Jennifer rolled towards him and put an arm over his chest. ‘If we miss out on the Umfolozi job why don’t you think about becoming more involved at a political level?’
‘It’s been on my mind for a while,’ Michael admitted. ‘How would you feel about such a change of lifestyle?’
‘I’d back you, of course. I love working out here but the boys can’t stay in the bush forever. In a couple of years, Jeremy will have to start school. It’s been on my mind too. I can always go into private practice.’
Michael placed a hand gently on his wife’s stomach. ‘How’s our daughter this evening?’
‘Coming along nicely.’
‘What if it’s another boy?’
She snuggled against him. ‘Then we’ll just have to try again.’
They were attuned to each other so finely that it was often possible for one of them to guess what the other was about to say. Michael discovered in himself a capacity for love so intense it sometimes frightened him. The past five years had flown. They had been on the project a little over a year when Jennifer fell pregnant. She worked right up until two weeks before the baby was due, then Michael had driven her south through hundreds of kilometres of mud and sand, crossing into South Africa at Tlokweng and arriving in Johannesburg four days after the trip began. Michael worried constantly about his wife going into labour on that long journey. He could not understand how she could be so calm. However, Jeremy Michael King, having consideration not normally associated with babies, arrived exactly on his due date, September 30, 1966, the same day that the British Protectorate of Bechuanaland became the independent Republic of Botswana.
Eighteen months later, Andrew Dyson King was born. And now, Jennifer found herself pregnant again and hoping for a daughter.
Michael knew it was time for change but, like the others, felt sorry that the project had to end. In spite of their differing backgrounds and personalities, they were all close. Sure, Terry sometimes needed to be steered back to the task in hand; Andre could be argumentative about politics and a downright pain in the arse over snakes; Emil had moments of deep depression over his wife’s death which were so intense no-one could break through to help him; Bruce often angered the South Africans with withering sarcasm about their country; and Bobby kept allowing young backpackers to lure him away. However, by and large, considering they were seven people who had been thrown together to live under fairly basic conditions for five years, the team had fared well.
Michael shook himself out of his reverie. He was as bad as Terry sometimes, allowing thoughts to divert him. ‘Rhino,’ he told himself. ‘The project may be nearly over but you’re still on the job.’
He’d come a long way in his knowledge of the rhinoceros. It was a gloomy day indeed when he finally had to confront the truth about them, that the black rhinoceros was demonstrably the most stupid animal in the African bush. All things wild were unpredictable, he knew that, but none was so hard to read as the black rhino. Michael doubted that the animal itself knew whether it would charge or run away. He had witnessed mindless attacks on countless occasions, once on his own vehicle that he’d left in the shade of an umbrella-like acacia. The rhino had blundered out of the bush, spotted the Land Rover and, with no hesitation, charged, opening up the driver’s side door as if it had been paper. Not satisfied, and in an awesome kind of blind rage, the animal pushed and shoved the vehicle until it lay on its side. Then, appearing to forget the incident altogether, the young female, no more than six years old, spent the next hour browsing peacefully on the nearby shrubbery.
Another time, one of the many narrow squeaks experienced by Emil, Michael had diverted what looked like impending disaster by throwing his leather jacket in front of a battle-scarred old bull as it gained, with deadly intent, on the fleeing Frenchman. The animal lost interest in Emil, could easily have veered towards Michael but didn’t and proceeded to kill the jacket. The last Michael saw of his favourite piece of clothing was its tattered remnants as the rhinoceros galloped away trying to free itself of the offending thing that had become impaled on sixty centimetres of rock-hard matted hair.
Michael had learned that the beast was unapologetically bad-tempered. The black rhino would kill for the hell of it, thrusting low with its horn, often between a victim’s legs, before tossing it high into the air. He’d seen the end result of one such attack, the pathetic remains of a little Barakwengo Bushman who had been efficiently emasculated and left to die. It was a twisting spiral of vultures that led him to the unfortunate man. Others of his clan were there already, keeping the scavengers at bay. Using sign language and the Bushman’s gift for mimicry, the fallen man’s companions explained that they had been hunting and that the rhino had boiled out of the bush, swung its great head and removed their friend’s appendages before continuing on its way.
Michael was not surprised. It was the rainy season and, for some reason, at that time of year the black rhinoceros always rubbed its horns against rocks or bark, sometimes changing the shape of them considerably and, without doubt, sharpening the points into a formidable weapon. Nobody was certain why they did this. Jennifer favoured the theory that in the humid build-up of rain, parasites attached themselves to the horns and rubbing was simply a way of removing them. Terry thought it might be a prelude to the mating season. Whatever the reason, it was just another example of how little they actually knew.
There was nothing predictable about the animal, with the notable exception of its insatiable curiosity. At the first hint of a foreign presence, man or beast, up would come its head. Circling and wary, sniffing for scent, the rhinoceros would investigate further. Using smell rather than sight, uBejane was not satisfied until the interloper had been located. It was at this point, with little or no provocation, that 1000 kilograms of prehistoric monster would either come at you like an express train or run like hell in the opposite direction. There was no way of knowing which to expect: no telltale twitching ears, no little flick of the tail. The only unanimous conclusion reached by Michael and the others was that once committed to a charge, the rhinoceros rarely changed its mind. Irascible, ugly, unpredictable, aggressive and incredibly stupid, the black rhinoceros seemed like a bad joke of nature. But Michael loved them for all that.
It was nearly full dark when he gathered up his camera, water bottle and notebook. The vehicle was a couple of hundred metres away. With the big bull in the vicinity, Michael felt it would be prudent to reach it while there was still some light. Ready to drop from the tree, he strained his eyes for one last glimpse of the animal. In that instant, the silence was torn apart by the deafening roar of an explosion. In the gloomy light, Michael saw an object rise high in the air and, almost in slow motion, turn lazily over before giving in to the forces of gravity. It landed close to the tree from which he had so nearly fallen. The bloody stump was barely recognisable as part of the rhinoceros’ leg.
His senses at full strength, Michael made it to the ground and froze, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The bush had gone quiet again but for the crackle of flames. A pall of smoke and dust billowed against the sun’s last rays. Michael knew exactly what had happened. The rhinoceros had stepped on a landmine, releasing 3000 degrees centigrade of concentrated inferno and blasting a crater beneath it almost a metre deep.
Jackson Mpande grunted in the sultry heat under the combined weight of his backpack and an AK-47 assault rifle. The sun had set but there had been a shower and the air was heavy with humidity. Somebody in front stumbled but quickly righted himself. Jackson nodded in approval. The men with him were well-trained professionals, capable of disregarding their own personal discomfort in order to get a job done. Sweat ran freely down his face but he ignored it. They had seven or eight kilometres to go before reaching Katima Mulilo and slipping back across the border into Zambia. Jackson knew the safe route like the back of his hand. The group had been laying mines along the Caprivi Strip for some months, in recent weeks making five trips deep into the western end.
/> Jackson had been a member of SWAPO for nearly five years. Based in Zambia, the aim of SWAPO was to create disruption in the only buffer between Angola and South Africa. The Marxists wanted South West but, more than that, they wanted its mineral-rich administrator. Laying mines in the Caprivi Strip was a way of spreading the already stretched defence resources of Pretoria. It was a niggle, nothing more.
After Jackson left Tessa in Gaberones, he had made his way north towards Zambia. He picked up occasional work but lived mainly on his wits. The people of Bechuanaland, the Batswana, seemed disinterested, even hostile, towards him. They were not impressed by his quest to join the freedom fighters. Their own country was on the brink of independence, a peaceful and bloodless achievement won by a handful of far-seeing and committed men. As far as most of the population were concerned, the problems afflicting neighbouring South Africa might just as well belong to another continent. Jackson grew frustrated by their apparent lack of understanding and this made him even more determined to play an active part in the liberation of all still held down by colonial oppression.
Somehow, in his mind, freedom throughout Africa was synonymous with the Zulu dream of their own independent country. Jackson believed one would follow the other. And achievement of both was reliant on the fall of white supremacy in South Africa.
He left Bechuanaland, crossing the remote Caprivi Strip and entering Zambia at Katima Mulilo. At some stage in history an international boundary had been drawn through this isolated village leaving most of it on the South West African side. Both Zambia and its southern neighbour were content to continue using the name and so, within five kilometres of each other, in two different countries, were two places called Katima Mulilo. Once into Zambia, Jackson felt more relaxed, making no secret of his intentions and openly asking directions to SWAPO training camps. Much to his astonishment no-one seemed to know of any. They were not hiding the truth from him, and it was clear they thought this young Zulu a little touched in the head if he believed that such places existed in Zambia. More often than not, he was advised to try Angola.
At Sesheke, just over the Zambezi River, Jackson asked one question too many and found himself in the back of a truck with five other men. The only difference was, they were free and armed while he sat handcuffed to a grille behind the driver’s cab. Demands about where they were taking him and why he was trussed like a chicken brought no response. It was as if they could not hear him. On the few occasions they conversed with each other their words were foreign, a different African tongue that Jackson could not understand.
After five hot, dusty and bumpy hours, the truck left the road to crash and groan its way through the bush for another forty-five minutes, finally stopping in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.
‘Out,’ one man said in English, unlocking the handcuffs.
Rubbing circulation into his wrists, Jackson clambered off the back.
‘Walk.’
He was placed third in line and they moved forward in single file, following no path that he could see. Twenty minutes later, three heavily armed men materialised from seemingly nowhere and a heated exchange of words took place. Although Jackson could not follow the conversation, it was clear they were discussing him, their voices loud with aggression. Finally, and with some reluctance, Jackson and his escorts were allowed to pass.
They reached the camp a few minutes later. It was not visible until they were almost on top of it. For such a large place it was very well camouflaged and, from the air, would have been almost impossible to see.
‘Wait.’
Three men stayed with him, the other two walked away. Jackson looked around with interest. Camouflaged tents had been erected under substantial stands of trees. While this screened the camp from above, on the ground it sprawled, with no apparent sense of order, in a rough semi-circle. Not one person could be seen on the open ground within the arc. No smoke rose from cooking fires. He heard no murmur of voices. Either the camp was deserted or discipline so tight that the men were trained to live in virtual silence.
Five minutes passed before he heard the sound of someone approaching. The three with him visibly stiffened their stances. Jackson too squared his shoulders and stood taller, anxious to make a good first impression. He was completely unprepared for the man who strode towards them. Tall and clearly very fit, broad shoulders, face lean from living rough, eyes hard and mouth set firm; all things Jackson expected. Except for one thing. Well, two things really. The man was white. And, as he got closer, Jackson could see something more startling. He wasn’t a man at all. Try as he might to prevent it, Jackson’s jaw dropped.
Cold blue eyes flicked over him briefly. ‘Come.’ Without acknowledging the others, she turned on her heel and strode away. Jackson followed.
She led him to an open tent slightly larger than the others. ‘Close the flap.’
Jackson undid two ties, releasing the canvas triangle. When he turned back she was leaning against a desk. ‘You are?’
‘Jackson Mpande.’
She made him nervous. He felt as though his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. She was wearing a faded green uniform and, when she removed her hat, he could not help but stare. Her hair had been cropped into a crewcut and, what was left of it – white or grey, he couldn’t tell – did little to hide the fact that her head was shaped like a bullet. She scratched to relieve the itch of dried sweat. ‘You ask too many questions.’ Her voice was hard, the accent difficult to understand.
Jackson found her repulsive. ‘I want to join you.’
‘Why?’ It came out flat, as though she couldn’t care less.
‘To free Africans from . . .’ He hesitated, wincing inwardly when she made no effort to hide cynical amusement.
‘Ha!’ she spat at him.
Stung, Jackson added, ‘In South Africa.’
‘So! It is not Angola that interests you?’ She smiled for the first time, revealing several gold teeth. ‘You are honest at least.’
Russian. She must be Russian. ‘My interests are no different from yours.’
She stared at him coldly. ‘Do not flatter yourself, Zulu. Our interests are worlds apart.’
Her eyes warned him. She was testing him somehow. ‘That may be so,’ he said sharply, hoping it was the correct response. ‘But in order to gain what we seek our methods are the same.’
Approval flared briefly in her pale blue eyes. ‘Good. Very good.’ She poured water from a jug on her desk and drank thirstily. She did not offer him any.
Jackson said nothing, sensing she was coming to a decision about him. Silence stretched between them, so deep that Jackson could hear it.
‘Go home, Zulu,’ she said suddenly. ‘You have your own quarrel.’
Jackson stood his ground. ‘My quarrel is linked to yours.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve had your people here before. They’re trouble.’
‘I won’t be,’ Jackson said quietly. ‘I can never go back.’
The woman moved behind her desk and sat down, indicating impatiently with a hand that he should do likewise. ‘I am Comrade Yelena. This is Base 37. Already you know enough to die. Answer my questions truthfully. Why do you come here?’
‘To join.’
‘Why?’
‘To free my people,’ he repeated.
‘Ha!’ she mocked him. ‘One Zulu. You have the dreams of a child.’
‘No,’ he disagreed. ‘I have the dreams of every Zulu. It is in my blood. I will die like the ancient warriors if I must. And like my ancestors, when this blood runs hot I must act. I am not a coward. I am not a troublemaker. I will do as I am ordered and do it as well as the next man. Even better than the next man.’
‘Or woman?’
He inclined his head. ‘If women are soldiers I will treat them as such.’
She ignored that. ‘You have old tribal enemies here.’
Jackson met her stare calmly. ‘Zulus do not harbour grudges. Yesterday’s enemies can be the friends o
f today. That is our way.’
‘Do your enemies feel the same?’
Jackson shrugged. ‘If they do not I will kill them.’
Her eyes narrowed.
Realising his mistake he went on quickly. ‘If a man runs from a snake and the snake runs from the man then the killing ground remains empty.’
Comrade Yelena permitted a small smile to escape, but only for a fleeting moment. ‘You say you cannot go back. What do you run from?’
‘The police.’
‘You killed someone?’
‘No.’
She stared him down and Jackson relented. ‘I got a white girl pregnant. We ran away.’
For the first time he felt he had impressed her.
‘So,’ she said softly. ‘You have balls. I like that.’
He was not sure if she was referring to his sexuality or his courage.
Abruptly, she threw her head back and laughed, gold teeth glinting. Then, standing, she put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Immediately, the tent flap was flung back and a massive shape appeared in silhouette, an AK-47 held in one hand pointed unwaveringly at Jackson’s stomach.
Comrade Yelena shook her head impatiently. ‘This Zulu is Comrade Jackson. He is joining us. Find him somewhere to sleep. His training starts tomorrow. And watch your shoes, comrade, he could be standing in them tomorrow.’
The man was no Zulu. His features were vaguely European, yet the skin over them was jet black. Comrade Yelena had effectively and deliberately created a potential enemy. His second test. Jackson wondered why. However, he was more than a match for this scrawny white woman. Smiling at the tall African he commented quietly in English, ‘The shoes of the father is no place for the child until he has worn out as many pairs.’
People of Heaven Page 35