People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  Wilson knew the porter spoke the truth but he would not give in. ‘It is not against the law.’

  ‘No,’ the Xhosa agreed, ‘but it soon will be.’ With that prediction hanging between them, the porter left the carriage.

  Wilson shook his head. Injustice heaped on top of injustice. ‘Will it ever end?’ he wondered bitterly. It seemed to him that the Zulus had nothing left to give. Then he shook his head again. ‘The whites took our land but they will never take our dignity.’

  A Zulu did not hold a grudge against an old enemy and so, when the call to arms rang out, many Zulus offered to fight on the side of the British. That they had fought each other a century earlier was irrelevant. But what the Africans had not been told was that the white South Africans had no intention of actually arming their black units. The Zulus had been signed up for the sole purpose of looking after the needs of their fellow countrymen. For this service, they were rewarded with the gift of a bicycle and a greatcoat or blanket.

  Wilson was one of only a handful of Zulus who had been accepted for active duty. He was sent to North Africa with the First South African Division. There, together with the Ninth Australian, the Fifty-first Hungarian, the Second New Zealand and the Fourth Indian Divisions, the South Africans were part of 30 Corps which played such a decisive role in what became known as the battle of Alamein. Alongside 10 and 13 Corps and various extra formations, 30 Corps were involved in Field-Marshal Montgomery’s successful plotting and execution of a break in Rommel’s lines. Wilson had been in the thick of the fierce fighting which took place between October 23 and November 4, 1942.

  Wilson still remembered the stirring words spoken by the Army Commander. Words worthy of any Zulu chief to his warriors before battle:

  ‘When I assumed command of the Eighth Army I said that the mandate was to destroy Rommel and his army, and that it would be done as soon as we were ready.

  We are ready now.

  The battle which is now about to begin will be one of the decisive battles of history. It will be the turning point of the war. The eyes of the whole world will be on us, watching anxiously which way the battle will swing.

  We can give them their answer at once. It will swing our way.’

  And the rousing punchline.

  ‘And let no man surrender so long as he is unwounded and can fight.’

  It was rhetoric Wilson understood and responded to with the fiery blood of his ancestors singing in his veins. Now he was home, decorated, a hero, a man who had risked his own life for that of a white man, and he was being told he was not good enough to sit in the same carriage. What really rankled was that this attitude was held by a black man as well.

  Walking to his compartment Wilson had noticed that the only other occupant of the carriage was a white man dressed in the uniform of a British airman. Had a rough time of it too from the look of him. As he passed the compartment where the white man slumped, Wilson had been ready for confrontation but none was forthcoming. The white man had frowned at him, then looked away.

  As the train pulled out of the station, Wilson forgot the white man. He forgot the ticket clerk’s words and those of the porter. His anger was directed at none of them. It was an anger with himself and his own people. He realised now that he had been used, coldly and dispassionately. He had been nothing more than a means to an end. That he had endured five years of separation from his wife, Nandi, who had been pregnant with their second child when he left to fight; that he had been wounded in North Africa and then, a few months later, nearly killed in an attempt to rescue a white captain pinned down by heavy fire; that he’d received word that his second child had been stillborn; none of this mattered to those who had ordered him to join up. ‘In the coming years,’ they had told him, ‘we will need men like you. Men who know how the white man thinks.’

  And so Wilson had joined up fighting side by side with white South Africans. He was good enough to die for his country, just not good enough to eat, sleep and relax with his countrymen. As soon as the novelty of his presence wore off, even those who claimed to be liberal thinkers generally left him to his own company. Which didn’t help him much since he was there to learn how the white man thought – some harebrained scheme of the African National Congress.

  Did he now understand the white mind? He did not. No more than a white person could ever know how a black man thought. It was a game of guile they played with each other. Thrust and parry. Thrust a thought and parry back another. Neither of them a complete answer. Just enough truth to keep the deceit alive. A game of semantics. A game threaded with mistrust. A game that had its roots in past treachery and greed that had forced such a wedge between blacks and whites that Wilson doubted it could ever be removed.

  He’d come closest to an understanding when he got drunk with the captain he had saved. ‘What you did was incredibly brave,’ the captain acknowledged.

  ‘Zulus are brave,’ Wilson replied matter-of-factly. ‘They can’t help themselves.’

  The captain had smiled. ‘Thank God,’ he said quietly. Then added seriously, ‘I would not have done that for you.’

  ‘I know,’ Wilson said.

  Their eyes locked and, at that moment, both men knew they had breached the normal barrier of truth. Both of them retreated instantly to safer ground – ground that was both familiar and comfortable.

  Wilson expected that the fight against oppression in South Africa would have made progress while so many of the country’s white men had been off fighting for king and country and many more, who were considered to hold sympathies with Germany, had been incarcerated in camps. But the struggle had, in fact, gone backwards. And that was what made him angry. It filled him with a frustration that was crushing in its intensity, weighing him down with a sense of helpless futility.

  He had been back in South Africa for three months but, in all that time, he had not been allowed to travel north to see Nandi and his son. As a member of the African National Congress, as a man the ANC considered to be potentially powerful within their cause, the uncertainty of the times meant that Wilson was required to be on hand. They refused his numerous requests to go home, even for a couple of days. Jan Smuts, they told him, was about to be ousted. In his place, lined up and anxious to put into practice their fervent Afrikaner racial purity beliefs, was a plethora of Nationalists determined to raise a defeated people from the ashes of shame.

  Wilson knew a little of the Afrikaners’ grievances. He knew they harboured a fierce resentment of Britain’s attempt to colonise South Africa. He also knew they feared being overwhelmed by an African majority which they believed to be inferior in the eyes of God. Slowly and quietly, the Afrikaner culture had gathered momentum. Inspired by Hitler’s National Socialism, the idea of racial purity seemed like an ideal method of dealing with the majority of the population.

  Like so many radical changes, the movement which started slowly began to escalate until it gained a life of its own and became unstoppable. The speed with which Afrikaner nationalism took control caught the ANC on the hop. They had been lulled by the fact that Jan Smuts, and his United Party, had at least been willing to listen to the African point of view.

  Wilson had quickly realised that the ANC had become impotent. The original ideals of putting tribalism and racism to one side for the good of all people had broken down into a mishmash of petty tribal hatred, ineffectual leadership and a lack of any clear policy or direction. Dispirited and disgusted, Wilson resigned from the ANC.

  With a conscious effort, Wilson controlled his anger. He was going home. Home to Nandi, home to Dyson, the son he had not seen in five years, a son who was a baby of two when he left. His face softened. My son! There would be more, many more. And girls too. A man needed daughters to help care for the men of the family and bring a bride price of many cattle. He was going home in uniform because he was proud of his medal. And why shouldn’t he be? He had acquitted himself well and he was returning, like the warriors of old, in triumph.

  How would
Dyson look? Like Wilson, not tall but powerfully built, with skin the colour of polished mahogany, a high bridged nose and strong cheekbones giving his face a hawk-like arrogance? Or would he take after his mother – short, a vision of burnished gold, skin that felt like the soft feathers of a bird and smelled of winds which blew in from the sea? Would his son have Nandi’s small nose and wide mouth?

  Thinking about Nandi, Wilson was uncomfortably aware that he had an erection. It had been such a long time since he had lain with a woman.

  Nandi. The sweet one. Her name, when he learned it, told Wilson she was high born. The Nandi after whom she had been called had been the mother of Shaka, first king of the Zulus and the man responsible for uniting all the clans into one great nation. Wilson himself carried the royal name of Mpande, third king of the Zulus and a half-brother to Shaka. When he learned her name, Wilson had spent some time worrying that he and Nandi would be forbidden to marry. But, though her family had ancient royal connections, they were of a different clan and too removed from Wilson’s to cause problems.

  He remembered when he first saw her, how he knew instantly that she was the one for him. Her short hair and the simple beaded headband she wore told him she was unmarried and did not belong to his own clan. If she noticed Wilson, she gave no indication. She was in the company of others, collecting water from the river and Wilson, who was visiting her village to pay his respects to an uncle, returned to his own home immediately and enlisted the aid of his sisters.

  ‘Her name is Nandi,’ they reported back.’ She is not interested. She calls you a dog.’

  Wilson had been encouraged. Nandi would not have insulted him, not even have given her name if she were not interested. ‘Go and speak with her again.’

  Nandi played hard to get for three agonising months. Wilson had to move slowly and with infinite care through the human minefield that were her sisters and peer group. Before he could concentrate on Nandi, he had to convince these others that he would make a good husband. He spent a great deal of time with them, chatting, laughing, entertaining them, with Nandi always present but never taking part. Then, one day his sisters told him,’ We have spoken with Nandi’s sisters. They say she might be interested.’

  A meeting between Nandi and Wilson was arranged. Her entire peer group were with her as usual. Wilson arrived alone, wearing an otter skin headband, and a new leather belt with strips of hide hanging down the front and back. This meeting was different from any that had gone before. This time, her relations directed a series of explicit questions at him. Would he beat his wife? Only if she were lazy or disobedient. Would he lie with his wife often and would she be his number one wife? He would lie with her as often as she would allow and she would be his favourite. Would he prepare for her a fine thatched home of which she could be proud? He would prepare for her the finest home he could. On and on the questions came. Nandi sat facing away from him, apparently oblivious of his answers. But she was listening avidly. Wilson could tell from the tense way she held her shoulders.

  At last, the group fell silent. The moment had arrived when Wilson would know his fate. She made him wait. Wilson could still recall the feelings of dread and excitement which churned together in his stomach. The tension within the small group was electric as they all waited for Nandi’s response. She stirred, rose slowly and stood, with her back to him, for a long moment before turning to face him. Wilson’s heart had beaten wildly when he saw the betrothal beads in her hands. When she placed them over his head he tried to look deeply into her eyes. But Nandi, with fetching modesty, would not meet his gaze.

  Wilson returned home and raised the white flag outside his home to let everyone know that he would soon be taking a wife. Feeling worldly and important, he visited Nandi’s home the next day to begin the courting process. Her brothers were waiting for him, as he knew they would be, and they thrashed him soundly and chased him away. For three more weeks, each time he visited Nandi she would refuse to see him, refuse to go with him to his home and her brothers would chase him away. After that first visit Wilson never let them catch him again. Love lent adrenalin to his legs and he would go whooping and leaping back to his own village, strong and fast, keeping well out of the way of their sticks.

  It was all part of the game, Wilson knew that. He could not rush the process but waited impatiently for the day when, with the assistance of his brothers, they abducted Nandi and bore her away to be locked in his mother’s hut. Nandi wailed and screamed and moaned until Wilson’s mother went to his father and told him, ‘Our son has done a bad thing. You must go to Nandi’s home and put this thing right.’

  Wilson’s father had bemoaned his son’s rashness for abducting Nandi and complained that, since he had done this bad thing, he would have to pay one extra cow to her family as part of the bride price. There followed more delay while his father calculated the lobola, a delicate balancing act that had to take into account the importance of Nandi’s family, the status of Wilson’s, while at the same time satisfying both sides that a good deal had been struck. Offering too little would be an insult, too much may lead Nandi’s family into thinking there was something wrong with Wilson.

  While Wilson’s father was procrastinating, Nandi’s family sent a contingent of young men to release her and return her home. Wilson’s brothers were waiting for them and, although outnumbered, put up a good fight with their sticks. Again, caution was required. Dignity had to be maintained on both sides which required great skill and discipline. Some minor injuries would be tolerated but a split skull could cause a major rift between the two families. Likewise, if one side felt the other to be holding back.

  While Wilson chomped with impatience, negotiations over the bride price and attempts to make peace between Wilson’s brothers and Nandi’s were taken over by both their parents. Then, at last, came the wonderful day when everyone agreed that a marriage between Wilson and Nandi was a good thing, when she came willingly to his kraal bearing her clay pots and sleeping blankets, followed by her sisters and peer group. At the wedding feast, Nandi’s pots were ceremoniously broken to cut the links with her own family.

  The wedding ceremony lasted three days. Nandi spent most of the time sitting in Wilson’s hut, her face covered by a special beaded fringe as a mark of respect for Wilson and the male members of his family. The guests drank beer, ate all manner of specially prepared food, played music and danced.

  On the third night, after everybody had departed, Wilson joined Nandi in his hut. She fought him like a wildcat. Disgruntled and dissatisfied, Wilson complained to his father the next morning. ‘Now I see her closely, she has the scars of cuts on her chest. She must have had an illness. We have been robbed by her parents. You must go and claim one cow back.’

  Negotiations over Nandi and the bride price went on for several more weeks. In all that time, she refused to lie with him. Outwardly, Wilson became bad-tempered with frustration. His own peer group teased him unmercifully. Wilson was, in truth, having a wonderful time. He was very proud of his young bride. As much as he wanted to lie with her, he would have been shocked if she had behaved in any other way. Every night he would go to her sleeping mat. Every night he would leave it again, ranting and raving that he and his family had been cheated.

  In the end, Nandi’s family returned one cow. It was the signal from them to their daughter that she should allow her husband to bed her. When she came to him that night, shivering and trembling with both fear and need, and when at last he found sweet relief, he held her close and told her how much he loved her. They did not kiss; the mouth was for eating – to lick someone else’s was a dirty habit. But he held her and whispered how proud he was of her and he mounted her again and took her gently and with great care so she would know he would always look after her well.

  Wilson came out of his reverie with a grunt. Soon he would be able to hold her again.

  The white man went past his compartment towards the toilet. He was painfully thin and walked along the passage with the gai
t of a man who had recently known great pain. He held his body hunched forward, one arm pressed tightly to his side, as though it hurt to move it. Wilson thought he must have been injured in battle.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Joe King surprised himself as much as he did Wilson with his question. Joe had intended to return to his seat but, at the last moment, the thought of being alone with his memories was too much. That, and the fact that his whisky was finished. This black man was better than nothing. Besides, the decorations intrigued him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me to leave this carriage?’

  Joe took the question seriously. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Wilson removed his feet from the seat opposite and Joe sat down. He looked across at the Zulu who stared straight back. Suddenly, Joe was glad to be home. This black man who met his gaze with all the proud dignity of Zulu tradition made Joe realise just how much he had missed his country. Africa was alive with difference. This man was a part of it. Despite the uniform, his eyes shone out of a hawk-like face with . . . with . . . Joe struggled to think of the right word . . . with Zulu. That was it. Pure Zulu. There wasn’t another race like them in the world. ‘I take it you were in the Western Desert. Did you see much action?’

  ‘More than I would have liked.’

  The man’s English was excellent. ‘What made you join up?’

  It was a good question. Not many blacks had. Wilson had been asked many times and had devised an answer to satisfy the curiosity of the white man by talking about his belief that blacks and whites should pull together and if that included going to war, so be it. Now he was sick of the lie. ‘To see as many white men die as possible.’

  To Wilson’s surprise, Joe King threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a strangely hollow sound. ‘A kaffir with a sense of humour,’ he said loudly. ‘That’s good.’