Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  As he entered her Angela cried out with pleasure. There was no pain. No terror. Nothing but love.

  They were young. Despite promises to love each other forever, when Troy graduated from university and found work five hundred kilometres away in Kruger National Park, the relationship did not survive. They parted amicably and remained friends.

  Pretoria, South Africa: 11 July

  Kalila stared at the twenty or so white pills lying in the palm of her hand. They were so very tempting.

  She had returned to South Africa vastly changed. Suffering severe bouts of depression, Kalila showed no interest in going back to university, or anything else for that matter. She ate, slept and went, what, when and where others instructed. Her worried parents called a round-the-table meeting with her boyfriend. As a student, studying to become a general practitioner, his knowledge of severe trauma was limited. He did offer one solution, marriage, believing that all Kalila needed was love. Her parents readily accepted the idea and preparations swung into action. Kalila, who had always been promised to him, went along with it, showing no real interest but no reticence either.

  They married in the Easter holidays, and because of her father’s position, the wedding was a big social event. Kalila and her new husband honeymooned on the shores of Lake Malawi, then returned to South Africa to start their new life together.

  On the surface, all was well. But Kalila and her husband were having problems. They had started on the wedding night and become progressively worse. Her husband couldn’t understand it. They’d been lovers before she went to Etosha, although she’d rejected any of his advances since returning. He knew she’d been raped and blamed that for her obvious reluctance to make love now. He understood her shame and agonised with her while they waited to learn that she was neither pregnant nor had contracted HIV. With an all-clear on her physical health, he assumed they would return to their initial intimacy. But although she was outwardly well, Kalila was far from healed. Their honeymoon had been a nightmare for her. She went to the marriage bed knowing her duty. Seeing this as a sign she was ready, her husband took what he considered to be his right. Their coupling was a dismal failure. The more he tried to make it work, the worse it became. Kalila would lie rigid until he had finished, then turn away from him and cry.

  Her new husband sought advice from eminently qualified members of the medical profession. Their recommendations were unanimous, if not very helpful. ‘Patience.’ But he was running out of that. Modern in the respect that one wife was enough, this meant trying to contend with well-entrenched Zulu tradition. In the past, the more wives a man had, the higher his social status and the more respect he enjoyed. While this practice was, to some extent, on the way out, it left a legacy. A man with many wives had to keep them all happy. A dissatisfied wife was quick and loud in complaining. So, prestige had become tied to sexual prowess. Kalila and her husband were on a downward spiral to disaster and neither of them had the faintest idea what to do about it.

  Several months into the marriage, and with no warning whatsoever, Kalila was cooking dinner when it happened. The memory of Chester came back to her. Until then she had successfully blocked him out of her mind. To think of Chester meant remembering the rest of it. Suddenly, he was there. The feel of his lips and hands, the smell of his skin, the way he looked. The memory hit Kalila so hard she gasped and clutched at her heart.

  He would not go away. Every time she paused for so much as a second, Chester was back. With his return, Kalila realised that she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. Her husband was a friend, she liked him, knew him almost as well as she knew herself, but to spend the rest of her life as his wife was something she simply could not do.

  Her debilitating lethargy lifted, only to be replaced by despair. Kalila had tasted love. The relationship had been as intense as it had been brief. Chester was not the man for her – there were too many things in the way. He had witnessed her degradation, he was low-born and he had lied to her about the condom. She couldn’t get around any of those things. But he’d shown her a side of herself she hadn’t known was there. He’d raised her to passionate heights she’d only dreamed of. Such depth of feeling was surely possible again. But not, it would seem, with the man she married. She started to resent her husband’s demands for sex. She fell out with her parents, accusing them of rushing her into marriage. Kalila felt betrayed by those closest to her, bereft and trapped.

  Nightmares began to stalk her sleep. She’d wake sweating, shaking and crying. A desperate husband took desperate measures. He stole sleeping pills from the hospital where he was completing his internship. ‘Take one of these each night,’ he said. ‘The bad dreams will go.’

  They did, leaving Kalila with an aching certainty that she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. She floated the idea of a return to university. They couldn’t afford the fees. Her father refused to help. ‘You’re a married woman. Forget such foolishness. Give us a child.’

  A less sophisticated Zulu might have resorted to ancient tribal remedies. A witch doctor could fix the bad dreams, cast love spells to dissolve their problems in bed and help Kalila feel love for her husband. Further help might have been forthcoming from the counsellor who would have advised them of the warning from the Namibian doctor that Kalila could suffer an extreme reaction once she snapped out of her depression. Ignorance, masculine pride, fear and a husband’s inability to pay for more counselling – all were contributing factors. Sleeping pills offered escape. Modern medicine was not a cure, merely a way out.

  The little white pills taunted her. Did she have the courage to die? Or was she possessed of even greater bravery – to face life?

  Kalila thought dispassionately about what to expect from life if she asked for a divorce. Disgrace – her family would possibly disown her, her husband’s family would definitely do so. She had no money of her own. She had not even completed a full year at university. To go back, even if she could afford it, meant starting again. She felt alone and unhappy. There was no guarantee she’d ever find the kind of love she so desperately yearned for. Far better to end it.

  She picked up one pill and placed it in her mouth. It had a bitter taste. Taking a sip of water, she swallowed.

  The telephone rang. Should she ignore it? No. It might be her husband. If she didn’t answer he could become worried and return home. She went to the instrument and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Could I speak to Kalila Mabuka please?’

  ‘Speaking.’ She was amazed to hear her maiden name again.

  ‘This is Megan.’

  ‘Megan! Megan Ward?’

  ‘Yes. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ Kalila couldn’t believe how pleased she was to hear from her. ‘I’m married,’ she added suddenly.

  ‘So I heard. Congratulations.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Back at varsity. Why didn’t you come back?’

  ‘Oh well, you know.’ Kalila knew how lame she sounded. Suddenly she was angry. ‘My husband is studying to become a doctor.’

  Megan was blunt. ‘The fees?’

  No point in denying it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t they contact you? They’ve waived the fees for us. They’ve set up an Eben Kruger Scholarship. Troy’s father put up most of the money. You can study for no more than the cost of your books. The courses are free and so, for those of us who were in Etosha last year, is the accommodation. Didn’t you get a letter?’

  Kalila’s head was reeling. ‘No. I moved when I married.’

  ‘They sent one. It went to your parents. I know because Troy told me.’

  Her parents. Her father had never approved of her ambitions. Had he kept the letter from her?

  ‘Listen, Kalila, there’s nothing stopping you. Why don’t you come back? You’ve passed all your first-year subjects.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It was in the newspaper. We all passed – even Angela.’

&n
bsp; ‘I . . .’

  ‘Think about it. We can meet if you like. I’ll bring the details.’

  ‘No.’ Kalila made up her mind suddenly. ‘Don’t do that. Bring the registration forms.’

  ‘Great. How about tomorrow? We can meet in the cafeteria.’

  ‘Not tomorrow.’ Kalila’s resolve strengthened. ‘Today.’

  ‘Okay. Say one-ish?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Hanging up, Kalila glanced at the clock. Ten past ten. She had time to pack, leave a note and reach the university. But first . . . Kalila dropped the sleeping pills into the toilet and flushed them away.

  Windhoek, Namibia: 21 July

  A bolt scraped loudly somewhere down the hall, metal against metal, a sound to set his teeth on edge. Breakfast was coming. The same old meal, day after day, week after week, month after month. Ace ate. Food was food. You took it when you could.

  Unbeknown to him, a war of words had been raging over his future. The need to execute a man already dying of AIDS was still in debate. Everyone agreed, he had to die. Some said let nature take its course. Others disagreed. Ace Ntesa should be punished. He deserved to feel the same fear he had forced on so many.

  Differing opinions kept Ace alive for longer than he expected. At first he was under no illusions as to what would eventually happen. In the days following his capture, Ace had been subjected to intense interrogation. He willingly gave up what he knew, which wasn’t much. No point in playing the martyr. When they’d finished with him, death by firing squad would follow swiftly. Mentally, he was ready for it. But as the days turned into weeks, and then months, he began to hope.

  The terrorist leader had been held in isolation from his men, hearing no news of them in seven months. He didn’t even know if they were still alive. Ace was exercised on his own, fed three times a day and allowed no recreational materials whatsoever. He wasn’t even aware that he had AIDS, or the thinning disease as he better knew it. He’d lost weight but put that down to prison food. The language barrier kept him further isolated. There were some who spoke Portuguese, even those who understood and could converse in his tribal language, Ace knew that from the interrogations, yet for weeks none of them had come near him. Boredom was acute. Ace lived for his daily twenty minutes of exercise and mealtimes.

  And here came breakfast. The door to his cell opened. An African in religious robes stood next to the guard. There was no sign of food. Ace’s eyes switched from one man to the other, then back again. Comprehension was slow in coming, but when he realised what was going on, Ace felt his stomach tighten. Those in favour had prevailed. Ace’s sudden fear could not have been more acute. Engagements in a bush war, intense and savage contact with the enemy, inevitably brought on the shakes. But in adrenalin-filled action there was no time to think. Held captive, with nothing to do for months on end, Ace had plenty of time to speculate on his fate, convincing himself that he was destined for a life in prison. Having dared to hope, Ace now knew the terror of those people he had executed at Logans Island. The priest beckoned, his face sombre. Ace swayed and would have fallen had the two men not stepped forward and held him upright.

  Led outside, the brilliant winter sunshine blinded him. They walked across the deserted parade ground. On the far side was an old stone administration block, unused these days but for storage. They skirted the building. At the back lay a walled courtyard where six soldiers waited. On the far side, bullets from past executions had pockmarked the crumbling surface. Ace was taken to it. The priest mumbled in a monotone but Ace didn’t understand the words. God’s forgiveness was meaningless. An officer read out a list of crimes and the sentence passed, none of which made sense to the UNITA terrorist.

  Offered a blindfold, he shook his head. He tried to make eye contact with the soldiers, searching for one flicker of sympathy, one spark of human connection. Not one of them responded, their stares steady, attention on the task. The voices stopped. Ace, his heart hammering with fear and guts churning, emptied his bowels. He had, at least, understood the last three words he ever heard.

  ‘Ready, aim, fire.’

  Khumaga Village, Botswana: 14 October

  Chester wondered again why he had come. Just reaching Khumaga had been difficult. A bus from the capital, Gaborone, to Palapye. Another to Serowe and a third to Letlhakane. From there he’d hitched a ride to Mopipi and another to Rakops. A three-hour wait before someone stopped who could take him the final seventy kilometres to Khumaga. All on a whim. Five hundred kilometres to apply for a job he probably wouldn’t get.

  When he walked out of the hotel in Windhoek last December, Chester had nothing more on his mind but to avoid arrest. He had no idea how seriously his past involvement with UNITA would be taken by Namibia, but in view of the audacious capture of tourists and staff from Etosha – the jewel in Namibia’s crown – Chester believed the government could well be looking for a scapegoat and he could easily end up as just that.

  He took no belongings. If stopped, he could say he was getting some fresh air. He left the hotel via the underground car park and walked the five kilometres to Helmut Weiderman’s home in the suburbs.

  Chester had stayed in touch with the Weidermans but he hadn’t seen them for over a year. He’d long ago stopped blaming Helmut for the confusion he felt over his identity, but the old easiness between them was gone. Now he needed Helmut’s help.

  The German, now retired, was genuinely pleased to see Chester. He apologised for the absence of his wife and son. ‘They have gone home to Germany to see the family. Willem is married, as you know, and now has two children. I would have gone too but . . .’ Helmut tapped his chest, ‘the old ticker forbids air travel. The joys of growing old, eh? Willem will be very disappointed. Come inside, Chester, we will have tea and it will be like old times.’

  Chester followed Helmut into the house. Little had changed since he’d lived there. He made appropriate noises over a batch of recent photographs, noting aloud how well Willem looked, how pretty his wife was and what charming children he had. Helmut fussed over the tea-making and produced some fruit cake.

  ‘Do you remember how you hated fruit cake when you came to live here?’ he reminisced.

  Chester still hated it but dutifully ate two slices. They spoke of the past for a long time until Chester asked, ‘Did you hear about the UNITA raid on Etosha?’

  ‘My word, yes. What a terrible thing. The papers didn’t give many details. I suppose we’ll hear more once the investigation is over.’

  ‘I was one of the hostages.’

  Helmut’s eyes widened. ‘But that is awful,’ he cried. ‘You could have been killed.’

  Chester held up his hand to ward off yet another slice of cake. ‘I was spared because of my knowledge of Portuguese. They used me as their interpreter.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Helmut said with feeling.

  ‘The army will find out about my involvement with UNITA. I’ll be wanted for questioning. It could go quite badly for me.’

  ‘Oh come. That was years ago. You were young and foolish.’

  ‘Recent incursions into Namibia makes UNITA our enemy,’ Chester said quietly. ‘That makes a difference.’

  ‘They can’t hold you. There’s no proof you served under Jonas Savimbi. Deny it, what can they do?’

  ‘You know very well what they can do, Helmut. This Etosha thing has made them paranoid. Anyway, there’s no point in denying it. Too many people already know.’

  Helmut wasted no more time. Chester’s expression and quiet words told him that he was in trouble. ‘What can I do, my boy?’

  With Helmut’s help, Chester made it across the border into Botswana. He’d been here ever since. He found work in Gaborone as a labourer and then answered an advertisement for a position in the classified section of the Botswana Guardian. To his surprise, he was offered the job. But six months into it, Chester realised he was never going to progress. His qualifications were not recognised. Short of starting again – a course
which ran for three years at the local university – he would remain in the classified department.

  Two weeks ago a classified advertisement came in from a game lodge near Khumaga in the centre of the country. No details were given, just a box number in Serowe and the fact that they were looking for a trainee game ranger and inviting applications. Chester didn’t place the advertisement. Instead, he resigned from the newspaper and made his way to Khumaga, planning to present himself as someone looking for work – any work. It was a gamble but he was desperate.

  Khumaga Village didn’t do a lot for him. Spread out, dusty, goats and donkeys everywhere, he wondered how a luxury lodge could compete with the glamorous places in the Okavango Delta further north. Asking directions, he was dismayed to learn that the place he sought was a good fifteen kilometres into the bush. There was nothing he could do, however, but walk. He’d come this far, he might as well see it through.

  Two hours later, a wooden sign at the side of the sandy track informed Chester he had reached Boteti River Lodge. Natural bush gave way to a more structured vegetation, still native but selectively planted. The lodge was shaped like a huge circus tent. Chester stopped for a moment, bending to brush sand from his shoes. He heard a woman’s voice.

  ‘Have you got a moment, Sean?’

  And the reply, ‘Sure, babe.’

  Chester looked up sharply. Thea stood on some steps, shading her eyes and smiling as Sean made his way across the lawn towards her. Chester moved quickly to screen himself. He watched Sean reach Thea and put an arm around her waist. She kissed his cheek. Then the two of them went inside the lodge.

  Of all the luck! Chester turned away. They’d probably give him the job but he knew there was no way he could live in close proximity to the constant reminder of the terrible guilt that wouldn’t go away. It was another six months before Chester learned that he had been cleared of any involvement or blame for the terrible events in Etosha National Park.