Kagiso had said he’d found some bread and, quietly, like a thief in the night, Lindi peeled open his rucksack. As she pulled out the bag of rolls she noticed that the power icon on Kagiso’s laptop was blinking drowsily – he hadn’t shut it properly. She took it out and placed it on the desk. She hesitated for just a moment but, emboldened by the intimacy of the last few hours, she lifted the lid even further. There was a single, untitled page open. She began to read it:
Friends, I have not been able to write for a few days and I’m not sure when – or if – I will get another chance. I AM A WANTED MAN. Whatever happens to me or my comrades OUR CAMPAIGN must not be stopped. We must see it through to the end so that South Africa’s SACRED LAND, where generations of our people have toiled and sacrificed, can be RETURNED TO ITS RIGHTFUL OWNERS. We must do this to HONOUR THE MEMORY of LESEDI MOTLANTSHE. I can tell you now that he died because HE WAS ON YOUR SIDE. He was the son of a rich man but he was A CHAMPION OF THE PEOPLE. On the very day he was killed so brutally he told me he was against this ROBBERY. He was ready to join the fight and EXPOSE THE POLITICIANS who are SELLING OFF OUR BIRTHRIGHT so they can live like kings.
‘It’s not one of my best. I was in a hurry.’ Kagiso was sitting up, the muscular curve of his shoulder reflecting the light.
‘I was wondering when you were going to tell me.’
‘You guessed before I told you at Ma Khethiwe’s?’
‘Actually, it was something Father Petro said to me that got me thinking. He called the Mozambicans the poorest of the poor, and I remembered you’d used the phrase when we met at Regina Mundi.’
‘How does that make me the writer?’
‘Last night, after I’d heard Petro had been in an accident, I suppose I felt I needed something to cling on to, something to make sense of the mess, and I found myself going through all the entries.’
‘And?’
‘There it was again, the same phrase, “the poorest of the poor”.’
‘I was never very good at it. At least I won’t have to write many more of them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One way or another, this whole thing is going to be over soon. I want it to be over. I feel my life has been on hold. I’ve neglected people, hurt people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Oh, the list is a long one.’
‘You could have told me right at the beginning, when we first met.’ It was not a reproach, just a statement.
‘Lindi, I have spent so long living a secret, never being sure who I could trust. I was going to show you, to tell you. But you had other things on your mind.’ He was smiling.
Lindi went back to the bed. She leaned over and kissed him, first his shoulder, then his neck. She laughed softly.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I was thinking of Anton.’
‘You make love to one man while thinking of another! My mother warned me about women like you.’
‘Well, he did tell me to find the man behind the Land Collective statements.’
A flash of levity, then the reality. Just the mention of Anton’s name was enough to bring her up sharp. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ Lindi said.
Two-Boy was on the night shift. He looked at the electronic clock on the wall. It was that no man’s land in the relentless 24/7 working cycle, too late to be a part of the previous day but too early to herald the new morning. He often volunteered for this shift, which others were only too willing to relinquish. It was one way to deal with his insomnia. He felt the call-alert buzzer in his hip pocket. It was the other phone. He walked out of the open-plan Data Management and Technical Resources room at SABC and took the stairs down two floors. As he headed to the terrace outside the empty staff canteen he pulled out the phone and checked the screen. He didn’t recognise the number. There was no voicemail.
He was seized with indecision, wondering whether to call back or not. He hadn’t spoken to any of the others recently. The last conversation he’d had was with François a couple of days after they’d met at Hillbrow. François had said he thought the security people were on to them. He’d said that Sharmi seemed to have disappeared. He’d checked with mutual friends and not a whisper from her. He’d driven past her place in Melville a couple of times and her car was never there.
‘She always parks that Beetle of hers in the same place, outside the bottle store,’ he’d said. ‘It’s not there any more. It’s fucking spooky.’
Two-Boy had checked with a couple of the reporters in the newsroom. As far as they knew, the only person the police were looking for was ‘that do-gooder’ in Mpumalanga. They’d heard that his digs in Malelane had been raided and the police were keeping an eye on anyone he was known to be close to, friends, workmates – there was even a stake-out at his mother’s house.
Two-Boy found Sharmi’s silence most disconcerting. He was closer to her than he was to the others. She was all hard edges and sharp words with Kagiso and François but had adopted him: a lost cause to save was probably how she saw him. Most women didn’t give him a second thought, didn’t get past the unlaundered clothes and the drinking. It didn’t seem to matter to Sharmi and he was grateful for that. She was an inveterate breaker of rules and, over the last few years, had been in touch with him more than the other two, ignoring the admonition about communications within the group being kept to a minimum. Sometimes she’d send him a message with nothing more than a smiley. He was worried about her. Her petulance at the last meeting in Hillbrow was uncharacteristic, even by her standards. What the hell was all that about? If François was right, and she’d taken fright, she might do anything.
Each to his own. That was how it felt to Two-Boy and he hated it. If he hadn’t known it before, he knew it now: he needed someone to tell him what to do. He needed a drink. He looked at his watch. Still only eleven thirty. He’d been in the office for an hour.
The phone vibrated in his hand. Two-Boy looked around nonchalantly. Just a couple of smokers getting their fix. It was the same number. He pressed the green button.
‘It’s me.’
Two-Boy recognised the voice immediately. ‘Howzit, man!’ It was all he could do to stop himself blurting out Kagiso’s name.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Yeah, it’s late, man, where are you?’ Two-Boy regretted the question as soon as he’d uttered it. It was careless. He realised how unnerved he’d been by the last couple of days.
‘I need a number.’
‘What kind of number?’
‘Mrs Motlantshe’s cell phone.’
‘Are you mad?’ Two-Boy was conscious that he’d raised his voice. He checked to see if the smokers had noticed. They’d gone. ‘You can’t call her.’
‘Just do it. Send me a WhatsApp with the number. One more thing. In the next couple of days I might need you to do your magic with a computer. I’ll call you again.’
‘Okay, okay. But can’t you just tell me what this is—’
‘I’ll tell you when I can. Listen – don’t make any mistakes.’
The line was dead. The call had lasted less than thirty seconds. The elation he’d felt just a few moments ago dissipated as rapidly as it had come. He was angry. As much as he tried to tell himself that Kagiso was right to be circumspect in their conversation, he couldn’t help feeling he was being taken for granted. Christ! This wasn’t the army. Do as you’re told and don’t ask any questions. He thought about getting a drink. Just a quickie. A couple of places he knew were open even at this hour. He could be back in the office in less than half an hour. Two-Boy hesitated but then went back into the building.
By the time he reached the lifts he’d decided where he’d start. He remembered a feature the weekly magazine programme, Out and About, had run on Priscilla Motlantshe. ‘Married to the Struggle’ – that was what it was called. It was about the wives of that first generation of activists and how they’d coped while their husbands fought the good fight. SABC had broadcast the report just before the last election, a
n unsubtle reminder of how the ruling party had delivered freedom. All he had to do was find out who the reporter was and the rest would be easy.
Anton Chetty was nursing a second bottle of red when the call came. What was the time? Late. He must have fallen asleep.
‘Before you say anything, I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch.’
It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts.
‘Anton?’ Lindi snapped.
‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’
‘Are you on your own? Who’s that with you?’
‘It’s just the TV,’ he replied, reaching for the remote.
‘Where are you?’ she pressed.
‘I’m at home. Never mind where I am, where the fuck are you? What you playing at, girl? Your phone’s dead, no answers to emails. Meanwhile I’m sitting here reading about houses getting torched and people getting hacked up. All I know is you were going to see a priest and then that very day a priest gets killed.’
‘You mean Father Petro? What do you know about him?’
‘It’s on all the websites. Anyway, it’s pretty bloody obvious. Apparently he was protecting Mozambican families.’
‘Look, Anton, I can’t talk for long. I’m—’
‘Two days of nothing and you can’t talk for long!’
‘Stop it! Shut up – just listen to me for once.’
Anton was dumbstruck. He felt like he’d been slapped by his own child.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lindi said, picturing him for the first time as a vulnerable and ageing – yes, ageing – man. ‘I want to explain everything but I can’t do it now. First, I’m in touch with the Land Collective. I’m with the one who writes the group’s statements.’
‘You found him! That’s fantastic, girl.’ Anton was regaining his equilibrium. ‘Who is it?’
‘It turns out you were … he’s …’
Anton heard another voice in the background.
‘I’m sorry. I’d better not say. The point is this. He’s being accused of murdering Lesedi Motlantshe and they’re wrong.’
‘Hang on, you’re with someone from the Land Collective and he is telling you they have nothing to do with Lesedi’s killing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Yes, I do. Anton, I don’t really have time for this.’
‘Just hang on a minute, my friend.’
That ‘my friend’ told Lindi that Anton was about to be anything but friendly.
‘You’ve known this guy for one day, two days max, and all of a sudden you take everything he says at face value? How do you know he is not lying? I would if I were in his position – which, I don’t need to remind you, is a tricky one indeed. What’s happened to you? Not like you to be jumping in at the deep end.’
‘I’m not sure how to take that. Nothing has happened to me. The fact is you’re there and I’m here and I’m making the call. There’s more to this than I can tell you on the phone. You’ll just have to trust me.’
‘Well, you’re not making it any easier, keeping me in the dark.’
‘I’ll explain everything back in London …’ Anton strained to hear Lindi’s muffled voice as she said something away from the receiver. ‘I really can’t stay on this line for much longer. Here’s the deal: Lesedi was about to spill the beans on the land sales and that’s probably what got him killed.’
‘Hold on, hold on. I sent you down there to see if we could get people to talk to each other, not to get involved in conspiracy theories. You’re telling me Lesedi Motlantshe, son and heir to one of South Africa’s richest men, was about to go all radical on us? Come on, Lindi!’
‘Anton, I’ve got to hang up soon. There’s proof of what Lesedi was up to and I need your help to get it. It’ll settle this whole mess. Now you’ve got to do as I say.’
Silence.
‘Anton? Are you there?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I need to meet Mrs Motlantshe, Lesedi’s mother. Don’t ask why, I just do. The trouble is I can’t just walk up to her front door. I’ve got to arrange to meet her somewhere.’
‘What am I supposed to do? Just call her and say, “Hey, Mrs Motlantshe, you don’t know me from Adam but I’m calling from London and, by the way, I want you to meet a colleague of mine”? For Chrissakes, Lindi, this isn’t a game.’
‘I think I know that rather better than you. Here’s what you have to do. Call my father.’
‘Your father? This is getting more ridiculous by the minute.’
‘Anton, if you don’t stop interrupting I’m going to hang up. Tell my father he has to call Mrs Motlantshe – I’ll give you her number in a minute. He must remind her that he interviewed Josiah and he’s sorry to hear of their sad loss. He must tell her that his daughter is in South Africa and has a message from a man Lesedi met on the day he died. She must meet me at Francis Xavier Church tomorrow morning. I’ll be there by ten. Tell her that her son had some information he wanted to make public. She must bring any papers that he kept, maybe his phone or a laptop, maybe a key to a safe where he might have hidden something he wanted kept secret. Most important, she must not tell anyone.’
‘Why don’t you call your father yourself?’
‘Because I don’t want to use this phone any more than I have to. This call has already gone on for too long. Don’t try to call me back. It’ll be turned off. Anton, trust me. I know what I’m doing.’ Lindi read out the numbers. And then, as an afterthought, ‘Tell my parents I’m fine.’
‘Hello, is this Mr Seaton?’
There was enough in those few words for Harry to know that the caller was South African. His heart pounded. They hadn’t heard from Lindi in three or four days. He’d wanted to call her but, incredibly, it had been Helen who’d dissuaded him, saying Lindi was probably just busy. But he knew, both of them knew, it wasn’t like her not even to send a text message. The only difference between them was that Helen was better at hiding her concern. And then, just this morning, even she had relented. It was the green light he’d been waiting for. He’d called her number over and over again and every time it was the same: ‘The number you have dialled is unavailable.’
‘Yes, this is he.’
‘This is Anton Chetty from South Trust and I’ve—’
Harry didn’t let him finish. ‘What’s wrong?’ Helen heard him and moved closer, threading her arm through his. ‘We haven’t had a word from Lindi for a few days. It’s most unlike her.’
Helen tugged on his arm and whispered, ‘Let him speak.’
‘She has been very busy.’
‘So she’s okay?’
‘Oh, she’s absolutely fine.’ At the other end of the line Anton was struggling, struggling to find his bedside manner. It was a useless endeavour. He didn’t have one. His range of conversational skills went from blunt to rude. He relayed Lindi’s instructions. ‘So you got that, Mr Seaton?’
‘Call me Harry. Yes, I’ve written down the numbers. You approve of this?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘All this cloak-and-dagger business. It’s your idea, is it?’
‘It’s actually your daughter’s idea.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was accusing you. It seems like quite a mess down there and, well, I’m not sure Lindi knows what she’s involved with.’
‘Listen, Harry. You and me, we’re in the same boat. It’s time we let go. Lindi is her own woman.’
Just before sunrise the next morning, Kagiso looked around the room, checking they’d left nothing. Lindi was in the bathroom. They had decided to keep moving, to work their way back towards Nelspruit where they’d arranged to meet Khethiwe Shabangu and her driver for the final leg of the journey to Johannesburg.
They’d hatched their plan – Lindi’s plan. By now Priscilla Motlantshe should have received a call from Harry Seaton. Kagiso knew it was a bigger gamble than he’d taken in all the years of his clandestine activities. Sabotage took careful planning, trustw
orthy accomplices, some cunning, plenty of courage but, most important, the option of bailing out if something wasn’t right. He was always in charge of events, not the other way round. This was different. This whole scheme depended on Mrs Motlantshe, a woman he’d met only once, reacting in a way Kagiso hoped she would. It was based on a hunch, not a calculation, an assumption that mother and son had shared a bond that transcended her duties as a wife. What if he was wrong, and right now, instead of thinking of a way to get to Francis Xavier Church, she was on the phone again, alerting Josiah, or Willemse?
Lindi came out of the bathroom and saw Kagiso staring out of the window.
‘Hey! What are you thinking?’
‘I was just thinking there is nothing more I can do. It’s down to you now, you and Ma Khethiwe.’
It had been Kagiso’s idea for Lindi to have Ma Khethiwe with her when she went to the church. He chuckled.
‘What?’
‘I was just thinking of you and Khethiwe together. That’s quite a scary combination.’
‘You bet.’
Lindi took one last, lingering look at the room and shut the door.
21
Sharmi Meer woke up and looked around the room, like someone trying to familiarise themselves with the surroundings. From the sofa-bed, she gazed up at the elaborate pressed-tin ceiling, then across to one corner where an impossibly healthy rubber plant had had to adapt its upward trajectory. Sharmi got her bearings. She’d picked up the plant at an end-of-day sale at Rosebank market and handed it over as a not entirely convincing gift. Its size and vigour now, many years later, were a tribute to her friend’s nurturing skills but also to the steadfastness of their relationship. Her friend was out; she was on her own. This was the third, maybe fourth, bed she’d slept in since deciding to abandon her own apartment after that last meeting. It was like a farewell tour.
Sharmi was on the verge of getting up to make some coffee but slumped back into the cushions. What was the rush? She still had time. Long enough to wonder how she had reached this point of no return. Would it be like the movies? She realised she didn’t even know whether the police in South Africa read out your rights. Perhaps that was just an American thing. At what point did they take the photo, those black-and-white mug-shots in which the suspects always seemed to look guilty? Thank God she’d had a haircut.
The Burning Land Page 23