No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  Then she spotted it—a pitchfork, lying in the brush less than a foot away. She could wait until he turned to leave, then grab it and plunge it into his back. There was no one around to see her, no one to stop her. She could do it. It would be so easy …

  “Chioma!”

  The familiar voice came from behind her. It was Mandisa, no doubt coming to offer her comfort. The fifteen-year-old, whose name meant “sweet,” was taking a big risk to leave her work and come in search of her friend. But Chioma knew that Mandisa, too, was grieving, as she had considered Masozi her “man” and hoped they would someday marry. Now that would never happen, and Mandisa was expected to carry on with her duties as if Masozi’s death were nothing more than an inconvenient interruption.

  Andrew’s eyes broke from Chioma and looked past her, to a point in the distance. Chioma turned and watched Mandisa approach, seeing the look on her friend’s face turn to puzzlement and alarm upon seeing Chioma and Andrew together.

  “Forgive me, baas,” she said, her voice quavering. “I didn’t mean to leave my work, but … I was worried about Chioma, and—”

  “I understand,” Andrew said, interrupting her nervous apology. “Please, take all the time you need—both of you. I’ll leave you two and … get back to my own work.”

  Chioma was surprised to hear the tremor in Andrew’s voice, as if he were the one who had been caught shirking his duties, rather than she and Mandisa. The sense that his words were sincere assailed her again, but she steeled herself against the possibility of such a destructive thought.

  “Thank you, baas … Mr. Vorster, sir,” Chioma said, turning back to her employer as she spoke, “for your … kindness.”

  Andrew’s eyes held hers, though she fought to pull them away. She knew she shouldn’t be looking directly at him, and yet … What was it about this white devil that beguiled her? Whatever it was, she was determined not to give in to its lure.

  When she said no more, Andrew nodded at each of the girls, said, “Well … all right, then,” and turned on his heel and walked away.

  Chioma reached out and took Mandisa’s hand. “Thank you for coming when you did. You may have saved a life today—his or mine, maybe both. Whatever the outcome, mine would have been over.”

  The wind was hot as Andrew rode the fence line, absently checking for worn spots and potential problem areas. He needed to stay busy, needed to keep his mind off the attractive, angry young woman whose eyes flashed with emotion he couldn’t read—and probably wouldn’t want to if he could. What was it about her that so drew him? Her grief and loss, certainly, for which he felt more than slightly responsible—but there was more. Rebellion, perhaps? How better to defy his father’s authority and apartheid beliefs than to associate with one of the servants? Considering that might be a real motive for his behavior, he didn’t feel very proud of himself at that moment.

  He drew his mount to a halt and sat up straight, resting his hands on the saddle horn and gazing out over the fertile land he so loved. It had been less than two weeks since he and his drinking buddies had come upon the pair, sleeping in the shade of the acacia tree at the side of the road. Why had they stopped? Why couldn’t they have kept going and left the two young people to rest on their journey? And why hadn’t he tried harder, done more to stop the violent, senseless confrontation? Andrew was beginning to understand why his mother had been so adamant in insisting he stop blaming himself or thinking about what could have been.

  Less than two weeks, and yet it seemed his life had changed forever. The Christian faith he had grown up with, already questionable in his mind, had suddenly become reprehensible to him, inextricably tied to the practices of apartheid. And his father, the man he had loved and respected throughout his lifetime, seemed a hypocrite of the worst kind.

  All because of Masozi, a black boy whose name, aptly and prophetically, meant “tears,” and who was now buried in the ground on the edge of the property Andrew called home. Ever since, the dead boy’s sister, Chioma, haunted Andrew’s every thought, stalked his every move, challenged his every belief.

  He cursed and slammed his fist against his leg, causing the bay mare to bolt, nearly unseating him. What was happening to him? In all his twenty-one years, he had never felt so out of control, so lost and vulnerable and … guilty.

  Exactly what his mother had warned him about. And he didn’t like the truth of her warning or the way he felt one bit.

  “Are you two going to cry all night again?” Mbhali demanded, as the three young women lay on their mats in the stifling, semi-darkened shack they called home. The room’s only window was open, but no breeze ruffled the ragged, once-white curtains. “Because if you are,” Mbhali added, “I’m going outside where I can get some sleep.”

  Chioma eyed the dim outline of her older roommate, the strikingly beautiful eighteen-year-old whose name meant “rose” but whose personality spoke more clearly of thorns.

  “Sorry,” Chioma sniffed. “I know you need your sleep. We all do. It’s just that Mandisa and I have lost—”

  “I know what you and Mandisa have lost,” Mbhali interrupted. “You lost a fifteen-year-old slave, a coloured boy with no future. Your brother, Chioma—I understand that. But you, Mandisa? What was he to you? A future husband? Ha! What could he give you that would be any different or any better than what you already have? Could he even offer you hope? No! And that is the real sadness, more so even than his death.”

  The antagonistic young woman paused for a moment and then shook her head, her face hard as she continued to address the two mourners. “When are you going to figure out that this is as good as it gets—unless we do something about it?”

  Chioma raised her eyebrows. She much preferred Mandisa’s sweet personality to Mbhali’s abrasive one, but deep down she knew Mbhali was right. If they didn’t do something to change their situation, as Chioma’s father had told her for years, then they were accepting the hand fate had dealt them—and it was a losing one. The very fact that Mazosi’s death had already been ruled an accident and no one was even going to be arrested for it was proof enough of that.

  “I loved him,” Mandisa said, her voice breaking with the declaration. “And he loved me. He was a good man.”

  Mbhali snorted. “Was! He was a good man—or at least a good boy. And what profit did it bring him—or anyone else? Where did it get him? Buried in the ground, that’s where! Dead and buried, like thousands and thousands of our people. And what would have happened if he’d lived? He’d have been a cripple, dependent on someone to carry him everywhere he went. Is that the life you’d want for him? The gods—if indeed there are any—did him a favor by letting him die.”

  Chioma hated hearing her brother talked about in the past tense, and she hated hearing the words that she knew brought more pain to Mandisa’s tender heart. But she couldn’t deny the truth that Mbhali spoke. Chioma, too, was glad that Masozi hadn’t lived as a cripple, had never awakened from unconsciousness and seen the pity on the faces staring down at him.

  Yes, Mandisa was sweet and gentle, a good and faithful friend and one whom Chioma loved dearly. But Mbhali was a warrior, with a fearless heart and a determined will, and if there was one thing Chioma needed at this point in her life, it was a warrior at her side. She must discipline herself to follow in Mbhali’s footsteps and not get sidetracked by Mandisa’s sweet nature … or the questionable kindness of a white devil.

  Chioma. She thought of her name and wondered, as she had so many times through the years, why her parents had labeled her so inappropriately. She could understand Masozi’s name, as tears were a familiar phenomenon to her people. But Chioma—“God is great”? She nearly snorted with contempt. If there was anything great about the gods, she had yet to see it, and certainly didn’t expect to any time soon.

  Chapter 3

  ANDREW GRITTED HIS TEETH, KNOWING HE WAS IN for another of his father’s famous lectures, designed to build backbone and drive out the devil at the same time. The younger Vor
ster had been raised on lectures and sermons, and for most of his life had done his best to live up to his father’s high expectations. But lately the hypocrisy he saw between the words his father spoke and the lifestyle he lived was fueling the rebellion that had long lain dormant in his heart.

  Pieter Vorster paced, his brow furrowed and his stride steady, never missing a beat. When Andrew was young, he had counted his father’s paces, knowing he would never start speaking before he reached at least one hundred steps. The elder Vorster had passed that number some time ago, and Andrew expected the angry monologue to erupt at any moment. Experience had taught Andrew that the longer it took to get started, the worse it would be. But even his years of experience hadn’t prepared him for the onslaught that came in the form of a still, small voice.

  “Why, Andrew?” Pieter’s voice was scarcely audible, though it slowly rose to a more normal decibel level. “What could I possibly have done to cause you to shame me so? And your ma … Even if you don’t care about me, have you no regard for her feelings?”

  Andrew didn’t have to feign ignorance; he truly had no idea what his father was referring to or why he was asking him such questions. His eyes were fixed firmly on his father, who had stopped pacing now and stood looking down at his only son, obviously waiting for an answer.

  “I’m sorry, Pa. I don’t understand.”

  Pieter’s bushy blond eyebrows shot up. “You don’t understand? Well, of course not. If you did, you would show respect to the family name and avoid such shameless behavior. Do you know how quickly the gossips pick up something like this and how fast and far it can spread? And once the damage is done …” His voice trailed off, as he shook his head in what appeared to be a combination of disbelief and disgust.

  Shameless behavior? Gossip? What was his father talking about? Andrew did a quick mental review of the past few weeks and could think of nothing except the tragedy at the side of the road. He and his father had already discussed that incident, immediately after it happened, so what else … ?

  The light came on as Andrew remembered his brief encounter with Chioma after the burial of Masozi. Had someone other than Mandisa seen them together that day? Likely so. Andrew’s father had always cautioned him against “fraternizing” with blacks and coloureds, whether they worked for the Vorsters or not.

  “We certainly don’t mistreat our help, regardless of color,” Pieter Vorster had explained many times. “But we don’t fraternize with them either. God expects us to maintain the proper order of creation—the blacks and coloureds keep to their own, and we do the same, just as the good Lord intended. Otherwise we’d have chaos, and we know the Bible says that God is not the author of chaos or confusion. The races can only stay pure if they don’t mix, and it’s up to us as the superior race to maintain that purity. Certainly we show Christian charity to all races, and we do our best to lead them out of paganism and into the truth by preaching the gospel to them, but that’s where our responsibility to them ends.”

  So that was it. Andrew had committed the unpardonable sin of “fraternizing” with nonwhites.

  “If this is about Chioma, I—”

  “Chioma!” His father’s voice was nearly a roar now, as he interrupted Andrew midsentence. “So now you’re on a first-name basis? When did that happen? Am I to assume the girl now calls you Andrew?” He paused, drawing his brows together as fire shot from his hazel eyes. “Is there anything else I should know, any other clandestine meetings besides the one behind the servants’ quarters after that unfortunate boy’s service?”

  Clandestine meetings? Was he joking? But Andrew knew his father didn’t say anything he didn’t mean. He wasn’t one to joke, or even laugh much, claiming that too much frivolity and jesting were tools of the devil to keep people from the important work of the kingdom.

  His father was still staring at him, and Andrew knew he was expected to answer. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a thing to say—at least, nothing that would be acceptable to Pieter Vorster, farmer, dominee of the gospel, and respected head of his family.

  Andrew loved his father, but his respect for him had been eroding for some time now. This confrontation wasn’t helping.

  “I don’t know what to say, Pa,” Andrew said at last, doing his best to keep his voice firm and even. “I’m not even sure what you want me to say. I can only assure you that I did nothing wrong. I simply wanted to comfort that poor girl after her brother’s death. You know I tried to stop it, but—”

  “Of course you did.” Pieter’s stance relaxed, and the fire in his eyes dimmed, as his voice returned to a more normal level. “And I’m proud of you for that. It was the right thing to do—the Christian thing. But, son, don’t take this beyond where it needs to go. That girl is not your responsibility, nor is her brother’s death. It was simply an unfortunate accident that couldn’t be prevented. We’ve given the boy a proper burial, and now it’s time for everyone involved to move on—including you.” He paused a moment, and when Andrew didn’t respond, Pieter’s voice took on an icy edge. “She’s coloured, Andrew. However attractive you may find her, don’t even think about crossing that line.”

  His warning hung in the air between them, as Andrew gazed up at his father, studying him as he wondered just how close love and hatred could actually get before becoming indistinguishable. His father may have been referring to the line marked by race, but Andrew was more concerned about the line that divided his own feelings—and what he might do about them.

  An even bigger concern at the moment was why his father’s words about Chioma evoked such an emotional response within Andrew. After all, he was an Afrikaner, and he knew his place. He was white; Chioma was coloured. Nothing else needed to be said. As much as he hated to admit it, his father was right—again.

  He nodded and forced himself to speak. “Yes, sir. I understand. I … wasn’t thinking about how it might look. It won’t happen again.”

  Pieter Vorster’s lips formed a tight, thin smile, and he reached down with his right hand. Andrew responded, and as their hands clasped together, the father pulled his son to his feet and into a bear hug. “I knew you’d see it my way, Andrew,” he said, pounding the younger man on the back with his free hand. “You always do. You’re a good man, son. A good man.”

  Andrew swallowed, wanting to believe his father’s words but still struggling with the emotions that warred in his heart.

  Even with the overhead fan running at top speed, the bedroom was a bit stuffier than Anana liked. As she lay in bed, next to the man she had married nearly a quarter of a century earlier, she wondered how they had become so close when, indeed, they were so different.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered, knowing full well that he was or he would be snoring loudly enough to ruffle the sheets.

  When he grunted his answer, Anana reached over and found his hand, tucking hers inside his large, calloused one and smiling at the comfort that existed in such a small gesture.

  “What is it?” he asked finally, though he didn’t move, and Anana knew they were both staring at the unseen ceiling.

  She wondered if she should tell him what was on her heart, or just leave it to be worked out with time. But this man was her partner, the one with whom she had produced two children, even if only one had lived to adulthood. They had never had secrets between them—at least, as far as she knew—and this was no time to start.

  “I’m worried about Andrew.”

  Without asking for specifics, he responded. “The coloured girl.”

  “Chioma. Yes.”

  “Don’t be. I talked to him about it today. He understands.”

  She swallowed, wanting to believe him. But her heart was still troubled.

  “Stop worrying,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Andrew will be fine.”

  A picture of Gertie—chubby cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, heart-shaped smile—flashed through her mind, and the ever-present threat of tears burned hot behind her eyelids. She mustn’t give in, for once
she did, she knew she would never be able to stop.

  Locking down the tears once again, she scooted closer to Pieter, who pulled her into the crook of his arm as she lay her head on his broad shoulder. Thank You, God, she prayed silently, for this good man You have given me for a husband. Thank You for this place of refuge.

  But long after Pieter Vorster’s breathing had turned to rumbling, Anana stared into the darkness, praying for her son and for the unreasonable fear that gripped her each time she thought of him …

  Chioma dared to watch him ride by on the bay mare that had been his mount for as long as she had lived on the Vorster farm. She hated herself for staring at his broad shoulders and the rock-hard muscles in his suntanned forearms, but she seemed unable to tear her eyes away. Though she grudgingly admired the way he sat tall in the saddle and his apparent fearlessness of the animal beneath him, she refused to believe that what had appeared to be kindness on his part was not fueled by some perverse, ulterior motive. Instead, she steeled her heart against him and spat on the ground beside her after he had passed, as if dismissing her feelings with her spittle.

  Andrew’s blue eyes had flickered in recognition, and he had given her a curt nod as he rode past, but he hadn’t spoken a word of greeting—nor had she. Though they had encountered one another several times in the last few weeks, nearly always locking eyes before quickly looking away, they hadn’t conversed since the day of Masozi’s funeral. Chioma told herself that was exactly the way she wanted it, but her heart contradicted that thought as she watched him ride off, and self-hatred roiled within her.

  “Lusting after the baas again?”

  Chioma spun around to find Mbhali standing at her side, a sneer marring her otherwise lovely features.