Mother to Mother

  ONE SETTLER, ONE BULLET!

  AMABHULU AZIZINJA!

  WITH OUR MATCH BOXES, WE SHALL FREE OURSELVES!

  ‘Tsaa-ah! Go for it!’ We set the dog on. ‘Tsa-aah!’ It knows what to do, go after the target and grab it by the throat. There is no danger to ourselves. It is the dog we send out that is at risk. It is the dog that takes the risk, that could get hurt. Or killed. Or jailed.

  Shame and anger fill me day and night. Shame at what my son has done. Anger at what has been done to him. I am angry at all the grown-ups who made my son believe he would be a hero, fighting for the nation, were he to do the things he heard them advocate, the deeds they praised. If anyone killed your daughter, some of the leaders who today speak words of consolation to you . . . mark my words . . . they, as surely as my son, are your daughter’s murderers. And, in many ways, they’re guiltier than my son. They knew, or should have known, better. They were adults. They were learned. They had key to reason.

  Mother of the Slain, you whose heart is torn, know this:

  I have not slept since. Food turns to sawdust in my mouth. All joy has fled my house and my heart bleeds, it sorrows for you, for the pain into which you have been plunged. It is heavy and knows no rest.

  Other children throw stones at my children. They point indicting fingers at them. I am a leper in my community.

  But, even as these voices of concern are raised, calling for what we have not had in the townships for years and years and years, the same winds that gouged dongas in my son’s soul are still blowing . . . blowing ever strong. There are three- and four-year-olds as well as older children, roaming the streets of Guguletu with nothing to do all day long. Those children, as true as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west - those young people are walking the same road my son walked.

  Does anyone see this? Do their mothers see this? Did I see it? Was I ever scared that it mattered not, on any day, whether my son got out of bed or not?

  And the police. How can they tell, with absolute certainty, which of those knives that rained on your poor child killed her? How can they tell which hand held which knife, even? They readily admit many fell upon her. Many. How then are they able to tell which hand delivered the telling stab, the fatal blow? Again and again I ask myself, why him? Why do they single him out from the jumble that took your child’s life away?

  My son! My son! What have you done? Oh, what is this terrible thing that you have done?

  Father, All-merciful, save me!

  Help me! Hurry, help me, Lord, lest I perish.

  Help me! Hurry, help me, Lord, right now.

  Guguletu, much later

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s me, Mmelwane,’ answered Skonana’s voice. My eyes filled. What did she want?

  ‘She has people with her, also!’ Qwati’s asthmatic voice filled the brief silence that had fallen.

  With the back of my hand I brushed away the tears, and got up from the side of the bed where I was sitting, my mind all over the place.

  ‘Which side of the house are you?’

  ‘Front,’ came a chorus of voices.

  Why can’t people mind their own business. I opened my eyes wide, to stop fresh tears from starting. Four women stood there when I opened the door. Lindiwe and Yolisa were also from my street.

  ‘We said to ourselves we should come,’ said Qwati. ‘We talked about this, we asked ourselves: should we not wait till she calls us? But the days have gone on . . .’

  ‘Call you?’

  ‘We are people who come to each other’s homes when there is a reason,’ Lindiwe said. I saw that her eyes had no trouble at all looking into mine. But still, my heart would not be at peace.

  ‘There is neither wedding nor feast at this house.’

  ‘Mmelwane,’ Skonana quickly jumped in. ‘We have come to cry with you . . . as is our custom, to grieve with those who grieve.’

  I didn’t know what to say or feel. I had not summoned my neighbours. Usually, the keening of mourners calls neighbours to the house that death has visited. I had not called my neighbours — I had not announced the death. Yes, there has been a death. But is it I who may keen? Is it I whom people should help grieve?

  ‘We have come to be with you in this time,’ Yolisa’s voice said.

  And we talked, my neighbours and I. It was like the opening of a boil. Thereafter, I was not so afraid of my neighbours’ eyes. I did not immediately see condemnation in the eyes that beheld mine. When some stay away, I do not tell myself they are embarrassed or avoiding me. And even if they do, I know there are some among my friends and neighbours who feel for me — who understand my pain.

  It is people such as these who give me strength. And hope. I hear there are churches and other groups working with young people and grownups. Helping. So that violence may stop. Or at least be less than it is right now. That is a good thing. We need to help each other . . . all of us, but especially the children. Otherwise they grow up to be a problem for everyone. And then everybody suffers. I pray there may be help even for young people like Mxolisi. That they may change and come back better people.

  Oh, My son! My son! What have you done? What is this that you have done?

  Your daughter. The imperfect atonement of her race.

  My son. The perfect host of the demons of his.

  My Sister-Mother, we are bound in this sorrow. You, as I, have not chosen this coat that you wear. It is heavy on our shoulders, I should know. It is heavy, only God knows how. We were not asked whether we wanted it or not. We did not choose, we are the chosen.

  But you, remember this, let it console you some, you never have to ask yourself: What did I not do for this child? You can carry your head sky high. You have no shame, no reason for shame. Only the loss. Irretrievable loss. Be consoled, however. Be consoled, for with your loss comes no shame. No deep sense of personal failure. Only glory. Unwanted and unasked for, I know. But let this be your source of strength, your fountain of hope, the light that illumines the depth of your despair.

  12

  And my son? What had he to live for?

  My son. His tomorrows were his yesterday. Nothing. Stretching long, lean, mean, and empty. A glaring void. Nothing would come of the morrow. For him. Nothing at all. Long before the ground split when he pee’d on it, that knowledge was firmly planted in his soul . . . it was intimately his.

  He had already seen his tomorrows; in the defeated stoop of his father’s shoulders. In the tired eyes of that father’s friends. In the huddled, ragged men who daily wait for chance at some job whose whereabouts they do not know . . . wait at the corners of roads leading nowhere . . . wait for a van to draw up, a shout, a beckoning hand that could mean a day’s job for an hour’s wage, if that. He had seen his tomorrows — in the hungry, gnarled hands outstretched toward the long-dead brazier, bodies shivering in the unsmiling, setting sun of a winter’s day. Long have the men been waiting: all day. But chance has not come that way today. Chance rarely came that way. Any day. Chance has been busy in that other world . . . the white world. Where it dwelt, at home among those other beings, who might or might not come with offers of a day’s employ. Where it made its abode — in posh suburbs and beautiful homes and thriving businesses . . . forever forsaking the men looking for a day’s work that might give them an hour’s wage. The men from the dry, dusty, wind-flattened, withering shacks they call home. Would always, always call home. No escape.

  Such stark sign-posts to his tomorrow. Hope still-born in his heart. As in the hearts of all like him. The million-million lumpen, the lost generation. My son. My son!

  Guguletu, late afternoon, Wednesday 25 August

  The yellow Mazda drives up NY 1, from the Bellville side going north towards the Lansdowne side of Guguletu. The five young people inside are singing. All along the street, little groups of people walking, talking, or just standing, perhaps waiting . . . for someone . . . or for a taxi. The pedestrian traffic is thick and heavy, workers are coming back from
work, schoolchildren from school, women at home scurrying from the shops to get back and start that evening meal.

  Over there, near the Police Station, there is almost a congestion, the crowd is thickest here. There is a bus stop. Also, taxis to and from Langa and Nyanga stop here. So do some employers, fetching or bringing back labourers. There are several churches located in this area, as are a number of schools.

  Here, Mxolisi’s group changes both tune and gait. Gone the toyi-toyi, the freedom songs, and the marching. Shambling, is more like the step the group now adopts. All singing has stopped. Brief consultations are held, reiterating the next day’s plans and bidding each other goodbye.

  The larger group splits. A few of the young people, less than a hundred, walk down the street, towards the car fast approaching.

  There is nothing setting the car apart. Nothing proclaiming it as special, peculiar, or marked. It is just one car among several driving up or down this particular stretch of NY 1, at this time, on this day. Past the shopping centre at NY 110. Past NY 132, where three buildings squat inside a high wire fence. This is Zingisa Higher Primary School. It is silent now. All the students and teachers are gone. If they ever were in today. The buildings are silent now. Empty. To the left over the other side of NY 132 and well away from the road, beyond a lush green patch of lawn, there is a Shell garage, with three little pumps, red and white. The yellow car is now headed for NY 112. Nothing sets it apart. Nothing. Until you look inside.

  At the corner of NY 1 and NY 109, the group of students divides into two: the Langa crowd heads west, to Netreg train Station while their Guguletu comrades splinter into smaller groups of two, three, or four, each heading home.

  About midway between the garage and the second set of shops, smaller than the one at NY 110, the car comes to a reluctant stop. Three hundred metres ahead, the lights at the intersection of NY 1 and NY 108, also known as Klipfontein Road, have turned red. Several vehicles — delivery trucks, lorries, cars — between ten and twelve, are ahead of the little yellow car.

  Mxolisi’s little group is chatting idly. He can see his home, this side of the Police Station, a mere hundred metres from where he stands. Why, were he to hail someone standing at his gate, they’d hear him, it’s that close. They’d see him too, if he waved and they happened to be looking his way.

  Your daughter taps the steering wheel. The singing has long trailed to a stop. The engine purrs softly, idling.

  A casual glance from a passer-by. Instantaneous ignition.

  ‘KwiMazda! KwiMazda! Kukh’ umlungu kwiMazda! In the Mazda! In the Mazda! There is a white person in the Mazda!’

  ONE SETTLER! ONE BULLET!

  The cry rings out, sending a shock-wave through the hoards all around this part of NY 1. Not yet a crowd. Nothing binds them yet, but of course Operation Barcelona is in the air.

  Others pick up the cry, repeat it and send it along. More and more re-echo it.

  ONE SETTLER! ONE BULLET!

  The tremour flashes and spills over to all within hearing. And all who hear it are riveted. Heads swivel this way and that.

  The cry pulls women from their busy kitchens, stops in their tracks tired workers returning from work; children’s play comes to an abrupt halt; and the other drivers stopped at this point check that their doors are locked.

  ‘Over here! Over here, in the yellow Mazda!’

  The car has been singled now. It has been set apart. Noted.

  The same baptising cries meld the disparate individuals and little groups, isolated but a minute before, into a one-minded monster. A group. A crowd, with one aim, one goal — at first, far from sinister, just to verify what the ears have heard, see if it is true. Could it be? How could it be?

  Yet, doubting still, their feet all turn and point toward the car that has been marked. The yellow Mazda.

  ‘Drive on! Drive on!’ urges one of your daughter’s passengers, one of the girls she is giving a lift back home.

  Lumka groans, clenching and unclenching her jaw, fisting and unfisting her right hand. The hand is warm and sweaty.

  ‘Drive on!’ the first girl’s voice is hoarse with fear.

  Your daughter turns the ignition key. Crawls the space of one parked car. Stops. Stops because there is no going further, a car blocks her way.

  ONE SETTLER! ONE BULLET!

  Mxolisi’s group, what remains of it, are they deaf not to hear the cry? Are they crazy not to see the implications? Only one thing could have elicited the cry. One. Somewhere, nearby, some white person has been spotted.

  Incredible.

  A white person. Here in Guguletu? In these times? After what happened to that KTC mlungu woman only yesterday? No way! Most dismiss the cry as a hoax, the work of some bored lout, looking to stir things up.

  But the cry comes back again. Louder, this time, with more voices added.

  The pack races towards the source of the cry, as one, echoing: ‘One settler, one bullet.’ Although they have not seen the stimulus for the cry.

  ONE SETTLER! ONE BULLET!

  Mxolisi’s crowd quickly disintegrates, each person going full speed to the epicentre, searching for the one thing that will jump out, the oddity.

  ‘Please, don’t stop! Please, don’t stop! Drive on!’ Frantic, her friends shout.

  She steps on the accelerator. The yellow car leaps ahead, emitting a surprised groan. After three car lengths, however, it again halts. Engine running but nowhere to go. Blocked by the car before it. By all those before that.

  The young men who, a minute before, were standing at the corner of NY 1 and NY 109, have reached the mob surrounding the car. By now, the cry has become frenzied. From throats haphazardly all around the milling crowd it comes incessantly:

  ONE SETTLER, ONE BULLET! ONE SETTLER, ONE BULLET!

  There is a thickening in the long, bleak road. A knob of bobbing and weaving heads, all around the yellow car. Hands reach out, playfully, at first. They rock the car. Those inside shudder, but there is no going forward. The car is totally immobilised.

  Then, suddenly, the rocking stops.

  Relief.

  BANG! CRASH!

  Relief quickly shattered. The windscreen wrinkles as a million-million little web-cracks paint themselves on it.

  A scream escapes from someone’s throat just as a second rock comes flying through a window, showering sparkling shards on face and neck and arms and legs and feet.

  Don’t panic, she tells herself, silently. Her lips tightly pressed together, jaw clenched, she tells herself, keep calm. You can get out of this. Keep your head.

  ONE SETTLER, ONE BULLET!

  From throat to throat the cry gaily goes; carried by the unthinking winds. It becomes a joyous refrain, voluntary and instinctive in its cruelly careless glee.

  Another spray of broken bits of glass. The affronted flesh sprouts surprised eyes that open unseeingly. Red tears slowly ooze out of those eyes, and slowly trickle and join each other for solidarity. Red petals on shirt, on pants, and on legs and onto shoes.

  An earthquake rocks the car.

  ‘Drive on!’ There is a crazed tone to the voice, urging the impossible.

  Red petals in her eyes. Red petals blinding her to a halt.

  The dilemma of the passengers in the yellow Mazda is a spur to the mindless crowd outside. The chant grows. Rocks rain upon the car. They come flying through, into the car and onto its fragile cargo, clearly endangered now.

  Blocked, the car cannot move.

  Blinded, your daughter cannot escape. Not by driving on.

  ‘Let’s run to the garage!’ the young man cries out.

  NO! NO! DRIVE ON!

  The debate stops short as another earthquake rocks the car. In the darkened stomach of the car, all light is blocked by the mob of bodies all around it, pushing from all sides, pushing and yelling and stamping their feet, fists raised. Arms reach inside through the now naked, unglassed windows. The five young people are frozen scared. They are besides themselves with d
read.

  AMANDLA!

  But now, inside the car, the so-loved, familiar cry triggers fear and panic.

  Yielding to the inevitable, your daughter turns the car engine off. In one last desperate bid for freedom, all five fly out of the car in a mad dash for the three petrol pumps – the building — yellow, gold, white. A haven. Safety.

  Smelling the climax, the pack is hot on their heels. Those with knives in their pockets, reach for them. Those unarmed cast their eyes about — in the forever debris-rich dirt of Guguletu they’re bound to find something useful.

  The students from the university run.

  The mob, like hounds, give chase, yelling and screaming in glee.

  ‘Don’t! Please, don’t hurt her!’ pleads Lumka.

  ‘She’s just a university student,’ another of your daughter’s friends screams, putting herself between her and her attackers. But ‘university student’ falls on deaf ears. The mob cares nothing for these words. My son and his friends and all those mobbing around your daughter’s car, they know nothing of universities.

  Your daughter falls on reason. ‘Please don’t do this. You don’t want to do this. You can’t do this. You can’t do this to me. Please, don’t. DON’T! Do-oo-hn-on-nt!’

  But her pleas fall on deaf ears.

  That unforgiving moment. My son. Blood pounding in his ears. King! If for a day. If for a paltry five minutes . . . a miserable but searing second.

  AMANDLA! NGAWETHU! POWER! IT IS OURS!

  AMANDLA! NGAWETHU! POWER! IT IS OURS!

  Thus rose the cry. Rose and fell to the cheering answer from the crowd. Amandla! a few cried out, their clenched fists high in the air. Ngawethu! came the unhesitating response from the fervid crowd. Ngawethu! Transported, the crowd responded; not dwelling on the significance of the word. Deaf and blind to the seeds from which it sprang, the pitiful powerlessness that had brewed this very moment.

  And the song in my son’s ears. A song he had heard since he could walk. Even before he could walk. Song of hate, of despair, of rage. Song of impotent loathing.