Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  The meeting seemed to go on forever. It dragged past lunchtime and into the late hours of the afternoon. Finally they emerged and Chief Tswane spoke with the news of their decisions. The valley children were to be educated. I leaned back on my haunches and smiled. This was a huge breakthrough, more than I had dared hope for.

  Nomvula sat next to me, her hand on my arm. When she heard her name her grip tightened, and then a huge grin split her face. She was going to Grahamstown, to do a special literacy course at a Grahamstown girls’ school. After that, to Johannesburg for a course in rural teaching skills, on condition that she stayed with me.

  Nomvula was mad with excitement; one moment shy and frightened, the next overwhelmed by all the new possibilities. I promised her that it was all going to be fine – I’d even arrange for a trip to the beauty salon for hair braiding, when – not if – she got through the first course.

  After the long discussions, my grandfather called me in to the Great Hut to speak in private. The village elders withdrew.

  There was a long silence. Chief Solenkosi had welcomed me warmly when I’d arrived in the valley, but even then I had sensed there was something on his mind.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘Do you see how it is now?’ he asked me. ‘We will help the children to read and write.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ I said. ‘You have shown much wisdom in these decisions. Thank you for this great step.’

  My grandfather remained silent for several minutes. I waited patiently.

  ‘I have received an offer of lobola for you,’ he said slowly.

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From the Zulu, Khumalo. He offers me much money, too much for an older woman in my opinion.’ He smiled, softening his words into a dry joke and I smiled back. ‘This Zulu has promised that you will give me strong great-grandsons. He says you will be happy.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him that I would speak to you.’

  ‘Thank you. I need to think about this offer.’

  I turned to go. What did this tell me about Zak? Traditional Zak, versus Modern Zak? Surely a smart, urban man asks the woman before he makes an offer? This was so entirely like Zak. Unpredictable as ever. But even as I thought this, it made me smile.

  ‘Wait.’ My grandfather called me back. ‘There is another offer.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘This offer is for more money, twenty splendid cows and a special fund for children’s education here in the valley.’

  ‘But who –? Who made this offer?’

  ‘A white man. A doctor, so he tells me.’

  My heart lurched. Tom had warned me that he wasn’t the kind of man to give up easily... now he was proving it.

  ‘When? How did this offer come about?’ I asked.

  ‘Doctor Winter from the hospital visited me when I was last in Umtata. He brought me twenty clay cattle as a promise. Look...’

  He gestured to a box behind his seat. I opened it. Nestling in white tissue paper, twenty tiny ceramic Nguni cattle stared up at me.

  ‘Thabisa, I want you to be a happy woman. These troubles have shown me the strength in you. I am an old man now but you have taught me something very important. I do not have to decide everything for you. I want you to choose for yourself, for your own happiness. Which of these men will make you the best husband? They are of different cultures. I have long wished for a Xhosa man for my granddaughter, but change has come to the valley and we must accept that new bloodlines will result. If you accept the offer of the white doctor, you will have to face big changes. You will have to go far away from the valley. But he is a kind, good man who will provide well. The Zulu is a proud, strong man. Your life will be an adventure with this man. He will match your strength and passion. Which man do you wish to accept?’

  I bowed to my grandfather and took his hands in mine. For the first time in many years, he embraced me warmly.

  What should I tell you, Solenkosi Tswane? I will never stop being part of this community where everyone knows everyone else and where life is cut down to human size. I can live in the city, work as a police officer, drive my car and have my urban life, but in my heart I will always be a part of this life, where the sun wakes me and the darkness sends me to sleep, where flocks and herds, ploughing and reaping, dancing and singing fill the days. I will never forget where I come from.

  I stepped out into the warm night feeling light and weightless, sad and tender, old and sweet. I was filled with the strong sense that everything would be right.

  I looked up at the stars that I’d loved all my life, shining down on the thatched roofs and cattle byres of the valley. My feet sank into red dust.

  I passed a group of old men sucking on their clay pipes. Two women strode by, beads clicking, as they carried water buckets from the river.

  I stood there in the dusty red night. The sweetness of home skipped and shifted around me. I shrunk into the valley again, expanded inside it.

  I could see clearly now.

  I turned back and entered my grandfather’s homestead. He stood waiting for me with a solemn expression. I took his hands in mine and said, ‘I’ve made my decision.’

  34

  February 2007

  Everyone came to the wedding. It was a day of pure enchantment.

  For many years it was spoken about in the valley. It was whispered that the couple had already held a modern wedding party in Johannesburg, but, of course, that wasn’t a proper wedding. That could only take place in the valley. The modern idea of city weddings couldn’t take the place of the real thing. Traditional celebrations were essential, however modern the couple.

  The visitors packed their city suits and high-heeled shoes into rucksacks, laced on their trainers and picked their way down into the valley. They came from far and wide, the bridegroom’s family having brought many colourful guests from far away. There were people there from every culture, but most had observed the valley traditions and wore red ochred shawls over their finery.

  The bride was beautiful in her red ochred dress, with a deeply-fringed collar of turquoise beads that fell to her waist, where a wide waistband echoed the turquoise beading. She wore three headbands of white pearl-like beads, and matching ankle bracelets. She seemed to float, as she walked towards her bridegroom, so light were her steps and so joyful were the looks they exchanged. Although he was from a different culture, the bridegroom looked like a prince, so proud and distinguished. He wore a beaded turban that made the guests gasp when they saw it. He was a very tall man; this headdress made him look like a giant.

  Two oxen were slaughtered. The villagers wore their finest beads, their red shawls and blankets, gogos walked in front of the pair, sweeping the ground with their brooms, singing the bridal songs. With the setting of the sun, the bridal pair walked together to the place where Chief Solenkosi Tswane waited for them.

  There were wild cries of exultation; everyone sang and rattled tin cans filled with stones as they passed. Love and warmth, friendship, spontaneity and joy filled the valley as the bride and her groom approached the bridal hut.

  When they arrived there, the master of ceremonies lifted his beaded knob stick, and called out in a loud voice: ‘Those within, answer us.’

  The reply came clearly: ‘We await you,’ and they entered the hut.

  The bridal procession entered slowly, and Chief Solenkosi Tswane stepped forward to take their hands in his.

  There was a great cry as the entire assembly swept forward, singing the traditional song in adulation:

  Today we had a wedding

  Everyone attended

  Who was there who did not know?

  Everybody knew!

  A great and happy wedding.

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  Rejoice! Rejoice!

  The villagers talked about the other guests for months afterwards, especially a friendly white lady called Bea, who wore a sparkling purple gown and danced with them ti
ll dawn.

  Old and young, everyone danced and sang and feasted until the sun rose. It was a night to remember.

  Apart from the food, the drink and the music, the best thing for the villagers was to see their chief so happy. At last his face was wreathed with smiles; he danced with them, sang the valley songs, and looked with pride on his granddaughter and her husband.

  ‘This union will bring strong sons,’ he said time and again.

  The bridegroom agreed.

  The bride blushed and said: ‘Not yet... we’ll see. We’ll see...’

  35

  Six years later

  23 April 2012

  I turned to the mountains and looked at the clouds invading the sky from the south. The valley was lit by a strong, late-summer sun, the mountains bright red in the light. I was standing in the soul of my country; in a land of red earth, green acacia, cattle bells and rushing water.

  I climbed to my favourite spot, the ridge where, over the centuries, a mountain stream had carved out a chain of small pools and little beaches. I sat down, propped myself against a smooth rock and closed my eyes. It had been a long three weeks away from the rush and hurry of my Johannesburg life.

  Today the new school had finally opened its doors and tears had prickled behind my eyes as the children sang their school song, filling the deep valley with their childish voices, the sound of hope: for a better South Africa, a better world.

  I glanced up the cliff path. My family would be arriving soon. I’d hear them before I saw them tramping down the path. The new road from Encobo made it easier to get into the valley these days, but at the end where it joined up with the winding path through the mountains, the descent was steep.

  A dart of movement. I looked over my shoulder towards the mountains. It wasn’t the children, or my husband. Somewhere, far inside my skull and deep in my body, something hummed; a sound too low to hear, like a warning chime. I had felt it several times recently and each time when I had looked harder, stopped to listen, there had been nothing. My senses were on high alert, even though it had been quite some time since I’d done any active police work.

  Matatu had been contacting me regularly lately, urging me to come back to the unit. ‘Part-time,’ he’d said. ‘You name the hours.’

  ‘Soon,’ I kept promising him, ‘soon.’ I missed the thrill, the chills, the adrenaline rush, but I had plenty to keep my hands full on the home front. Would I be able to juggle it all? I wasn’t sure, but some days I was tempted to give it a go.

  Just because I was no longer actively engaged with the Eagles, didn’t mean that my special training had gone out the window. I sat still. Nothing. Only the wind and the trickle of water. Probably a bird, I told myself, or a snake moving to catch the last of the afternoon sun. The bush is full of wildlife that knows how to remain unseen.

  I opened the three-week-old newspaper. Only yesterday’s news arrived in the valley, but I enjoyed reading the papers anyway. There was always a lot of catching up to do. Sadly, the news was predictably dispiriting. Eighteen years after the first democratic elections and there was trouble and dissension all over the country. Blaming and complaining, moaning and bitterness. Why couldn’t everyone just get on with it? Work like a team to make a nation we could all be proud of?

  And then I thought of the valley – and smiled. So much had been achieved in six years. Not only in the valley, but in my own life too. There had been some difficult choices to make, compromises to negotiate.

  That first year felt like a dream now, a pretty topsy-turvy one. Tom hadn’t given up on me that easily – had offered me a new life in Australia. So tempting. Turning my back on it hadn’t been easy. But if anything, it had helped me to see how much I loved my own country. How much I wanted to give back. I realised then that I could never leave; that it was time to live life a different way.

  It took a while, but once it was up and running everything gathered momentum: starting the charity to build a school in the valley, fundraising, learning the ins and outs of construction, deciding what to buy and what wasn’t necessary. And all the while, as the foundations were dug and the walls grew higher, I found myself working shoulder to shoulder with a man who shared my dream, someone who had changed out of all recognition. A man who loved and respected me, helped me, cherished and encouraged me. They say it only happens in fairy tales, but it can also happen in the bustling rush of a Johannesburg life and the quiet moments of a deep green valley. Believe me, I was there to see it happen. Day by day, the friend, companion and lover I had always dreamed about materialised before me. And night by night too... I blushed as I thought of our passionate nights. Time and kids hadn’t dimmed our attraction for each other. Far from it, it had just grown stronger.

  I blinked, let my eyes slide down the page of the newspaper. I felt the nape of my neck tighten. A black and white photograph, taken in a small private cemetery. She was wearing black and her face was pale, but composed.

  Julia McEwen.

  I scanned the article:

  Jailed wife attends murdered McEwen’s memorial

  Julia McEwen, sentenced to fifteen years for her part in the murder of an Eastern Cape bank manager was seen yesterday at the funeral of her husband, Magnus McEwen, a well-known mining executive.

  Magnus McEwen was found murdered at his Houghton home in Sandton eight days ago, shot dead in an execution-style killing. The autopsy revealed evidence of torture prior to his death. According to information leaked to the press, the execution bears all the trademarks of a Solarin execution, the notorious Nigerian gang, many of whom are serving life sentences for several counts of torture and assassination in South Africa.

  Speculation is now rife that Magnus McEwen may well have been involved in drug or arms deals with the Nigerian underworld. There has been no official confirmation from the police on any of these allegations.

  McEwen’s body was released to the family after the autopsy was completed and the coroner’s report was finalised.

  Julia McEwen was released on the grounds of good behaviour two days after her husband’s death. She had served six years of her sentence.

  According to sources close to the widow she is devastated by her husband’s death. ‘All Julia wanted was to go home, to be with Magnus again,” a close friend said, “and now that’s never going to happen. Once the estate is settled, she will have to pick up the pieces of her life. We would appreciate it if the press allows her the privacy she needs in this difficult time.’

  No arrests have been made at this point, although police have indicated that they have several leads to follow.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whispered, ‘she’s out.’ I remembered Julia McEwen’s dangerous smile, the way she had snarled at me as she was led away. How, at her trial, she had shouted: ‘When I get out of jail I’m coming to find you. You’ll never be safe.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said aloud. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions here.’ Julia might be out, but her husband had been killed while she was safely behind bars. By all accounts Magnus McEwen had been a hard businessman who lived an extravagant lifestyle. Nothing concrete linked him to the Solarins, but it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that he’d got on the wrong side of the Nigerians. I shuddered at the thought of what they must have done to him. The Solarins weren’t known for their gentle good nature. Lucky for Julia McEwen that she hadn’t been home when they came calling. That is, if they had, of course... It was all conjecture at this point. I wondered where the case would lead, whether any of my colleagues from the Eagles had been called in on it.

  ‘Mama! Mama!’

  There they were. I saw them coming down the path and scrambled to my feet, all thoughts of Julia McEwen forgotten. I ran towards them, holding out my arms. I had missed them so much for the weeks I had been in the valley, helping prepare for the school’s opening. They climbed into my embrace, kissing and hugging me like two wriggling puppy dogs.

  Solenkosi and Thabo were identical twins with dark honey skin and my gre
y eyes. They were four years old. The boys ran ahead of me down the path and into the homestead of their great-grandfather. His wisdom and dignity subdued their high spirits for a few moments. He shook their hands and embraced them, addressing them in isiXhosa. They returned his greeting solemnly. Then away they raced, chasing one another, joined by an exuberant dog and two confused chickens, swirling about in the dust.

  ‘Hey guys,’ I shouted, ‘just cool it, okay? Your grandfather wants good grandsons, not naughty ones.’

  ‘We are good,’ said Thabo, pulling Solenkosi’s sun hat off and throwing it in the air.

  I turned round. ‘Come along, Dad, bring some discipline to your sons, a couple of weeks away from me and they’re out of control.’

  Zak stepped forward, smiling, and swept me into his arms. I felt light and buoyant, as if I’d float away if Zak let go of me.

  ‘Hey, we’ve all missed you, me most of all,’ he said quietly, his lips on my hair. ‘Don’t leave us again, my heart can’t take it.’

  He shouted to the boys: ‘Listen guys, Mama’s back, now you’ve got to behave, right?’

  He turned back to me and took my hand. ‘I never thought you had such a sobering influence on our kids. They only behave when you’re around. So, next time we all come to the valley.’

  Pure joy and exhilaration – the same feeling I had every time I looked at Zak and the boys. Of course, it was an illusion that everything could always be alright in this complicated, dangerous world, but whatever dangers lurked out there, if Zak was beside me everything would be fine. I thought of Julia McEwen and flicked the thought away. I had Zak, my family, the valley and the great red mountains towering against the blue sky. That was enough, for today.

  I smiled up at my tall husband. He put his arm round me and we walked down to my grandfather’s kraal.

  23 April 2012

  High in the mountains, in a cave above the valley, a woman put down her binoculars. A slow, satisfied smile lit her narrow face.