might be quite a bit older. One of Kagiso’s favourite rituals was to sit with Tobias on the veranda once he’d locked up the office for the day. They’d share a cigarette; it was the only time Kagiso ever smoked. He remembered Tobias telling him that the appearance of the flame-like flowers of the umsinsi in early spring was always a sign to begin planting the crops. Tobias used to say that as children they would hear the pods on the trees bursting and rush to collect the beans, which were supposed to bring good luck. Kagiso thought he could do with some of that now.

  If Kagiso needed reminding about what was at stake he had only to listen in on the conversations going on behind him in the minibus. All the other passengers were Mozambicans. He had picked up enough Shangaan, the dialect of Tsonga used across the border, to understand half of what was being said and make a credible guess about the other half. The stories had become depressingly familiar: people dragged out of their homes and ‘necklaced’, the chilling euphemism for being burned alive with a flaming tyre placed over the head; properties ransacked; sons beaten and daughters raped; insults from one-time neighbours; and, always, the indifference of the police.

  The journey to Komatipoort took about an hour. The taxi pulled up beside a market and was immediately surrounded by people, all of them shouting in a mixture of Shangaan and broken English.

  ‘Move away! Get away! Take your filthy hands off my taxi!’ the driver was screaming, in a clumsy Shangaan. ‘I’m not going to your fucking country. I’m going back to Nelspruit.’

  Kagiso resisted the urge to remonstrate and stepped out of the cab onto the road. He stood still for a moment to get his bearings. He noticed the rusting caravan on the opposite side of the street from the market, still sitting lopsidedly on a deflated tyre on one side and the wheel rim on the other. It was the Feelgood Hair Salon – he’d gone in for a cut once. The barber sat outside, spilling out of a camping chair. He was asleep, despite the noise.

  Kagiso walked behind the minibus, pushed his way through the crowd and towards the market. Perhaps Lindi would be there.

  It was as if a tornado had whipped through the place. He couldn’t distinguish one stall from another. He should have known. The traders here were all Mozambicans. They wouldn’t have stood a chance. One of the stallholders was picking over what was left of his stock: second-hand denim – that was his line of trade. He stuffed what he found into a large plastic bag. He poked at something on the ground with a stick and lifted several brassieres, the cups nestling into each other. He stared at them with apparent disapproval, as if he’d found some weeds in his vegetable patch. He looked over to where the undergarment stall had been, just a couple of metres away, and flicked the brassieres over. Kagiso walked on but stopped when he realised he was standing on shattered glass. This was where the herbalist and traditional healer sold his potions. Some of the jars were still intact, their shrivelled contents giving little clue as to whether they were once vegetable or animal. Further on, there was nothing left of Ngowane Cash Loans, except a charred sign. The till was on the ground, its cash drawer protruding, like a spent dog with its tongue hanging out.

  His anxiety about Lindi deepened. He hadn’t anticipated the chaos in an area where ethnic Mozambicans usually outnumbered everyone else. The thugs must have been bussed in. He headed towards the main street, his strides getting longer and quicker. The number of people milling around made it difficult to place the landmarks he remembered from previous visits. And then he saw what he was looking for, Café Dona Flora. He’d been there a number of times and was sure it was the kind of place Lindi would have felt comfortable in. But there was no sign of her. Perhaps she’d got a later taxi. What if she’d never got out of Nelspruit?

  As he came out of the café, Kagiso noticed that the Spurs fast-food outlet was shut, its burglar bars pulled across and a private security guard in front of it. He kept walking. The shop and café at the BP garage was full of people but it had long since run out of anything to serve or sell. He moved on. A glimpse of white skin in the crowd. Kagiso rushed over, pulling people out of the way, like a swimmer struggling against the tide. He burst through, calling for Lindi, only to find the woman as shocked as he was surprised. She was an American Peace Corps volunteer. Kagiso apologised and said he was looking for a white woman.


  ‘Well, all the whites have locked themselves in their homes or left town so if she’s out you shouldn’t have a problem finding your friend. She’d sure stick out in this crowd.’

  Kagiso turned away and then, as an afterthought, asked the woman if she was okay.

  ‘I’m fine. The guys who did all this have moved on. They took some money off me but basically they were only interested in the foreigners – well, the Mozambicans. I’m just waiting for a couple of other volunteers and then we’re out of here. But thanks for asking.’

  He was running out of road. It was less crowded at this end of the street. He didn’t know this part of town. Kagiso looked down a side-street and saw a sign for the Ling Wong Sporting Tavern, on a board painted in the Coca-Cola livery. He left the dazzling light of a winter afternoon and entered the building.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dinginess. A TV, placed on a shelf just a couple of feet below the ceiling, was showing a boxing match. The commentary appeared to be in Afrikaans, though the sound was so distorted it was difficult to tell. A man sitting beneath it stared at Kagiso. He lifted a bottle of Castle beer to his lips and held it there as if he were kissing it. There was a brass chandelier in the centre of the room, fitted with multi-coloured bulbs. The bar was straight ahead of him. It was surrounded by iron bars that rose towards the ceiling. A sign on the wooden counter read: ‘No weapons, no braking bottles, no fighting’. Someone hadn’t bothered with an English dictionary. A Chinese couple peered at him. Kagiso went up to them and asked if they’d seen a white woman. The man pointed to his right. There was a wooden screen, with a sign hanging from it that said ‘Private. Club Members Only.’ Kagiso went round it and saw Lindi.

  ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world he walks into mine!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Casablanca, the film. Oh, never mind.’

  ‘How can you joke?’

  ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Kagiso. It’s called putting on a brave face. It’s either that or damsel in distress, which is what I’m feeling like inside.’

  Kagiso sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. They stayed that way for a minute or two, neither of them wanting to break the magic of reunion. It was Lindi who spoke first.

  ‘As much as I’d like to nuzzle up in your arms all day, hadn’t we better come up with a plan?’

  ‘First things first. Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Good luck with that. I had a look on the way here and all the cafés are either closed or out of food.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just didn’t think anywhere so near the border would be affected like this. Was your journey okay?’

  ‘It was fine. One or two people asked what I was doing and I just said I was a teacher in a mission school and wanted to get out of the country. I think they may have some pies and stuff behind the counter.’

  Kagiso came back to the table with a plate of food and two bottles, one Coke, the other Sprite.

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘I’ll take the Sprite, thanks. What’s in the roll?’

  Kagiso peeled back the fluffy white bread and exposed a thick slab of meat, unnaturally pink, the colour of tongue. ‘Polony,’ he said.

  ‘God knows what’s gone into that. It looks quite disgusting.’

  ‘It is, but you’d better have a bite. Something tells me we’re not going to be dining out tonight.’

  ‘Talking of which, where are we going to stay?’

  ‘I’ve just asked Mr Wong – or is it Mr Ling? I’m never sure how it works with Chinese names. He says he’s got a room in a building another block down the road. I said we’d take it.’

  ‘Okay, now you’ve taken care of your stomach, can we talk about what we’re going to do?’

  ‘I was thinking about it on the way here. I’ve got to contact Lesedi’s mother.’

  ‘His mother?’ Lindi looked sceptical. ‘What’s she got to do with this?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling I’ve got. I think the key to all this is to find out whatever it was Lesedi had on Willemse. We’ve got to assume that’s what got him killed and why they are now after me. Remember, Willemse thinks Lesedi told me everything.’

  ‘Yes, but what makes you think his mother knows anything? And even if she does, why would she tell you? You’re the number-one suspect, the man who killed her beloved son. One thing you can be sure is that Willemse and his mob have rammed that point home.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s just a feeling. Look, remember when we met at the funeral? After the service, when everyone was leaving, I went over to the graveside …’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Well, Lesedi’s mother was still there. She told me she’d spoken to Lesedi on the day he died. Apparently he’d told her about me and the good work we were doing. She told me to keep in touch once everything was over.’

  ‘And you think Lesedi might have told her what he knew.’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Priscilla Motlantshe is old-school. She’s not like all the others – she’s not like her husband. I think she’s where Lesedi’s idealism came from.’

  ‘I guess it’s worth a try,’ Lindi said.

  Kagiso placed his hand on hers. ‘I think it’s all we’ve got,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here and then we can work out how I’m going to do it.’

  By the time they walked out of Ling Wong’s Sporting Tavern the sun was beginning to drop. The air was rich with wood smoke, rising from the many fires that had been lit. Around each one a cluster of people were taking a rest on their way back to Mozambique, reversing a journey that had begun in hope and was ending in bitterness.

  They made the short walk to the building where Kagiso had rented the room; he carried Lindi’s rucksack up to the first floor. The place had the feel of a hostel. There was a pin-board with various notices covering where to take the rubbish and in what state the occupants were expected to leave the communal kitchens and showers.

  ‘I asked them for a room with its own bathroom,’ Kagiso said. ‘It was an extra fifty rand for the privilege.’

  The room looked clean enough, though it seemed as if the previous occupant had only just walked out. There were books on the desk in front of the window: the Lonely Planet guide to South Africa; a well-thumbed paperback copy of Ben Okri’s An African Elegy, and a pile of exercise books stamped Mbokwane Secondary School. There was a curled fax headed ‘What to do in an emergency’. On a side table there was a counter-top fridge, a kettle and a jar of coffee. Kagiso opened the fridge, revealing some milk, a half-empty can of peaches and a slab of cheese.

  ‘I bet this room belonged to a volunteer,’ Kagiso said, plugging in the phone charger. ‘I saw one of them – she was waiting for her friends near the market. Mr Ling Wong didn’t waste any time filling the room, did he? I bet Peace Corps paid for the room months in advance.’

  Lindi shouted back from the bathroom, ‘Well, she certainly got out in a hurry. She left half her toilet things here.’

  ‘Have you got any money? I said I’d pay once I’d seen the room.’

  Lindi walked back into the room. ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘A couple of hundred bucks should do it.’ Kagiso unbuckled his shoulder bag and checked his laptop and cables. ‘It’s a long shot but I’m just going to check if the internet café I know is still in business. He used to stay open quite late.’

  Lindi walked over to the door. ‘How long before I should start getting worried?’

  ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, max.’

  Lindi fished around in her rucksack and laid some fresh clothes on the bed before going into the bathroom. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a shower. It must have been Johannesburg. That was two days ago. And here she was now, in a small town in the back of beyond and a million miles from her mission to South Africa. She felt a pang of guilt. Anton. He must be beside himself. She must contact him. She decided to wait till Kagiso was back before turning h
er phone on again.

  As the water warmed up it seemed to melt away her anxiety. Far from being weighed down by the precariousness of her situation, Lindi felt exhilarated in a way she had not experienced for a long time, perhaps ever. Her skin was alive to the luxurious caress of a thousand droplets. It seemed she could feel every one of them individually, and on which part of her body they landed. She allowed herself to stand still and enjoy the sensation long after her ablutions were complete. Eventually and reluctantly she turned the tap off, pulled back the shower curtain and wrapped a towel under her arms. She went into the bedroom.

  She pulled on some knickers and was shaking out her hair when she heard the door click open behind her. She looked at the long mirror to the side of the desk and saw Kagiso reflected in it. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right, come in.’ He shut the door, placed his bag on the floor. Lindi watched his every move in the mirror, a twitch of a muscle in his neck. His eyes locked on hers in the reflection. She let the towel drop. He was standing behind her. Lindi stayed where she was, reached back and took his hands. She pulled him in and folded his arms across her body. She could feel his pulse, smell his earthy presence, a mixture of a day on the run and wood smoke. She placed her hand on one of his. She watched him in the mirror, saw how he splayed his fingers, making way for hers. And then, gently, almost imperceptibly, Lindi pushed his hand up till she felt his fingertips touch her breasts.

  Lindi sat up. She looked around the room, taking in every detail, as if to savour the time and place. The neon light in the bathroom was still on and it cast a silvery, moon-like sheen on everything. She turned round. Kagiso was asleep, one half of his face catching the light, the other in the dark, a portrait in symmetry. She resisted the urge to touch him, to feel again the silkiness of his body and rekindle the desire with which she had sought him. She found her clothes on the floor. There was a chill in the room. She got up and draped Kagiso’s denim jacket over her shoulders. It was like being embraced by him again. It was a little after midnight.