People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  One farewell was particularly painful. Michael visited Wilson in the Zulu compound. ‘Any word from Dyson?’

  ‘Not yet, Nkosi. Not since he arrived in London. His letters have to go through others.’

  ‘I wish I knew he was all right. When you write to him, ask him to stay in touch.’

  ‘Can Miss Tessa receive visitors in a convent? Perhaps Dyson could see her there but I had heard that in these places you are not allowed to speak.’ Wilson frowned. ‘Forgive me, Nkosi, but sometimes your ways seem strange. What God would forbid his children to speak?’

  Michael leaned back against the tree under which they were sitting and shut his eyes. Strange ways indeed! To hell with this. ‘She’s not in a convent. That’s just a story we tell people to hide the truth.’ He told Wilson everything. ‘Funny,’ he mused with a half-smile when he’d finished, ‘I trust you with the truth but I cannot tell my own cousins.’

  ‘The Nkosi honours me with his words and the obligation they create shall not be treated lightly. None shall hear of it from me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We cannot always choose those we would trust but an honest man will feel in his heart when it is right and a wise man will speak at such times. I, too, would share a secret.’

  ‘It will go no further.’

  ‘The day is near when Inkatha will rise from the ashes of the Zulu nation. Chief Buthelezi is to be our leader. I have been asked to make the people of Kwa-Mashu ready.’

  ‘So that is why you go to the city. Be careful.’

  Wilson grunted, amused. ‘I wonder what the English woman, Pankhurst, would have said to such advice.’

  Michael smiled. ‘You make a good point. I confess my reasons are selfish. I respect your judgment in such matters but I repeat, take care.’

  Wilson did not respond to the warning. He said, ‘Some whites have indicated that they are ready to join us.’

  Michael heard the invitation and responded immediately. ‘If you are in trouble I will come at once. If you are arrested, Nandi and the children will be taken care of as if they were of my own family. If you, or someone dear to you, needs a safe haven you have no need to ask, it will be given with no questions. You know how I feel about the Zulus. I would dearly love to see an independent Zululand. But, Wilson, I will not join Inkatha.’

  ‘Nkosi, I think you just did!’

  Michael laughed, then grew serious. ‘You are going away from here. I too am leaving. The farm’s as good as sold. I feel as though I’m dancing with shadows. Sometimes I wish everything could stay the same.’

  ‘Only the good things, Nkosi. There is much evil to be undone too. The shadows you dance with are your past.’

  ‘You are right, of course. Pity though, isn’t it?’ He saw a question in Wilson’s eyes. ‘I mean, we cannot change without leaving a part of ourselves behind.’

  ‘When we put the cattle into new pasture, they grow fat.’

  Michael grinned. ‘Okay, you win, but remember this. A famous American writer once said, “When you get there, there often isn’t any there there”.’

  Wilson chuckled. ‘Now that is something I have to find out for myself.’

  ‘Somehow, Wilson, I find it hard to imagine you in a city.’

  ‘It is my destiny. The sangoma predicted it a long time ago. Now it is time.’

  Michael jumped to his feet, Wilson took a little longer.

  ‘Something wrong with your back, Wilson?’

  ‘Hau! It is nothing. I am too madala.’

  ‘You are certainly not an old man. I’ll give Nandi a note for the doctor.’ Michael looked around the compound. It had changed a great deal since the days he spent time there as a boy. Gone were the beehive huts. In their place, neat rows of brick cottages with flat tin roofs. The Zulus preferred them. They were weatherproof and the corrugated iron made an ideal spot for ripening pumpkins.

  Wilson followed his gaze. ‘In progress there is always sadness for that which could not keep up.’

  ‘The huts?’ Michael gave a rueful laugh. ‘I miss them.’

  ‘You did not have to live in them.’ Wilson shrugged. ‘But I miss them too.’

  ‘Listen to the two of us. We gossip like women. I have work to do. Have the cattle ready by ten tomorrow. The trucks will be here at lunchtime.’

  ‘All the cattle, Nkosi?’

  ‘Every last one. The new owner wants to grow bananas.’

  Wilson shook his head derisively. ‘Bananas! Can they give you milk? Can one banana feed a whole village? Can its skin keep you warm at night?’

  ‘You said it yourself, father of my friend. Progress always means losing something.’

  Michael and Jennifer drove Claire and Gregor to Johannesburg and saw them off at Jan Smuts airport. As his mother and brother disappeared into the Passengers Only section of the airport Michael felt sympathetic fingers squeeze his arm. Taking a deep breath he looked into the warm eyes of his new bride. She was the now and the future. ‘I love you,’ he said, husky with emotion.

  She leaned her head against his chest. ‘I love you too.’

  Hand in hand they left the airport and returned to the hotel where they’d all spent the night. Tomorrow they were driving to Bechuanaland and the start of a new life.

  THIRTEEN

  When Michael drove Tessa out of Bechuanaland, Dyson lost no time in making preparations to leave. Although technically a different country, the main centre of Gaberones was too close to the border with South Africa for his liking. The British government had never made any bones about its disapproval of apartheid and had steadfastly refused requests by Pretoria to allow the South Africans to administer the small British protectorate. But Dyson still felt vulnerable. Claiming refugee status, it wasn’t difficult to convince the British to give him a passport and the right of temporary abode in the United Kingdom.

  He made contact with a small cell of the African National Congress in Gaberones. They agreed with his decision to leave Africa. There had been recent kidnappings of ANC members in exile by the Security Police, raids made under cover of darkness where the unfortunate victim was either assassinated on the spot or smuggled back into South Africa to face interrogation, torture and life imprisonment. Dyson was a prime target for such an illegal strike. The South Africans would be desperate to get him back before he could reveal the truth of what was really going on in their country. Dyson was given the ANC’s London office address and a letter of introduction.

  Michael’s cheque was generous. Just over twice the amount he needed for the airfare. Dyson bought himself a few more clothes and a suitcase and reimbursed his aunt for the money she’d spent on him. He wrote a long letter to his parents and, to keep them safe, had his aunt address the envelope to Michael. In it, Dyson poured out his despair at leaving Africa and promised that one day he would return. He asked Dorcas Sobona to post it after he had left.

  Not taking any chances, Dyson flew Zambia Airlines from Gaberones to Lusaka, changed planes and went on to Blantyre in Nyasaland, then KLM to Nairobi and British Airways to London. Half expecting the heavy hand of authority to grab him each time he waited for the next leg of his journey, he nonetheless left the continent of Africa with a heavy heart.

  When he landed at Heathrow, Dyson might have been on a different planet. He had never felt more alien or alone. In all his dreams and expectations, not once did he imagine life beyond Africa was his destiny. While whites like Michael had historical connections with Europe which made touching base with places like London easy, Dyson had no such bond. Everything, from the weather to the people, was different, strange, even frightening. Standing at Heathrow, wondering what to do next, for one wild moment Dyson thought that the South African prison would be preferable to this.

  ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself, pushing away the self-pity that rushed him. Instinctively Dyson went directly to the Penton Street offices of the ANC in north London, needing to be in the company of fellow Africans. He expected to be welcomed with op
en arms. He thought they’d jump at the chance to talk to him. He longed to speak Zulu with someone.

  The receptionist was a Nigerian who had lived in London from the age of four and who spoke English with an East End accent. She asked Dyson to wait until someone could spare the time to talk to him. So he sat for two hours, watching people. From what he could see, the ANC was staffed by everybody under the sun except Zulus. And, observing them, they all appeared to have the time to speak to each other, make jokes, tell stories, but no-one had time for him.

  At first the bustle in the office intimidated him, he was acutely aware of his outsider’s status. But as the minutes ticked into one hour, and then two, Dyson became angry. So when a door opened and he was beckoned into an office by someone who was almost Arab in appearance and dress, Dyson was in a fighting mood.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Mpande. What can I do for you?’ The man’s accent confirmed Dyson’s first impression. He was north African, Sudanese most probably, a place thousands of kilometres from the troubled south.

  ‘So nice of you to see me.’ Dyson’s sarcasm was involuntary.

  The man ignored it and pointed to Dyson’s suitcase. ‘Just arrived?’

  ‘Yes. I came straight from the airport.’

  ‘Not a good idea bringing a suitcase in here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This is the ANC, Mr Mpande. Your case could contain a bomb.’

  ‘Check it out if you like.’

  ‘No need. We checked you out instead. That’s why you had to wait. Now, why are you here?’

  ‘I need work.’

  ‘Try British Rail.’

  This was too much. How dare this . . . Arab . . . who had nothing whatsoever to do with the freedom struggle in South Africa, how dare he sit there, smugly secure in a job he had no right to, and advise Dyson to try the British railway system for work. Dyson was aware that a door connecting the office to another had opened but he was too furious to care who heard him.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Before he could stop himself, he was relating all that had happened, from his arrest at the Umkhonto meeting, imprisonment, his escape and subsequent arrival in Bechuanaland. ‘I’ve paid my dues, which is probably more than you can say. I’ve been locked up, tortured and hunted like an animal.’ Dyson stood up. ‘If this is the best the ANC can offer you can stick it up your arse. Jesus!’ He bent to pick up his suitcase. Straightening, he said coldly, ‘It would appear that the brotherhood of Africans becomes weaker the moment it goes offshore. Do not bother to see me out, I’ll find my own way.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, Zulu.’

  Dyson stopped.

  ‘Have you any idea how many come to us for work?’

  ‘Us?’ Dyson turned back. ‘You are not us.’

  ‘Do not be too sure,’ a voice from the doorway said softly. ‘You said it yourself, the brotherhood of Africans.’

  Dyson turned to look at the speaker and realised with a shock that it was the Xhosa ex-lawyer, Oliver Tambo, who used to be a leading figure in the ANC in South Africa. When the State of Emergency had been called in 1960 after Sharpeville and Albert Lutuli and Nelson Mandela arrested, Tambo had managed to evade capture by escaping to Bechuanaland and from there to London. He now headed up the ANC’s London office.

  ‘Give him work,’ Tambo said suddenly. ‘God knows, he’s earned it.’ He disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

  Dyson started at the bottom, stuffing envelopes in the mailroom. There was a continuous stream of correspondence, information leaflets and letters asking for donations mainly, that poured from the offices each week. The volume was incredible. But, as it was explained to him, ignorance about South Africa had to be overcome and since they couldn’t afford large-scale advertising campaigns this was the next best way.

  At home, Dyson had believed that the entire world knew what was going on in South Africa. He was surprised, therefore, to discover that in Britain those disposed towards protest generally concentrated on nuclear disarmament. Human rights issues received very little support, either from the public or the media. Some people had heard of apartheid. Most associated it with sport. He was also shocked to discover that racism was not confined to white South Africans. Although rules did not exist to keep black and white apart, attitudes did.

  Because he learned quickly and was happy to put in the long hours required, and because his English was excellent, he was swiftly promoted to the department that lobbied for sanctions against South Africa. The work was diverse and interesting and became the focal point of his existence.

  Hasan Yaak, who had initially interviewed Dyson, was indeed Sudanese. He had fled Sudan in 1961, five years after the British and Egyptians pulled out and a civil war erupted between the Arab-dominated north and the African south. Hasan was the result of a liaison between his rich Arab father and well-connected African mother. He was perceived as a man with a leg in two distinctly different camps and was therefore earmarked for assassination. He accepted his exiled status philosophically and remained adamant that one day Sudan would settle down and he could return home. Dyson didn’t see much of Hasan except at the office but the earlier animosity he’d felt dissipated once the full extent of the horrors unfolding in Sudan became apparent. While Hasan was not affected by what was happening in South Africa his own experiences made him sympathetic towards the ANC, and he was using his considerable influence with wealthy Arab contacts for substantial donations.

  Dyson had a social life of sorts, mixing mainly with colleagues, most of whom were Xhosa. There was a kind of camaraderie between them where tribal differences were secondary to the fact that all of them were out of their normal habitat. But Dyson was not particularly happy. He missed Africa. Above all, he missed Zululand.

  He found a flat in Soho and, perhaps as a deliberate reflection of his feeling of not belonging, he kept it impersonal. What helped Dyson get through those first few months was the absolute certainty that one day he would return to Africa. He clung to that belief desperately. But, after several months, even that possibility seemed remote. The more he learned through his work with the ANC, the more he realised just how long and desperate the fight for equal rights would be.

  Winter coincided with this bitter realisation. Dark, cold days matched his mood. Rain, the lifeblood of Zululand, obscured any chance he might have had of learning to appreciate the more subtle beauty of England. When it rained at home the heavens overflowed and sang to the parched earth to the dramatic accompaniment of lightning and thunder. Here, the incessant soft drizzle simply made life more miserable than ever. The language jarred his ears. Once he’d believed that English was English. The myriad of accents in London was so diverse that each dialect might as well have been a different language.

  He had been in London for nearly five months when a letter arrived from his father giving him Tessa’s address and telephone number in London. The fact that he hadn’t liked her as a child, the shocking details of Tessa and Jackson’s disastrous relationship, his knowledge of what she now did for a living, none of it mattered. Dyson was delighted to have the chance to spend time in the company of someone who not only knew his land but spoke his language. He called her and suggested they meet for coffee.

  Tessa had been thrilled to hear from Dyson. Although she was happy in London she too missed Africa. True, her mother was now living just outside Hertford and she saw her often. Sally, who had settled just across the channel in France and was working for a fashion designer, was accessible. Gregor was in boarding school and she saw him occasionally. Still, she missed the open spaces, the colours, the smell and feel of her own land. Dyson represented home. He symbolised the cultural diversity that was unique to Africa. And while her childhood had not been a happy one, the chance to spend time with someone who had shared it, albeit indirectly, was a nostalgic journey she was eager to accept.

  Tessa was a changed person. For the first time in her life she did not feel out of step with everyone around her. The ch
ange did not occur overnight but, after five months, it was noticeable to all, including Tessa herself. At first she had found it difficult to accept that men paid money for her company, it was too close for comfort to her experience in the brothel in Gaberones. However, after a couple of weeks it became apparent that it was only her company men paid for, not sex. There was a subtle difference. Talking to the others she quickly realised that while Judith’s clients might hope that the evening end up in bed, whether it did or not was up to her. And that, she reasoned, was no different from all the other girls out there in London accepting dates.

  None of the girls realised that Judith kept in constant touch with Dr Greenberg and the clinic. This fact was kept secret for two reasons. First, Judith’s girls had a history of being difficult, outrageously and unacceptably unconventional or having the capacity to self-destruct. There wasn’t one of them in her establishment who hadn’t previously refused a self-help program. The other reason was that while Judith’s experiment was, in effect, self-help based, it was so radical that the clinic did not wish to be publicly identified with it. But, with Judith’s input, case histories were showing remarkably similar results, all of which were encouraging.

  The bottom line for Dr Greenberg was that the program seemed to be working. Girls were recovering and going on to lead normal lives. That in itself was enough for him. A bonus was the invaluable data he collected which might, one day, mean helping others through more conventional methods. That same bottom line for Judith was that the girls were safe. There were failures, of course, but these were far outweighed by the successful rehabilitation of many. As for the girls, they were happy and in the company of others who liked and approved of them. And, human nature being what it is, this encouraged them to like and approve of themselves. A simple philosophy, too simple for those who would devise complicated therapy; too radical for the do-gooders; too good to be true for the girls themselves.