No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  Chioma felt her face grow hot. “I wasn’t lusting! I was just … watching him and thinking how much I hate the whites—especially him!”

  Mbhali’s eyebrows arched over her large, dark eyes. “Really? And why is that? Because he tried but failed to save Masozi? Because he tried but failed to comfort you after the funeral?” She shook her head. “When are you going to learn, Chioma? Don’t you have enough troubles, enough heartaches, without looking for more?”

  “What are you talking about?” Chioma protested. “I’m not looking for anything—not from the likes of him, anyway!”

  Mbhali pursed her lips and studied Chioma for a moment before speaking. “Good. I hope that’s true, because trouble is always on the horizon for the likes of us.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know, my cousin Themba brought me a message the other day. The word is that Nelson Mandela has been diagnosed with tuberculosis. Our people won’t take it well if he dies in prison.”

  Chioma felt her eyes widen and her heart stop. Mandela? Tuberculosis? No, it couldn’t be! He was their savior, their hope for freedom and a better life! Her father and mother had devoted their lives to that cause—even to the death—and now Mbhali was telling her it might be over, that the man she had never met but revered her entire life might die without ever being freed from prison!

  “No,” Chioma said, feeling the fire in her belly build until it flashed from her eyes. “It can’t be. Nelson Mandela can’t die—not in prison, not like this.”

  Mbhali smiled. “Ah, that’s what I wanted to see—a reaction, some indignation, determination and dedication to the cause.” She grabbed Chioma’s arms. “Listen to me, Chioma. Themba is helping to organize our people. We must fight, however and wherever we can—in small bands and on the run, if need be. The time is short, but the more chaos we cause and the more we disrupt the government’s ability to function, the better our chances. We can’t let the cause die with an old man in prison. Some say this news of Mandela is a blessing in disguise, that it will force the government to let him go. I say, forget the laws and the government; apartheid must be overthrown, and we must be a part of making that happen!”

  Mbhali’s face was close to her own now, and Chioma knew her friend was serious. She nearly shivered, remembering the rumors she had heard about Themba leading raids on some of the more remote farms, stealing whatever he could find and killing those who tried to stop him. He was a wanted fugitive who left no doubt that he was dedicated to the cause and would do whatever was necessary to see it succeed.

  Chioma had met Mbhali’s cousin once, when he snuck in during the night to see Mbhali, and Chioma knew from that moment on that she would never forget him. Themba was a tall, strong, handsome black man with muscles like thick ropes and eyes like steel, and whose name meant “hope.” One of the things Chioma remembered most about Themba was the scar that ran across his chest, from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist. Mbhali had told Chioma that had the sword slashed him in the opposite direction, it would have cut through his heart and killed him. But the gods had protected him, Mbhali insisted, so that he could help lead the fight for their people.

  The very sight of Themba had frightened Chioma—not so much because she was afraid he would harm her, but because she was afraid she would follow him anywhere he asked. And so, to prevent him from asking, she had avoided him the next time he came to visit Mbhali. But how long could she avoid him? How long could she avoid her destiny, continuing to work on the white man’s farm while her people suffered and Nelson Mandela, the man in whom she had long placed her hopes and dreams, might even now be dying in a prison cell?

  Her eyes locked with Mbhali’s, and she knew the commitment was made. She had no idea where this commitment would take them or how it would end, but she knew her days of working for the Vorster family were nearly over. Her destiny lay ahead of her, and her heritage demanded that she fulfill it. With Masozi dead, what loyalties were left to tie her to the white man’s farm? It was in her best interests to get away from the Vorster home and everything that tied her to it … as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 4

  CHIOMA FLUFFED THE PILLOWS AND TUCKED IN THE crisp white sheets, closing her mind to the image of the man who slept each night on the four-poster bed. This was her job—nothing more. Along with Mandisa and Mbhali, Chioma had been cleaning the Vorsters’ home for several years now. She had changed this bed—and the others in the big house—countless times. Why did it feel so different this time?

  She shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts that seemed ready to pounce each time she let her guard down. Andrew was a white man, and she was coloured. End of story. Her mind knew that perfectly well. If only her heart would get the same message.

  Thinking of Masozi or her parents and the way they were murdered at the hand of white devils sometimes helped, but not for long. She even tried to concentrate on the fact that Andrew had been with those who killed her brother, but sooner or later her thoughts shifted to the fact that he had tried to stop the killing. True, he had failed, but at least he had tried.

  Why? That was the question that plagued her most. Why would a white man make an effort to protect a coloured man, even if that man did happen to be one of his employees? After all, there were many more like him. In fact, Masozi’s position had been filled before he even died, while he still lay motionless in a coma, and work on the Vorster farm had continued without missing a beat.

  So what was the point? Why had Andrew Vorster even bothered to get involved?

  Chioma couldn’t allow herself to believe it might be that Andrew had a kind heart, or that he cared about the life of someone of another race and therefore beneath his social class. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t come up with any other explanation.

  “Chioma?”

  Chioma spun around, her heart racing at the unexpected sound of the soft, female voice behind her. Though she had often come into contact with Mrs. Vorster while working in the big house, Chioma was still uncomfortable in her presence—and even more so now, as she tried to look at her without directly doing so.

  “Yes, madam … Mrs. Vorster. How … how can I help you?”

  The middle-aged woman’s features were as soft as her voice, and Chioma had often thought she was a direct contrast to her large, gruff husband. Chioma supposed the woman could even be considered pretty, in a pale sort of way.

  Mrs. Vorster smiled—more with her eyes than her lips. “How are you, Chioma? Are you doing … better?”

  Chioma paused. How was she to answer? She assumed the woman was referring to Masozi’s death, but never having had a personal discussion with her before, Chioma was apprehensive about assuming.

  “I’m … not sure what you mean, madam.”

  Mrs. Vorster’s smile had faded, and in spite of herself, Chioma sneaked a peek at the woman’s pale blue eyes, which reflected concern and sadness, confirming Chioma’s assumption that the woman had been referring to Masozi’s death.

  “It’s difficult to lose a loved one,” Mrs. Vorster said, and Chioma thought she heard a slight catch in her voice. Chioma knew the Vorster family had lost a child some years back, but the subject was not openly discussed among the servants. Perhaps it was that memory that had evoked the emotion in Chioma’s employer, rather than any sorrow or regret over the death of a young black servant.

  It was obvious the woman expected some sort of response from Chioma, so she simply said, “Yes. Very difficult.”

  At that moment Chioma realized that Mrs. Vorster felt nearly as uncomfortable as she, and probably regretted having spoken to Chioma in the first place. But the woman had initiated the conversation, and it certainly wasn’t Chioma’s place to end it.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Vorster said then, her words causing a flash flood of emotion in Chioma that shocked her in its intensity.

  Oh, no, she thought. I don’t want to cry! Not here and now … not in front of her!

  T
he eruption of tears in her own eyes brought a similar response from Mrs. Vorster, but before either could yield to the watery onslaught, Andrew stepped into the doorway, standing nearly a foot taller than his mother, his face flushed from the sun and grimy with sweat and dust. He had obviously been out working the farm, as he did nearly every day, but it seemed that neither Chioma nor Mrs. Vorster had heard him approaching.

  He stood without moving, understandably puzzled to find his mother and Chioma in conversation, particularly one involving such a deep undercurrent of emotion. Before he could speak, his mother nodded to Chioma and said, “I shall let you get back to your work,” and then excused herself and left the room.

  When Andrew didn’t immediately leave with her, Anana Vorster returned and gave him a look that spoke louder than any words ever could. Just before turning to follow her out of the room, Andrew’s questioning eyes aligned with Chioma’s, and she prayed he would leave quickly, before her legs gave out and she yielded to the spinning of the room.

  When she was sure he was gone and relatively certain he wouldn’t return, she did something she had never done before. She sat down on the edge of Andrew’s bed, though she knew better. But she had no choice; her legs would hold her no longer.

  Still shaking, she breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure. She hated that the young baas affected her as he did, and her resolve to leave this place, to escape the hold he had on her, grew with every throbbing, aching beat of her heart. It was obvious if she didn’t get out of here quickly, away from the Vorster farm and all that went with it, she would end up in some sort of horrible trouble, worse than anything she had already experienced in her sixteen years of life. And there was little doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t be able to endure anything of such magnitude.

  “You can’t go, Chioma,” Mandisa sobbed, as they huddled together on Chioma’s bedroll. “Not with Themba! He’s a dangerous man. I’ve heard of him attacking farms and outposts. He’s rumored to … to leave no witnesses. Please, Chioma, don’t leave me here!”

  Chioma’s heart ached as Mandisa clutched at her, begging her to stay. Mbhali had warned Chioma not to tell Mandisa of their plans, but Chioma couldn’t simply disappear without explanation. How many times had Mandisa said that Chioma was like a sister to her, the only family she had left? Sweet, gentle Mandisa, so aptly named and far too tenderhearted to join Chioma and Mbhali as a freedom fighter for the cause that had fueled Chioma’s passions since she was old enough to understand words. If only there were some way to make the younger girl understand, to reassure her that she would be all right here on the farm, alone.

  “I have to go,” Chioma explained, stroking Mandisa’s hair as she held her close. “We have to go—Mbhali and I. We can’t stay here and take a chance on letting the cause die with Mandela.”

  “Then take me with you,” Mandisa pleaded, her head still buried in Chioma’s neck and her tears wetting Chioma’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Mandisa, I wish we could,” Chioma said, meaning every word. “But we can’t. It would be no life for someone like you.”

  Mandisa pulled back and fixed her dark, wet eyes on Chioma. “But what will be left for me here, once you’re gone? You know I’ll be blamed for you leaving, for not telling them so they could try to stop you. What if … what if they turn me out and I have nowhere to go?”

  She had a point, and Chioma had wondered about it herself. Would Mandisa be worse off if they took her along—or left her behind? The apparent kindness Chioma had noted—but tried to deny—in both Andrew and Mrs. Vorster gave her hope that Mandisa would be all right if she stayed. And yet …

  Chioma’s heart twisted with indecision. Mandisa truly was like a sister to her, unlike Mbhali, who was simply a strong personality who challenged Chioma to fulfill her destiny. And then, of course, there was Andrew …

  No! She shook her head, forcing herself to block out the picture of the young baas, staring at her as they stood in his room or riding past on his horse and nodding at her in silent acknowledgment. More painful yet was the memory of Andrew’s visit to her after the funeral service and his clumsy attempt to comfort her on the loss of her brother. And then there was the ever-present scenario of his futile attempt to rescue Masozi …

  I can’t think of it, she told herself. I won’t! I must think only of the cause—of my parents and Masozi … of Nelson Mandela, languishing in prison and now possibly dying from tuberculosis … of the thousands upon thousands of my ancestors who have died at the hands of the white devils … Once I’m gone from here, I’ll no longer think of the white man who tugs at my heart and confuses my thoughts!

  She heard footsteps approaching, and she knew Mbhali would open the door at any moment. Darkness had fallen, and Chioma was torn as never before. What was she to do? She had made a pact with Mbhali, and she couldn’t back down. Yet how was she to leave Mandisa behind? Did she dare hope that the soft-spoken Mrs. Vorster, who carefully carried her own sorrow just behind her blue eyes, would care for the gentle young girl, protect and provide for her when Chioma and Mbhali had gone? It was a thin sliver of hope indeed, but at the moment, it was all Chioma had.

  The light from the bedside lamp was just enough to read by, but Andrew couldn’t concentrate. Several times he found himself having turned the page, only to realize he had no idea what he had read. He finally gave up and tossed his book to the floor.

  Maybe he should have agreed to go out with his drinking buddies after all. They had tried to convince him to ride along with them into town, but ever since the tragedy at the roadside, Andrew had been reluctant to have anything to do with the men he had once considered his friends. He now knew better, of course, and wished he had trusted his instincts and severed their relationship long ago, but it was too late for wishing. The damage was done.

  Resting on the pillows he had stacked behind him, he stared straight ahead, as visions rolled through his head, jumbling together in a kaleidoscope of beauty and horror. Chioma’s round, dark eyes, one minute filled with anger, the next overwhelmed with fear and sadness. The shovelfuls of dirt, dropping onto the crude coffin. The crack of the boy’s head against the tree …

  Why couldn’t he let it go, as his father had instructed and his mother had counseled? Chioma was, for all intents and purposes, forbidden territory. So why did his desire to go to her increase with every passing day? Why did he long to protect and care for her, to take away her pain and comfort her? Was it as simple as guilt, compounded with a desire to defy his father’s apartheid beliefs? Or was there something more?

  He closed his eyes, but the images danced on. Why? he cried silently. God, if You’re there, if You’re listening, tell me why! Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t You have stopped it? And why do I have to care so much? Why can’t I just put it behind me and move on, the way my father wants me to?

  No answer came. Not that he had really expected one, but he needed one—desperately. And if God didn’t have an answer for him, then who did?

  Maybe God doesn’t talk to people with words, he thought. Maybe just with signs, or through other people, or … with messages?

  His eyes snapped open, and he turned to fumble in the drawer beside his bed. His Bible, worn from years of carrying it to church services but seldom from personal use, sat tucked away in its usual corner. He pulled it out and stared at it. Was it possible? Could God really speak to him through the words on these pages—words written thousands of years ago by men long dead and gone?

  The thought had always seemed absurd to him, but suddenly he saw it as his only hope. He opened the book to somewhere in the middle, but he had no idea where to begin reading. Then he remembered someone once telling him if he ever wanted to get to know Jesus more personally, he should start by reading the Gospel of John.

  Andrew flipped to the contents, found what he was looking for, and thumbed his way to the proper page, starting at chapter 1, verse 1:

  In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and t
he Word was God.

  What was that supposed to mean? He had spent enough time in church to know that Jesus was often referred to as “the Word,” so he decided that must be what the verse was referring to—that Jesus was eternal and had existed with God from before the beginning of time.

  A good point, and not one Andrew would argue with, but how was that supposed to help him with his own situation?

  He continued to read, stopping occasionally to meditate on a particular phrase or verse, particularly in chapter 3, which talked about God’s love for the world and how He had given His Son to save whoever would believe in Him.

  His eyes were growing heavy by the time he reached chapter 15 and began to read of Jesus’ requirements for love. The last thing he read before his eyes closed were verses 12 and 13: “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

  With the words echoing in his heart and a picture of Jesus forming in his mind that somehow contradicted what he imagined as the teachings of his father and the apartheid system, Andrew Vorster drifted off to sleep, as the haunting images of pain-filled eyes and dirt-covered graves gave way to a sense of hope and promise.

  Chioma knew she probably shouldn’t be outside, wandering around after dark, but she had lain in a pool of sweat as long as she could stand it, listening to Mbhali and Mandisa breathe and wishing she, too, could drop off to sleep. With every moment that passed, her restlessness increased, until she felt she would start screaming if she didn’t get up and move about. Finally she opened the wooden door, hoping the creak wouldn’t awaken her roommates, and tiptoed out into the sultry night.

  Without planning to, she followed the pale shaft of moonlight and ended up by the creek that meandered through the Vorster property. She considered it one of the most peaceful places on earth, and she came here to this particular clearing whenever she could sneak away, just to sit on the same large, flat rock, dangle her feet in the cool water, and wonder what her life might have been like if she had been born in another place or another time—or in another color of skin.