She’d already decided to present herself at Johannesburg Central Police Station, the old John Vorster Square, where so many anti-apartheid activists had been beaten and bruised, some never to be seen again. They’d all been dragged in, kicking and screaming against the oppression they were fighting.
But Sharmi would just walk in, like she was volunteering for duty. And it was a kind of duty. That was how she saw it now. Handing herself in to protect the others. Of course they’d get pulled in, too, but she’d be able to prove that they knew nothing about what had happened to Lesedi. She owed it to them – she owed it to Kagiso. Yes, even Kagiso. Especially Kagiso. She knew that now. It wasn’t an ending she was looking for but a new beginning.
She was going to call time on her duel with Kagiso. She’d let it define who she was. Now she would shape the rest of her life – whatever happened – on her own terms. It had never been about wooing him back, not for some years now. She’d given up on that a long time ago. One evening in Cape Town, one night in Muizenberg, and a journey across the vastness of the Karoo, that was all it had been. There hadn’t been much of a relationship to start with. That was what she had told herself for years. Just an affair, a fling, a mistake. God knew she’d made enough of those when it came to men. She’d always been able to walk away unscathed. Not with Kagiso, though. She’d never stopped long enough to work out why. It was different now: she’d had plenty of time to think.
Just a few days ago she was still up for the fight. Ready to run, to hide, to lie, to do whatever it took to stay a step ahead of the authorities. That was why she’d got rid of the car, a link to her movements in Mpumalanga. She was ready to tough it out. Then came all those news bulletins about a radical priest (she knew him by reputation) who’d died in a mysterious car accident and the hunt for what the police had called the ring-leader of an underground cell of activists.
They, Willemse and his mob, were picking off their enemies one by one. Lesedi’s death gave them a free hand. It was the ideal cover to silence their critics. She began to imagine a headline: ‘Lesedi Murder Ring-leader Killed In Police Operation’.
She wouldn’t put it past them. That was when she’d known she had to make a choice: come clean or wait to hear that Kagiso had paid the price for her silence. That was when she’d discovered she hadn’t expunged the curse of intimacy. With the other men in her life she’d been looking for something. In Kagiso she had found something.
It was eight in the morning. They drove into Johannesburg earlier than they’d planned to, Lindi and Khethiwe, with the driver in the front cab and Kagiso lying low in the back of the windowless van. The road heading west was quiet, and most of the checkpoints were on the other side of the road, for traffic heading towards the Mozambique border. On the one occasion they’d been stopped, just outside Machadodorp, Ma Khethiwe had scolded the soldier. Vaguely pointing to the back of the van she’d said she had supplies for her spaza shop in Benoni: was he going to pay her for lost earnings when she did not turn up on time for customers?
The man, though he was barely old enough to warrant that description, had pointed at Lindi and asked what the white woman was doing. Khethiwe broke into Zulu, saying the stupid woman was standing on the roadside looking for a lift and if Khethiwe hadn’t picked her up she would have got a lot more than a lift. They’d both laughed, the joke on white people and their stupidity.
Once they entered Johannesburg, there was a strong sense that all was returning to normal. A city that had been knocked off its stride earlier in the week was back doing what it did best, making money. The spasm of xenophobia that had seen tens of thousands of Mozambicans fleeing for their lives was conveniently being forgotten, the newsstand photos of the Ponte building on fire were fading and the taxi drivers were, once again, vying for pole position on the commuter run to Braamfontein, Rosebank, Sandton, Randburg and beyond.
Anonymity, that great gift of the city, was just what they were looking for.
They decided to lose themselves in the hustle and bustle of Joubert Park till it was time for Lindi and Khethiwe to head for old Sophiatown. Kagiso stepped out of the back of the van, squinting into the winter sun, and stretched. Lindi slipped her hand under the tail of his shirt, which was now hanging loose.
‘And how were things back in economy class?’ she asked, stroking his back. Kagiso saw Khethiwe’s disapproval of this open display of affection. He stepped aside and tucked in his shirt.
If Priscilla Motlantshe turned up, the plan was for Lindi to head for the shopping mall at Rosebank where Two-Boy would be waiting at a café. They’d chosen it because it had Wi-Fi and was always full of customers staring at screens. Lindi was to hand over the laptop or whatever Priscilla gave her and head to her rented office. Two-Boy had been confident it would take him just minutes to find whatever Lesedi had on Willemse, assuming there was something to find. Kagiso would head for the flat in Hillbrow and wait for Two-Boy’s call. If Lesedi’s story stood up, Kagiso planned to phone Lindi with the details and she would alert SABC, the BBC and Anton. He’d join her later and they’d hold a press conference – the two of them side by side.
‘So, let’s get some breakfast,’ Lindi said.
‘I’m going to wait here,’ Khethiwe said. ‘Let the driver come with you. He can bring something for me. Put plenty of sugar in my tea,’ she said, smiling at Lindi. They’d stopped for a snack the previous night and Lindi’s dietary fastidiousness had been the source of some mirth.
A slight breeze was catching the thin and gentle spray from the fountain in the middle of the park, wafting it over towards some of the surrounding benches where it fell, like mist, on one of the many homeless men who started their wandering day in Joubert Park. Lindi walked into the cloud of spray and tilted her head so she could feel the contrast between the warming glow from a rising sun and the chill droplets of water.
It reminded her of the Seatons’ old home in Observatory, how she and Ralph would shriek as they ran in and out of the watery arc of the lawn sprinkler. She remembered how Maude used to shout at Kagiso for joining in, telling him she didn’t have an endless supply of clean clothes for him, though her job was to ensure that that was precisely what Ralph and Lindi had at their disposal. Ralph would always end up stark naked but Maude never let her do the same, especially if anyone outside the family was around, and that included Kagiso. ‘Girls don’t do that,’ she used to say.
Lindi looked across at Kagiso, who was watching her. So much for modesty, she thought. There was a café just across the street from the park. Lindi and Kagiso walked towards one of the gates.
‘You are lovebirds. You need something to remind you of this happy day!’
One of the many hawkers came towards them, a camera swinging from his neck. ‘Madam, don’t you want a picture with this handsome man of yours?’
‘And who says he is so handsome?’
‘Well, a pretty lady like you can only have a handsome man,’ he shot back, beaming.
‘Is that what you tell all the girls?’
‘Only when it is true, madam.’
‘Now that’s what I call a sales pitch. Come on,’ Lindi said, turning to Kagiso.
He hesitated.
‘You see, your beautiful lady, she wants a little memento. And me, I need the business. People have been staying away these last few days.’
‘Come on, you’d be doing him a favour,’ she said, prodding Kagiso.
All those rules about not drawing attention to yourself, blending in with the crowd, Kagiso knew he was about to ignore every one of them. It was turning out to be that kind of day.
‘All right. But we are in a hurry. How long will it take?’
‘Just let me take the photo and you’ll have your picture now-now.’
The man positioned them carefully, pulling and pushing their shoulders into place so that you could see enough of the fountain behind them. He shouted at one of the vagrants, telling him to get out of shot. Lindi felt Kagiso’s hand on her waist.
Kagiso turned to look at her just as they heard the electronic swipe of the shutter.
‘Okay, follow me and I will organise your picture.’
He went over to where two or three other men were standing, cameras at the ready. Arranged on the retaining wall of a flowerbed, a Canon printer was attached to a car battery.
‘So what’s your name?’ Kagiso asked.
‘My name is Mlungezi Moyo,’ the man said, connecting a cable from the camera to the printer.
‘So you are from Zimbabwe.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the man said.
Kagiso noticed a certain reticence in his voice.
‘Have you been affected by this trouble?’ Lindi asked.
‘No, madam. This time they were only looking for the Mozambicans.’ He pressed the power button on the printer. ‘Next time they will be after us. That’s how it is with these South Africans.’
He looked anxiously at Kagiso, as if he were expecting a rebuke.
‘Well, you are doing a good job,’ Kagiso said, by way of reassurance. ‘Our people could learn some lessons from guys like you.’
‘Oh, what a beautiful picture!’ The photographer let it drop into his open hand. He blew on it and handed it to Lindi. ‘This one is a good man, madam. Not like the other South Africans, hot one day, cold the next.’
Lindi counted twenty rand and then, as an afterthought, added another ten. ‘I can’t wait to show Mum and Dad,’ she said, as they walked out of the park.
By the time they got back the driver had already returned with a couple of buns and tea for Khethiwe.
‘Sorry, we got distracted,’ Lindi said, sensing Khethiwe’s irritation.
‘Well, it is time to move,’ Khethiwe said. ‘This driver is not from here so we must leave some extra time.’
Suddenly the joi de vivre dissipated. Lindi felt her stomach clench. But it wasn’t the old fear of failure that flooded in, ready to ambush her. She realised, with a clarity that had been absent till now, just how much was at stake.
‘What will you do?’ she asked Kagiso.
‘Exactly as we discussed,’ he said.
‘No, I mean if she’s not there … if it goes wrong.’ She hadn’t dared to ask the question before.
‘It’s not going to go wrong.’
Khethiwe was getting into the car. Lindi reached up and embraced Kagiso.
‘See you later,’ she said.
They’d parked the van outside Francis Xavier Church, just Lindi and the driver. Ma Khethiwe had gone straight into the church and the plan was for her to make sure that Priscilla Motlantshe had arrived and that she was alone. If she was satisfied that it was safe, Ma Khethiwe would come out, look into her handbag briefly, then go back inside the church. An hour had passed and still nothing.
From where they were, under a lone jacaranda tree, its dry, brittle branches giving little inkling of the nascent purple bloom it was incubating, Lindi could see both sides of the church and the front entrance. Nobody had walked in or out while they had been there. A gardener made some speculative jabs at one of the flowerbeds before abandoning the task and heading back into a shed on the edge of the compound.
Lindi looked out of the window and checked the wing mirrors. Nothing. It was now just a few minutes before midday. She began to give up hope and wondered how she would break the news to Kagiso. She shut her eyes, steeling herself for the task.
Lindi felt the driver touch her arm. She looked up to see Ma Khethiwe on the steps of the church. She looked into her bag and walked back in. Surely there was some mistake. She asked the driver. He, too, was sure no one had been in or out. Perhaps there was a back entrance. They’d driven round the compound when they’d arrived earlier that morning and noticed some outbuildings, what looked like the priest’s accommodation, but there had been no sign of a gate on that side.
She had to trust Ma Khethiwe. Lindi got out of the van, walked across the compound and into the church.
Ma Khethiwe was standing near the altar, talking to a priest, a white man who looked to be in his seventies, perhaps older.
‘Is she here?’
‘Good day, young lady. I am Father Vincent de Kok. I used to be the parish priest here many, many years ago but now it’s my retirement home.’
‘I’m so sorry, it’s just … I was expecting to see someone else.’
‘It’s okay, it’s here,’ Khethiwe said.
‘What do you mean? Where’s Mrs Motlantshe?’
‘She’s not here, but she gave me something for you,’ Father Vincent said. ‘I have known Priscilla for a long time.’ The priest made the sign of the cross and began to walk, surprisingly briskly, to the side of the altar.
‘Our church was one of the few that had a mixed congregation and the Motlantshes used to worship here. Well, I think Josiah just came along for the ride.’ He turned to Lindi with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. ‘She called me yesterday and asked me to visit her.’
‘Is there a reason she hasn’t come herself?’ Lindi asked.
‘Well, yes. There’s a police car outside her house. Such a fine property. I’ve often wondered how young Josiah made all that money.’ Again the wry smile. ‘Priscilla says they are keeping an eye on the place, for her own protection, of course. But nobody cares about an ageing priest.’
They walked into the sacristy. Father Vincent pulled out a chair and placed it in front of a huge painting, which dominated the room, a black Madonna, nursing an infant Jesus.
‘It’s rather crude, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Funny how that sort of thing used to shock people – a black baby Jesus, I mean.’
He climbed onto the chair.
‘Father, please!’ Ma Khethiwe said. ‘Let the girl do this thing for you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not as doddery as I look.’ He reached up and found a key that was sitting on the picture frame. ‘There it is.’ He stepped off the chair in a move that was less convincing than his ascent and walked over to a massive cupboard. ‘Made of leadwood,’ he said, as he placed the key in the lock. ‘Not very commonly used in furniture. Lots of it about in Johannesburg, though, because it was used in the mine shafts. Hard as rock. Good for a campfire too, I’m told. The embers smoulder for a couple of days apparently.’
He parted some of the vestments hanging inside the cupboard and fiddled with both hands till he found what he was looking for. ‘Still there,’ he said, as if he’d had his doubts. He pulled out a sleek black case with a prominent zip along one side and a cardboard container about the size of a shoebox. Lindi reached out for them.
‘Just a minute, young lady.’ Lindi felt just the way she used to when Maude told her not to be greedy and wait her turn. Father Vincent looked her straight in the eye.
‘Now I’m not sure exactly what you’re up to, but I have a fair idea. Priscilla told me enough. She is a good woman, one of the best, and she is taking a big risk in trusting you and your friends. If you have any doubts about what you are planning to do with whatever you find here, then you must desist. This is a deadly business. We don’t need any more people to come to harm.’
He paused and looked at both of them. Then he handed over the laptop and the box, as if they were a sacred offering.
‘I haven’t looked inside,’ he said. ‘But Priscilla said it’s his computer and some personal effects the police gave back. She said there were no papers.’
The two women turned to leave, but Khethiwe paused. ‘Please, Father, will you give us a blessing?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
Father Vincent placed his hands on their heads. He shut his eyes. ‘Dear Lord, bless these your children. Give them the courage and wisdom to see through their mission, to bring justice where there is none and hope to those who long for it. In your infinite capacity to forgive, have pity on those whose sins may be exposed this day. And stay close to your daughter, Priscilla, for she needs your divine comfort more than ever before. We ask this through the blessed intercession of our Holy Mother, th
e Virgin Mary. God bless you, Khethiwe, and God bless you, Lindi. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’
It was the first time since she’d met him that Father Vincent had used her name.
‘Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.’ He opened his eyes, smiling. ‘Let me show you out,’ he said, and headed back towards the church. ‘I hear you were with Father Petro.’
It was as if the priest had thrown a grenade at Lindi. She stopped in her tracks. ‘You knew him?’
‘Oh, we are one big family,’ the priest said. ‘The bishop in Nelspruit and I are old friends. He was a novice when I did a stint teaching at our seminary. He told me he’d asked Petro to help you.’
‘But did you know Father Petro? Was he a friend?’
‘Well, I think we were kindred spirits, though he was a lot younger than me, of course. He used to stay here on his visits to the city.’ Father Vincent looked around the church, at the empty pews. ‘He said he could still hear the sound of protest here. He had imagination, I’ll give him that.’
‘He was running an errand for me when he was killed.’
‘Who says he was killed?’
‘Well, isn’t that what most people think? We were threatened by some thuggish types that evening.’
‘He certainly had his enemies but, no, he was not killed. It seems it was a terrible accident. The bishop has checked. Word gets round in those places. If something bad happens, people know about it.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m not sure, not in the way you mean it. It’s enough for me to know that he was doing God’s work and he is with the Almighty now. He’s in a better place.’
God’s work. That was exactly how Father Petro had put it. Schooled in the casual agnosticism of a politically conscious home, Lindi had never been told about faith. There was plenty of talk about religion and doctrine – mostly excoriating – but rarely any mention of belief or the spiritual. She was beginning to feel she had missed out.
The Burning Land Page 24