“They knew you were there?”
“That’s where they found us. I didn’t know what was happening at first. One of them came over and called Ndasauka out. After a few minutes, another one came in, looking for nothing in particular. When Ndasauka didn’t come back after fifteen minutes, I went out to investigate. I found him in handcuffs.”
“You mean they handcuffed him right outside the club?”
“It created quite a sensation. There was a small crowd when I went out. I followed the police van to the office. There was another crowd as they took him up to his office.”
“Still in handcuffs?”
“Yes. Another contingent was already in the office going through his papers. I learned this from the secretary.”
“How did she take it?”
“Scared. So gray she looked almost white. She couldn’t type, read, crochet, or phone. I understand they threatened to arrest her, too, if she so much as moved from her chair.”
“What were they looking for?”
“Search me.”
“It comes back to what you know about all this. If you don’t know, and his colleagues don’t either, who is there to tell us what is happeningl”
“The police.”
I nearly exploded, the car swerved, and I hastily righted it again.
I felt cheated out of something in life and frustrated by the tantalizing thought that perhaps beneath it all there was really nothing at all to discover. Perhaps the police did not even know what they were looking for. Maybe they only had Ndasauka on suspicion, pending further investigations. If that was the case, Ndasauka would be in for a long, long time. He might not ever come out.
The normal detention orders operated for twenty-eight days without formal charges. After that period, formal charges had to be filed, a statement issued, or the detainee released. The Republic of Mandania, however, operated neither with normal detention procedures nor with formal charges. A decade or so before, the country had gone through a spate of detentions of several highly placed persons in the civil service, the armed forces, and the university. All were supposedly suspected of planning a coup. Although five years later most of the detainees had been released, some members of that group were still rotting in the numerous camps dotted around the country.
“Are we going back to the seventies?” was the question everyone asked as soon as Ndasauka was taken, and it was rumored—but never verified—that other members of the citizenry had also been or were about to be detained.
“When the police behave like that, it means they have reached the final act,” someone who had lived through the terrors of the seventies said, meaning that the swoop was too dramatic and public to be followed by others of a similar nature.
In the seventies, enough terror had been generated for you to distrust even your closest relative and neighbor, for fear they might turn out to be one of the numerous informers in the pay of the police. People had disappeared into detention, demise, or exile. The whole period was shrouded in such a terrifying cloak of mystery the media never covered it, no one talked about it in public, social places were emptied because it was safer to retire to your home after work. However, even within the safety of your home, you feared your servant, even your wife and children, and dreaded a knock at the door, lest it should be your turn to be taken.
3
“Don’t get involved in this.”
It was the parish priest. He had gone to visit Ndasauka’s family and then dropped in to see me.
“How can I get involved in something I don’t know anything about?”
I was exasperated. Why was everyone implicating me in the whole thing? The first hint that people thought I would be the next one to go was the surprised faces I met at work the day after Ndasauka was taken.
“When did they let you out?” the secretary had asked me.
“Who? What?”
“People said you were also taken yesterday. Someone saw the flashing lights of a police van in your drive at seven o’clock last night.”
“It’s a long drive and the driver might have been reversing.”
“But what was it doing there, of all places, and at that hour?”
I could never figure out the answer to that one. Nor to the next, which I got from a colleague at coffee time the same day. “Someone told me you were taken for at least a few hours, if not the whole of last night.”
“Who’s spreading all these rumors?” I exploded. “I was at home and in bed the whole of last night. Why don’t people ask me or my wife or my children before jumping to conclusions based on non-evidence? I know I went to Ndasauka’s office after I’d heard what had happened to him. I saw the police there. I know I went to his house when I didn’t find him at the office. I found the police and Ndasauka there. I was there to see him finally bundled into the police Land Rover to be heard of no more. But that was all I did.”
It had not been all I did, though. I’d arrived at Ndasauka’s home just as he was writing postdated checks to give to his children—his wife was away in the capital on a six-month course. I paced up and down outside, not knowing whether or not I could go in to speak to him, or, in fact, what I would say to him if I could.
The police crowded him out of the house.
“You must take me, too!” Ndasauka’s seventy-year-old mother cried as she tottered on crutches, following the group outside. It was the only clear sign of emotion that was expressed by any member of the family. I do not think the children fully understood what was happening, the oldest being only thirteen.
“Don’t worry, Mother, he’ll come back soon,” one of the plainclothesmen said unconvincingly as they went over to the Land Rover parked just beyond the garage. Another police wagon was next to it. So many cars and officers for just one man.
“Excuse me,” I introduced myself. “I’m a friend of Ndasauka’s and I would like to know what’s happening.”
“Orders from the government: We are to take him to the capital.”
“Where in the capital?” It was an automatic question.
“We can’t say.”
“But I have to tell his wife where he’s being taken.”
“You can’t do that. You must not discuss with anyone what has happened today, until you hear from us.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“But these kids will be alone all night with their old grandmother if his wife is not informed immediately. Who’s going to look after them tonight?”
“I’m sorry, those are our instructions.”
“Can I talk to Ndasauka?”
“Of course.”
I went over to him.
“Look,” I whispered, although the police could hear me, “do you know what this is all about?”
“All I know,” he said loudly, “is that I’m being taken to the capital on government orders.”
“What would you like me to do?”
He looked at his mute children. I thought someone would burst into tears.
He cleared his throat. “Look after the kids.” He straightened up.
I watched him walk to the police car, flanked by the Special Branch men. They climbed in the back door of the Land Rover, putting him in the middle. The wagon followed. No sirens. No tears. That was the last we saw of him.
“Pirira is arriving by the trailer tonight.” The parish priest brought me back to the present.
“She knows?”
“Of course. Could you pick her up? I have a meeting with the bishop, and it threatens to be a long one.”
“That’s all right. I’ll meet her.”
And so began the longest night in my life. The “trailer,” as the latenight bus was called, was aptly nicknamed. It took the whole night to reach Mtalika from the capital, when other buses took no more than three hours. I had not known these details before and had gone to the bus station at nine o’clock to check on Ndasauka’s wife. They told me the bus would arrive at eleven. At eleven, it stil
l did not appear. Nor at one.
I parked by one of the shops with lighted fronts near the bus station and tried to sleep in the car. At three, another car came and parked behind mine. I raised a sleepy head.
The other man recognized me. “You’re not waiting for the trailer, are you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re too early. It won’t be here till four-thirty or later.”
“But why didn’t they tell me that before, so I could sleep at home?”
“They didn’t know, either. It’s quite erratic.”
“Surely they could have phoned?”
“Once it has left the capital, it stops to drop or pick up any mail or passengers at every single trading center. It’s useless to try to keep track of it. Those who know about its unpredictability wait until dawn before venturing to meet it.”
I looked at my watch: three-fifteen. If I went home, I would probably sleep until midday. I decided to stay where I was.
The trailer groaned to a halt at four-thirty, dragging the mail van, from whence its nickname. I walked across the lot.
“Pirira,” I greeted Ndasauka’s wife. It was painful to try to smile.
“What happened?” She sobbed. She looked as if she had been crying all the way and was on the verge of collapse.
“The car is over there.”
I got her bag and walked briskly. She had to trot after me.
“It’s like this,” I said as I drove off. “We really don’t know what’s happening.”
It was no consolation. I let her get what was left out of her system and drove in silence all the way to her house.
“Mommy!” was the delighted cry of the youngest boy as he rushed out to my car. The joy of seeing his mother and the reason for her being there were irreconcilable.
“I’ll be in touch.” I hastily drove off.
“I’m sorry to get you involved like this,” the parish priest had continued. “You’re a fellow writer and a friend of his. You should check your travel documents.”
4
I turned into the side road leading up to the police camp and stopped at the barrier just inside the iron gates. There was a flurry of activity in the little hut on the side of the road. Two armed men emerged.
One marched purposefully toward the car. “Name and address?”
He leaned through the open window, surveyed me and the interior of the car. He paused by my left hand, which was still holding the gearshift. I ignored the bayonet waving half a foot away from my throat and supplied the information.
“Can we help you?”
I mentioned my desire to visit one of the top-ranking officers.
“Just a moment, sir.” He marched back to the hut. I could see him phoning.
I wondered why there were roadblocks manned by heavily armed police at several points on either side of Mtalika town. It seemed as if Mandania was in a perpetual state of siege or under curfew. As far as I knew, the nearest war was across the border, and it had nothing to do with us.
“Just obeying orders, sir.” The man came back. “I have to ask his permission to let you through.”
I shrugged and asked for directions. The barrier was lifted, I drove past slowly, and waved back at the mock salute I was given by the other man.
“Alekeni! Long time no see!”
The officer, in civilian clothes, pumped my hand with exaggerated enthusiasm, as I got out of the car. “Come in.”
I didn’t know if my mission could be discussed in the house with so many children milling around. “Thank you!” I said all the same.
The sitting room was filled with enough furniture for two houses. He waved me to a sumptuous chair, into which I sank up to my waist. I bobbed up again and sat forward on the edge of the seat.
“This is Alekeni, my old schoolmate.” He introduced me to a parade of sons and daughters, who detached themselves from various corners and rooms and advanced an arm and a shy smile. They filed back to their occupations afterwards like a small regiment.
Brief pause.
I decided to plunge straight into the purpose of my visit.
He jerked forward. “Yes.” He spoke rapidly. “Ndasauka. I heard about it. Routine, of course. I’m kept informed of what is happening.”
“The problem is,” I continued, “that we don’t know what is happening and we are really worried about it. It’s a week now, and there’s no news of his whereabouts or even the reasons for his being taken in.”
“But why come to me?” He was very agitated. “It’s not really my department.”
“For the simple reason that we were at school together, we were friends. His wife also said you go to the same church. She, in fact, is the one who suggested I should come to see you.”
“You realize this is a delicate matter?”
“But we don’t know anything.”
“I’m telling you it’s a delicate matter. If anyone knew you came to see me about it, I would be in trouble.”
“Surely you can mention at least to his wife the nature of the suspicions or the speculations as to why he was taken?”
“It’s too sensitive.”
“I take it it’s not a criminal charge, then.”
“In his case, it wouldn’t be that.”
“It’s political, then?”
“Look, I only got to know about it as a matter of routine. I didn’t inquire further into the details, although I saw his name on the list.”
“There are others involved, too?”
“Yes, and I trust you appreciate the fact that I can’t just lift the phone and call the Special Branch?”
“I do, but surely on the list there was some explanation why the people had to be taken?”
“That’s why I’m saying it’s too delicate to discuss with you at the moment. Give me a few days and perhaps I can let you know what can be safely told.
“When can I get in touch with you again?”
“I’ll get in touch with you.”
When we parted, I had a strong suspicion he would not contact me again and that I had lost an old school friend forever. As I drove out past the armed guards, I wondered if the country hadn’t been in a state of emergency all along and I hadn’t known. It was too delicate to announce publicly, and so, too, would it be when the next one was taken.
—1996
Sindiwe Magona
(BORN 1943) SOUTH AFRICA
Born in the Transkei (a former South African homeland), Sindiwe Magona grew up in Cape Town’s black townships. She attended the University of London from 1971 to 1973, eventually earning her B.A. in psychology and history from the University of South Africa in Pretoria. Graduate work took her to Columbia University from 1981 to 1983, where she earned a Master of Science in Organizational Social Work, with a minor in Business Administration. In 1992, she was awarded an Honorary Doctorate in Humane Letters from Hartwick College in Oneonta, New York.
Magona began her writing career with a two-part biography: To My Children’s Children (1990) and Forced to Grow (1992). During 1993 and 1994, she translated the former into Xhosa and wrote Imida (1995), a book of essays, also in Xhosa. Her two collections of short stories—Living, Loving and Lying Awake at Night (1991) and Push-Push! and Other Stories (1996)—have been widely praised and reprinted. Her current writing includes a one-woman play, I Promised Myself a Fabulous Middle Age, and a forthcoming novel, Perhaps I Do Not Die in Vain.
Magona is active in the South African literary scene, giving frequent lectures and readings as well as participating in the Weekly Mail and the Guardian Book Week annual literary events. She lives in New York City, where she works for the United Nations.
The author says about “I’m Not Talking About That, Now”: “In this story, an ordinary family living in one of South African townships takes center stage during the post-1976 political upheavals in that country … . My aim was to show how the political impinged on the personal; people’s lives were affected in ways they had perhaps never imagined; the herois
m of the day, which we hear a lot about, had another face—beastly behavior from men, women, and people so young we still referred to them as ‘children’ —all people who, in another time, would not have known they could be capable of such. Someone refusing to take a wounded neighbor to the doctor? A father refusing to take action so that he could go and bury his own child? Singing and dancing over the writhing, flaming body of a victim of an attack who’d been deliberately set alight?
“Yet most, if not all, of the actors in the South African drama were ordinary people, not know for thuggery before they did what they did. I suppose you could say I’m grappling with the transmogrifying power of a certain type of event. Understanding that, perhaps, might we come to judge less harshly? Or not judge at all? I really don’t know. Like a lot of other people, I’m just trying to understand what really happened to the gentle, humane, kindly people of my childhood. Could they be the same as these that people the stories that come out of the South Africa of the last thirty years? I am mourning the lost innocence of families where the husband’s snoring was a major disturbing event, the wife’s industriousness, or lack thereof, a calamity.”
I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT, NOW
Mamvulane lay very still, her eyes wide open, staring unseeingly into nowhere. She listened to her husband snore softly beside her.
A big bold orange band lay on the carpet—painted there by the strong dawn light pouring through the bright orange-curtained window.
Reluctantly, she focused her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She glanced at the alarm clock on the dressing table. God, it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. How was she going to survive this day? she asked herself. Her right eye felt as though someone was poking a red-hot iron rod into it from the back of her head, where he’d first drilled a hole.
Irritatedly, she pushed her husband onto his side. Immediately, the snoring stopped. She listened to the drilling inside her head, assuming that with the noise of Mdlangathi’s snoring gone, the pain would subside. And, indeed, it did appear to be in abeyance if not completely vanished.
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