Alive Again

by Andre Eva Bosch

  “Welcome to the MAD bunch, Bheka! Okay, time to load our stuff,” instructed Mr Khumalo. When our bags, the cooler bags filled with food and the black bags filled with scarves and beanies for the primary school had been loaded, Mr Khumalo got behind the wheel of the minibus, Miss De Wet in the passenger seat next to him.

  As soon as the bus began to move, loud music – the Parlotones at full volume – started to play. Bheka was surprised. His teachers would have freaked, he said. But we were used to music on our weekend outings. Mr Khumalo always allowed us to bring CDs to play on the bus, and he didn’t complain when the music belted out; in fact, he often sang along. There was just one rule: when he wanted to draw our attention to something along the way, he would interrupt the music and we were not allowed to complain.

  “He’s awesome,” said Bheka.

  “Different, like us,” I said.

  Mr Khumalo stopped the music only once, and that was for Miss De Wet to remind us that every year more than a million people from all over the world visit the Kruger National Park. It is a world-famous wildlife reserve, one of the largest on the planet. Thousands of South Africans dream of visiting the Kruger but cannot afford to, and she wanted us to be aware of how privileged we are, she said.

  We got out of the bus at Kruger gate to meet our first MAD person. While we looked up at the huge granite statue of Paul Kruger, gazing sternly into the distance, Mr Khumalo told us that the statue was a controversial one. It reminded a lot of people of South Africa’s unhappy past, and there was talk that it should be removed.

  “But that aside, what do you know about Paul Kruger?” asked Mr Khumalo.

  “He was the President of the Transvaal Republic, from 1883 to 1900,” said Susan, who always got the history prize in our grade.

  A few boys whistled, pretending to be impressed.

  “Correct. And he lived at a time in our history when people hunted wild animals without thinking about issues like conservation. But Kruger had an idea to save some areas of land where wild animals could roam freely and be protected. That way of thinking was really out of the box at that time.”

  A few impala suddenly appeared, so near that we could hear their soft blowing sounds as they grazed. Cellphones and cameras came out and for a while no one was thinking about Paul Kruger. Mr Khumalo gave us time to take photographs before asking for our attention again.

  “But it wasn’t an easy task for Kruger. Many members of his volksraad didn’t agree, but he persevered. He persisted until some areas were proclaimed wildlife areas. Later, more land was added. Other MAD people followed over time, of course, to ensure that you and I can now see wild animals in their natural surroundings, and not only crammed up in zoos. Kruger got the ball rolling.”

  “So he got off his butt, passed the ball to his team and said, ‘Come now, guys, we’re going to win this game’,” said Mogale, captain of the first rugby team.

  Mr Khumalo laughed. “Something like that.”

  There were some excellent game spotters on the bus, and on the way to Skukuza we saw no fewer than three of the Big Five! A pride of lions was lying very close to the road, close enough for the photographers among us to take great pictures. An elephant crossed the road ahead of us and flapped its ears, causing a stir in the bus. Miss De Wet calmed us down, explaining that the elephant was walking away from us and posed no danger.

  “Besides,” she added, “elephants don’t only flap their ears when they’re angry, they also flap them when they are hot.”

  Just before we reached Skukuza, we saw our third Big Five animal: a leopard lying in a tree, its tail twitching, just like a large, lazy cat.

  At Skukuza I made sure that Bheka and I had some time alone. While the other club members shopped for curios or lay around on the grass eating their packed lunches, we strolled along the walkway overlooking the Sabie River. Bheka took lots of photos of a herd of buffalo drinking at the river’s edge on the other side of the tall, strong fence which surrounded the camp. He was pleased that he had been able to get good photos of four of the Big Five in just a few hours.

  At one point we stopped to sit on the grass under a shady tree to eat the vetkoek filled with mince that my mother had packed for us. We found a private spot behind a thorny bush. After a while I stretched out flat on my back. I gazed up at the flecks of blue sky showing through the leaves of the tree above us. Bheka leant on his elbow and turned to me, his face close to mine.

  Is this it? I wondered.

  I could hear groups of tourists chatting in the distance, but we were hidden from their view, and to be honest I didn’t mind if they saw us kiss. But I did mind that Mr Khumalo or Miss De Wet might come looking for us. But though I was a bit jumpy, I was so, so ready for that kiss.

  Bheka looked deep into my eyes. All I could hear was the sound of birds and our breathing. Bheka came even closer. I couldn’t wait to feel his mouth on mine. I rose up towards him.

  But at that crucial moment a strange, very loud noise made me sit up, knocking my head against Bheka’s nose.

  “What was that?” I asked while Bheka rubbed his nose.

  Somewhere close by I heard someone shout, “Did you hear that hippo?”

  I groaned. The trumpeting sound of a hippo had spoilt a perfect moment for The Kiss!

  It was time to go. The moment had passed. I wondered if our special kiss would ever happen.

  It didn’t happen at Pretoriuskop either, because we never managed to be alone. It was unbearably hot when we arrived at the camp, and so all of us on the trip – including Mr Khumalo and Miss De Wet – jumped into the swimming pool and fooled around, in Mr Khumalo’s words, like a bevy of otters.

  Afterwards we lay sprawled out on the grass, some of us in the full sun and some in the partial shade of a thorn tree. Once again Mr Khumalo made sure to slip in a lesson.

  “Do you know what you look like?” he asked.

  A few of us shook our heads, while others simply stared at the sky.

  “Like a lazy lounge of lizards,” said Mr Khumalo, enticing us into a discussion about the many strange collective nouns there are for groups of animals. Eventually the discussion petered out, replaced by a lively debate about whether men or women make the best chefs. It was inconclusive, but one thing was for certain: all the talk about food had made us very hungry.

  Bheka was the first to sit up. “I’m a mean braaier,” he said, prompting us all to head for our rondavels to shower and change for supper.

  It was still hot enough for shorts and a sleeveless top. While I was changing, I suddenly realised just how safe I felt in Bheka’s company. In the long mirror in the rondavel, which I was sharing with two other girls, I studied the outline of my body, hugged by my denim shorts and my tight-fitting top. I looked at my long, smooth bare legs. My slender arms. The tiny bit of cleavage beneath the low neckline of my top. If I was with a Bad Boy, I would have been in danger dressed like this.

  But I was with Bheka.

  Bheka, who fitted into the group as easily as if he had been part of our club forever. Bheka, who made me proud to be his girlfriend. I stroked my hand across my firm, flat stomach. It felt absolutely soft on the inside. I noticed my breathing, deep and regular.

  Why was I so aware of my body?

  Because I knew all too well what it felt like when a brick landed against my stomach. I knew how I struggled for breath when Bad Boys were on the prowl. But that night in Pretoriuskop I could hardly believe my good luck.

  Maybe Mr Khumalo was reading my thoughts because later, after praising Bheka for being a champion braaier, he suggested that he take a break and keep me company. My heart leapt – I could never get enough of feeling Bheka’s body close to mine. I knew in my bones that he would not lie or cheat or let me down. Have you ever left an unwrapped bar of chocolate in the sun until it melts? Have you ever scooped the liquid chocolate off the wrapping with your finger, eyes closed, and allowed the sweetness to seep into every little taste bud on your tongue?

&n
bsp; Leaning against Bheka’s body was sweeter even than chocolate.

  When the meat and potatoes on the braai were almost ready, I got up to help the girls make a salad. Lindiwe, the new girl in my class who had complimented Mr Khumalo on his shirt and his running shoes, took my arm and led me away, out of sight of the group.

  I was surprised. She had never even spoken to me before.

  “Nandi,” she said, “I just want to say how I envy you. You have a boyfriend who really cares about you, and who respects you. I was not so lucky. I have always been hurt by boys.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I was at a party one night. In KaNyamazane. There was a much older boy who kept watching me. I tried to avoid him, but …” In an instant her face changed. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

  “And . . . what?” I asked.

  “He raped me.” Lindiwe turned away suddenly and began walking back to the group. “Hold on to Bheka. He’s a rare find,” she called softly over her shoulder.

  I stood there in the dark, a brick right inside my stomach. Out of the shadows a gang of Bad Boys swaggered towards me, swigging beer, smoking. They called me names. They looked at my bare legs and my cleavage. I stood frozen in their path.

  When a pair of arms encircled me from behind, I shouted in fear.

  “It’s me,” said Bheka. “I came to find you.”

  I fell into his arms, sobbing.

  “They came for me, the Bad Boys,” I said, crying uncontrollably.

  “You’re safe. You’re with me.” Bheka’s voice was tender, as tender as the soothing sound of the night jars filling the summer air all around us.

  After I had dried my tears, he led me back to our seats by the fire, where everyone was in noisy high spirits. I glanced around to find Lindiwe.

  When she caught my eye, she lifted her hand in a small wave. I did the same. Her smile was brave and sad and in that moment I vowed once again that I would be a lawyer who fights for Lindiwe’s safety and the safety of all the girls and women out there who were victims of abuse.

  And Bheka’s kind attentiveness, that night under the stars, made my feelings for him grow and grow. I thought how my mother would have approved when he put his jacket around my shoulders when the air began to cool down. When he filled my empty glass with juice. When he offered to fetch me a second helping of pudding.

  Later, when he walked me to my rondavel, there was more than enough opportunity to steer me into the shadows behind a bush. But instead he gave me a warm goodnight hug and held me against him. I buried my nose in his shirt, which smelt of wood smoke.

  On a night when I was troubled by my biggest fear, he could so easily have taken advantage of me. But Bheka never once pressurised me into that kiss.

  The following day, on the way to Malelane gate, Mr Khumalo stopped the bus on the side of Voortrekker Road. He pointed to a round plaque built into a rock beside the road, showing a relief of a dog. It was the MAD dog he had told us about. Many of us – because we had grown up in Mpumalanga – knew it was Jock of the Bushveld. But we hadn’t known that we were now looking at the very spot where the brave puppy had been born.

  Most of us had either seen the movie or read Percy Fitzpatrick’s book about the Lowveld legend. But Mr Khumalo wanted us to think about why Jock deserved to be called a MAD dog.

  Maybe it was the huge breakfast that had made us lazy, or the fact that the temperature was already thirty degrees, even though it was still early, but none of us had an answer. Except Bheka. He got up, leaning on the backrest of the seat in front of him.

  “Because Jock wasn’t even a fancy dog, right? He was the runt of the litter. No one thought he’d live. No one even wanted him. They wanted to drown him! But he surprised them all and became a legend. One of the coolest, bravest, most loyal of dogs ever. A hero!”

  I had to hold myself back from jumping up and hugging him.

  But Bheka hadn’t finished. “No one thought I would live after I got polio. But watch this space, guys! This artist will be a legend one day!”

  Everyone clapped, and Mr Khumalo said it was time to get out the chocolate bars which Miss De Wet had been guarding in one of the cooler bags. We were all in a festive mood as we drove off.

  As a perfect ending to our Kruger trip, we saw our fifth Big Five, a black rhino, just near the Malelane gate, giving rise to a heated discussion about the cruelty of poachers who kill rhinos for their horns. Mr Khumalo spotted a chance to get us involved in yet another cause, and it wasn’t long before he had inspired Susan, the history boff, to think of ideas for our club to raise awareness about rhinos in the rest of the school. We all decided that those who fought against the extinction of rhinos were MAD people.

  Once out of Malelane gate, we headed for Avuxeni Primary School, where a dancing, singing group of children and two teachers were waiting for us. The teachers took us on a guided tour of the dilapidated school buildings. There was no garden, no grass to sit on, no sport fields, no swimming pool.

  Mr Khumalo promised that we would collect books and stationery for the school, and that on our next visit we would come with paint to brighten up the classrooms. The visit made me realise just how amazing it was that Mr Khumalo had landed next to my mother in the taxi that day, almost ten years before, when my footpath took its first sharp turn towards the rising sun.

  It was lunchtime when we drove through the small town of Komatipoort, so we stopped for burgers and cooldrinks at a roadside café. It was so hot that we decided to sit outside on a grassy patch in the shade of a wild fig tree. I knew that with only one more stop ahead – at the Samora Machel Monument – the weekend would soon be over, and life without Bheka would go on. The last bite of my burger sat in my throat.

  I knew Maryke would pester me about the famous kiss. Time was running out, and the special moment I had dreamt of was still only a dream. I put my head down on my knees and fought the tears which were stinging my eyes.

  Mr Khumalo’s loud voice made me look up. Wiping his mouth with a serviette, he had got up from where he had been sitting and asked for our attention.

  “So, why am I taking you to a monument out in the sticks, built for someone who died in 1986 under mysterious circumstances, a man who died before any of you were born? A man who wasn’t even South African?” he asked, fanning out his Madiba shirt to cool himself off in the intense midday heat.

  No one answered for a while. Eventually Mogale, the first team rugby captain, said, “Because he was a freedom fighter, sir. He was the leader of a struggle movement called …” He shook his head. He couldn’t remember the name.

  “FRELIMO,” Mr Khumalo helped.

  A hand shot up. Ruby, in grade 6, said her father was Mozambican, just like Samora Machel, and he kept a photograph of Samora Machel in his wallet. Samora Machel had freed Mozambique from Portuguese colonial rule, and had given her father the freedom to vote. Her father said he was a hero.

  Mr Khumalo nodded. When no one offered anything more, he said, “People, I know it’s hot, but bear with me, please. You know how important good friends are, friends who give you hope in hard times, friends who protect you. Well, because Samora Machel knew all about the struggle for freedom, he was a friend to our own anti-apartheid activists. He was a torch bearer. He offered our struggle icons a safe haven during our country’s most difficult years. Like a friend who comforts you when you are afraid and feeling helpless. A friend who knows how important it is never to give up.”

  I glanced over at Bheka. “You are my torch bearer,” I whispered.

  While we trooped back to the bus, Mr Khumalo added that Samora Machel was of special importance to us living in Mpumalanga, because Mozambique bordered right on our province. In fact, we were just a few minutes away from the border post where our struggle icons had crossed into Mozambique during the darkest years of apartheid.

  “Once we get to the monument, I would like you to think carefully about why Samora Machel was a MAD person,”
Mr Khumalo said when we were all seated in the bus.

  When we arrived at the site near Mbuzini where Samora Machel and thirty-four other people had died in a plane crash, the first thing we saw was a mass of tall steel tubes planted close together. We were all perplexed – it didn’t look like a monument at all.

  Chatting away, we got out of the bus and walked towards the towering structure. It was only then that we became aware of a weird sound, like a hundred voices crying, sighing, moaning.

  I grabbed Bheka’s arm as we all fell silent, Mr Khumalo watching us closely.

  We listened to the sound of whispering voices. Standing there, it eventually dawned on us that the sounds were coming from the tubes of steel. Some boys walked right up to the monument and explained that there were incisions in the tubes, which created a sound when the wind blew.

  We stood in silence listening to the ghostly lament. Then Ruby, whose father kept the photo of Samora Machel in his wallet, said she felt as if voices from the past were trying to tell us something, and that we just had to listen.

  “Tell us what?” asked Mr Khumalo.

  “To be like Samora Machel.”

  “And what characteristics do you wish you shared with Samora Machel?” asked Mr Khumalo.

  Suddenly everyone began to speak. They wished they could believe in themselves, as he did. They wished they could get off their butts and do more for others, as he did. They wished they could have the drive to carry on, even when things looked hopeless. On and on the list of contributions went.

  Everyone had something to say, except me.