by Wilbur Smith
‘Good,’ he smiled gravely. ‘We will have your bone for dinner – which will save me money.’
She laughed, a fine throaty chuckle. ‘Don’t go away, I will be back.’ She turned and went into the nurses’ home, and he watched her with pleasure as she climbed the steps. Her waist was so narrow that it accentuated the swell of her buttocks under the white uniform. Although her bosom was small, she was full-bottomed and broad-hipped; she would carry a child with ease. That kind of body was the model of Nguni beauty, and Moses was strongly reminded of the photographs he had seen of the Venus de Milo. Her carriage was erect, her neck long and straight, and although her hips swayed as though she danced to a distant music, her head and shoulders never moved. It was obvious that as a child she had taken her turn with the other young girls at carrying the brimming clay pots up from the water-hole, balancing the pot on her head without spilling a drop. That was how the Zulu girls acquired that marvellously regal posture.
With her round madonna face and huge dark eyes she was one of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and while he waited, leaning against the bonnet of the van, he pondered how each race had its ideal of feminine beauty, and how widely they differed. That led him on to think of Tara Courtney, with her huge round breasts and narrow boyish hips, her long chestnut hair and soft insipid white skin. Moses grimaced, faintly repelled by the image, and yet both women were crucial to his ambitions, and his sensual response to them – attraction or revulsion – was completely irrelevant. All that mattered was their utility.
Victoria came back down the steps ten minutes later. She was wearing a vivid crimson dress. Bright colours suited her, they set off that glossy dark skin. She slid into the passenger’s seat of the van beside him, and glanced at the cheap gold-plated watch on her wrist. ‘Eleven minutes sixteen seconds. You cannot really complain,’ she announced, and he smiled and started the engine.
‘Now let us pick your thighbone of a dinosaur,’ he suggested.
‘Tyrannosaurus rex,’ she corrected him. ‘The most ferocious of the dinosaurs. But, no, we’ll keep that for dinner as you suggested.’
Her banter amused him. It was unusual for an unmarried black girl to be so forthcoming and self-assured. Then he remembered her training and her life here at one of the world’s largest and busiest hospitals. This wasn’t a little country girl, empty-headed and giggling, and as if to make the point, Victoria fell into an easy discussion of General Dwight Eisenhower’s prospects for election to the White House, and how that would affect the American civil rights struggle – and ultimately their own struggle here in Africa.
While they talked, the sun began to set and the city, with all its fine buildings and parks, fell behind them, until abruptly they entered the half world of Soweto township where half a million black people lived. The dusk was thick with the smell of wood-smoke from the cooking fires, and it turned the sunset a diabolical red, the colour of blood and oranges. The narrow unmade sidewalks were crowded with black commuters, each of them carrying a parcel or a shopping bag, all hurrying in the same direction, back to their homes after a long day that had begun before the sun with a tortuous journey by bus or train to their places of work in the outer world, and that now ended in darkness with the reverse journey which fatigue made even longer and more tedious.
The van slowed as the streets became more crowded, and then some of them recognized Moses and ran ahead of them, clearing the way.
‘Moses Gama! It’s Moses Gama, let him pass!’ And as they went by, some of them shouted greetings.
‘I see you, Nkosi.’
‘I see you, Baba!’ They called him father and lord.
When they reached the community centre which abutted the administration buildings the huge hall was overflowing, and they were forced to leave the van and go on foot for the last hundred yards.
However, the Buffaloes were there to escort them. Hendrick Tabaka’s enforcers pushed a way through the solid pack of humanity, tempering this show of force with smiles and jokes so the crowd made way for them without resentment.
‘It is Moses Gama, let him pass,’ and Victoria hung on to his arm and laughed with the excitement of it.
As they went in through the main doors of the hall, she glanced up and saw the name above the door: H. F. VERWOERD COMMUNITY HALL.
It was fast becoming a custom for the Nationalist government to name all state buildings, airports, dams and other public works after political luminaries and mediocrities, but there was an unusual irony in naming the community hall of the largest black township after the white architect of the laws which they had gathered here to protest. Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd was the Minister of Bantu Affairs, and the principal architect of apartheid.
Inside the hall the noise was thunderous. A permit to use the hall for a political rally would have been denied by the township administration, so officially this had been billed and advertised as a rock ‘n’ roll concert by a band that gloried in the name of ‘The Marmalade Mambas’.
They were on the stage now, four of them dressed in tight-fitting sequined suits that glittered in the flashing coloured lights. A bank of amplifiers sent the music crashing over the packed audience, like an aerial bombardment, and the dancers screamed back at them, swaying and writing to the rhythm like a single monstrous organism.
The Buffaloes opened a path for them across the dance floor and the dancers recognized Moses and shouted greetings, trying to touch him as he passed. Then the band became aware of his presence and broke off in the middle of the wild driving beat to give him a trumpet fanfare and a roll of drums.
Dozens of willing hands helped Moses up on to the stage, while Victoria remained below with her head at the level of his knees, trapped in the press of bodies that pressed forward to see and to hear Moses Gama. The band leader attempted to introduce him but even the power of the electronic amplifiers could not lift his voice above the tumultuous welcome that they gave Moses. From four thousand throats a savage sustained roar rose and went on and on without diminution. It broke over Moses Gama like a wild sea driven by a winter gale, and like rock he stood unmoved by it.
Then he lifted his arms, and the sound died away swiftly until a suppressed and aching silence hung over that great press of humanity and into that silence Moses Gama roared.
‘Amandla! Power!’
As a single voice they roared back at him, ‘Amandla!’
He shouted again, in that deep thrilling voice that rang against the rafters and reached into the depths of their hearts.
‘Mayibuye!’
They bellowed the reply back at him
‘Afrika! Let Africa persist.’
And then they were silent again, expectant and wound up with excitement and tension, as Moses Gama began to speak.
‘Let us talk of Africa,’ he said.
‘Let us talk of a rich and fruitful land with tiny barren pockets on which our people are forced to live.
‘Let us speak of the children without schools and the mothers without hope.
‘Let us speak of taxes and passes.
‘Let us speak of famine and sickness.
‘Let us speak of those who labour in the harsh sunlight, and in the depths of the dark earth.
‘Let us speak of those who live in the compounds far from their families.
‘Let us speak of hunger and tears and the hard laws of the Boers.’
For an hour he held them in his hands, and they listened in silence except for the groans and involuntary gasps of anguish, and the occasional growl of anger, and at the end Victoria found she was weeping. The tears flowed freely and unashamedly down her beautiful upturned moon face.
When Moses finished, he dropped his arms and lowered his chin upon his chest, exhausted and shaken by his own passion and a vast silence fell upon them. They were too moved to shout or to applaud.
In the silence Victoria suddenly flung herself on to the stage and faced them.
‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,’ she sang.
> ‘God save Africa,’ and immediately the band picked up the refrain, while from the body of the hall their magnificent African voices soared in haunting chorus. Moses Gama stepped up beside her and took her hand in his, and their voices blended.
At the end it took them almost twenty minutes to escape from the hall, their way was blocked by the thousands who wanted the experience to last, to touch them and to hear their voices and to be a part of the struggle.
In the course of one short evening the beautiful Zulu girl in the flaming crimson dress had become part of the almost mystic legend that surrounded Moses Gama. Those who were fortunate enough to be there that evening would tell those who had not, how she had looked like a queen as she stood and sang before them, a queen that befitted the tall black emperor at her side.
‘I have never experienced anything like that,’ Vicky told him, when at last they were alone again, and the little blue and crimson van was humming back along the main highway towards Johannesburg. ‘The love they bear you is so powerful—’ She broke off. ‘I just can’t describe it.’
‘Sometimes it frightens me,’ he agreed. ‘They place such a heavy responsibility upon me.’
‘I don’t believe you know what fear is,’ she said.
‘I do.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it better than most.’ And then he changed the subject. ‘What time is it? We must find something to eat before curfew.’
‘It’s only nine o’clock.’ Victoria looked surprised as she turned the dial of her wristwatch to catch the light of a street lamp. ‘I thought it would be much later. I seem to have lived a lifetime in one short evening.’
Ahead of them a neon sign flickered: ‘DOLLS’ HOUSE DRIVE-IN. TASTY EATS.’ Moses slowed and turned the van into the parking lot. He left Vicky for a few minutes to go to the counter of the replica dolls’ house, then he returned with hamburgers and coffee in two paper mugs.
‘Ah, that’s good!’ she mumbled through a mouthful of hamburger. ‘I didn’t realize I was so hungry.’
‘Now what about this bone you threaten me with?’ Moses asked, and he spoke in fluent Zulu.
‘You speak Zulu!’ She was amazed. ‘I didn’t know. When did you learn?’ she demanded in the same language.
‘I speak many languages,’ he told her. ‘If I want to reach all the people, there is no other way.’ And he smiled. ‘However, young woman, you don’t change the subject so easily. Tell me about this bone.’
‘Oh, I feel so stupid talking about it now, after all we have shared this evening …’ She hesitated. ‘I was going to ask you why you sent your brother to speak to my father before you had said anything to me. I’m not a country girl of the kraals, you know. I am a modern woman with a mind of my own.’
‘Victoria, we should not discard the old traditions in our struggle for liberation. What I did was out of respect for you and for your father. I am sorry if it offended you.’
‘I was a little ruffled,’ she admitted.
‘Will it help at all if I ask you now?’ he smiled. ‘You can still refuse. Before we go any further, think very deeply. If you marry me, you marry the cause. Our marriage will be part of the struggle of our people, and the road before us will be hard and dangerous, with never an end in sight.’
‘I do not need to think,’ she said softly. Tonight when I stood there before our people with your hand in mine, I knew that was the reason why I was born.’
He took both her hands in his and drew her gently towards him, but before their mouths could touch, the harsh white beam of a powerful spotlight shone into their faces. Startled, they drew apart, shielding their eyes with raised hands.
‘Hey, what is this?’ Moses exclaimed.
‘Police!’ a voice answered from the darkness beyond the open side window. ‘Get out, both of you!’
They climbed out of the van, and Moses went around the bonnet to stand beside Victoria. He saw that while they had been engrossed with each other, a police pick-up had entered the parking lot and parked beside the restaurant building. Now four blue-uniformed constables with flashlights were checking the occupants of all the parked vehicles in the lot.
‘Let me see your passes, both of you.’ The constable in front of him was still shining the light in his eyes, but beyond it Moses could make out that he was very young.
Moses reached into his inner pocket, while Victoria searched in her purse, and they handed their pass booklets to the constable. He turned the beam of the flashlight on them and studied them minutely.
‘It’s almost curfew,’ he said in Afrikaans, as he handed them back. ‘You Bantu should be in your own locations at this time of night.’
‘There is still an hour and a half until curfew,’ Victoria replied sharply, and the constable’s expression hardened.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, maid.’ That term of address was insulting and again he shone the flashlight in her face. ‘Just because you’ve got shoes on your feet and rouge on your face, doesn’t mean you are a white woman. Just remember that.’
Moses took Victoria’s arm and firmly steered her back to the van. ‘We are leaving right away, officer,’ he said placatingly, and once they were both in the van, he told Victoria, ‘You will accomplish nothing by getting us both arrested. That is not the level at which we should conduct the struggle. That is just a callow little white boy with more authority than he knows how to carry.’
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I just get so angry. What were they looking for, anyway?’
‘They were looking for white men with black girls, their Immorality Act to keep their precious white blood pure. Half their police force spends its time trying to peer into other people’s bedrooms.’ He started the van and turned onto the highway.
Neither of them spoke again until he parked in front of the Baragwanath nurses’ home.
‘I hope we will not be interrupted again,’ Moses said quietly, and placing an arm around her shoulders turned her gently to face him.
Although she had seen how it was done on the cinema screen, and although the other girls in the hostel endlessly discussed what they referred to as ‘Hollywood style’, Victoria had never kissed a man. It was not part of Zulu custom or tradition. So she lifted her face to him with a mixture of trepidation and breathless expectation, and was amazed at the warmth and softness of his mouth. Swiftly the stiffness and tension went out of her neck and shoulders and she seemed to mould herself to him.
The work at Sundi Caves was even more interesting than Tara Courtney had expected it to be, and she adapted rapidly to the leisurely pace and life and intellectually stimulating companionship of the small specialist team of which she was now a part.
Tara shared a tent with two young students from the University of the Witwatersrand, and she found with mild surprise that the close proximity of other women in such spartan accommodation did not bother her. They were up long before dawn to escape the heat in the middle of the day, and after a quick and frugal breakfast Professor Hurst led them up to the site and allocated the day’s labours. They rested and ate the main meal at noon, and then as the day cooled they returned to the site and worked on until the light failed. After that they had only enough energy for a hot shower, a light meal and the narrow camp beds.
The site was in a deep kloof. The rocky sides dropped steeply two hundred feet to the narrow riverbed in the gut. The vegetation in the protected and sun-warmed valley was tropical, quite alien to that on the exposed grasslands that were scoured by wind and winter frosts. Tall candelabra aloes grew on the upper slopes, while further down it became even denser, and there were tree ferns and cycads, and huge strangler figs with bark like elephant hide, grey and wrinkled.
The caves themselves were a series of commodious open galleries that ran with the exposed strata. They were ideal for habitation by primitive man, located high up the slope and protected from the prevailing winds yet with a wide view out across the plain onto which the kloof debouched. They were close to water and readily defensible agai
nst all marauders, and the depth of the midden and accumulated detritus on the floor of the caves attested to the ages over which they had been occupied.
The roofs of the caves were darkened with the smoke of countless cooking fires and the inner walls were decorated with the engravings and childlike paintings of the ancient San peoples and their predecessors. All the signs of a major site with the presence of very early hominids were evident, and although the dig was still in its early stages and they had penetrated only the upper levels spirits and optimism were high and the whole feeling on the dig was of a close-knit community of persons bound by a common interest cooperating selflessly on a project of outstanding importance.
Tara particularly liked Marion Hurst, the American professor in charge of the excavations. She was a woman in her early fifties, with cropped grey hair, and a skin burned to the colour and consistency of saddle-leather by the suns of Arabia and Africa. They had become firm friends even before Tara discovered that she was married to a negro professor of anthropology at Cornell. That knowledge made their relationship secure, and relieved Tara of the necessity of any subterfuge.
One night she sat late with Marion in the shed they were using as a laboratory, and suddenly Tara found herself telling her about Moses Gama and her impossible love, even about the child she was carrying. The elder woman’s sympathy was immediate and sincere.
‘What iniquitous social order can keep people from loving others – of course, I knew all about these laws before I came here. That is why Tom stayed at home. Despite my personal feelings, the work here was just too important to pass up. However, you have my promise that I will do anything in my power to help the two of you.’
Yet Tara had been on the dig for five weeks without having heard from Moses Gama. She had written him a dozen letters and telephoned the Rivonia number, and the other number in Drake’s Farm township. Moses was never there, and never responded to her urgent messages.