by Kathi Macias
Tonight was no different. The night air, though hot and still, was quiet except for the occasional call of a bush creature, but the moonlight sparkling on the creek and the steady trickle of water over her feet and ankles soothed and calmed her. Eyes closed, she let her mind wander, back to the time when she still had a family—a mother, a father, a brother. She remembered the shack where they all lived—poor but happy to be together, and always dreaming of a better life. She thought of the evenings beside the fire, listening to her father’s stories of Mandela and the ANC, of Sharpeville, of the cause.
Chioma’s mother had tried to stop her husband from talking to their children about the cause. “You’ll turn them into rebels,” she had warned. “They’re too young to be soldiers—too young to die. Leave them alone, and let them be children for a while.”
But her father would counter with, “If we leave them alone, they’ll die anyway—without ever knowing their heritage or fighting for it. Then, whether they die old or young, it will be without honor. What’s the point in that? What good is a long but wasted life? I’d rather they learn to be proud and to fight for what is theirs—even if it means they die young. At least they’ll live and die with dignity.”
And so it had been for her father. He had lived and died with dignity, refusing to renounce his beliefs or abandon the cause. Her mother had died, too, groveling at the feet of their captors and begging for her life and her husband’s. As Chioma had watched their executions from her hiding place, her hand over Masozi’s mouth so he wouldn’t cry out, she had decided—if ever given the choice—that she would die with dignity, like her father.
Why did I have to be there to see it? First my parents’ death, and then Masozi’s. Wasn’t it enough that I lost my entire family? Must I also live with the horror of those scenes emblazoned on my memory?
Shuddering, she pulled her thoughts back to the time before her parents were killed. She pictured her mother—her huge, dark eyes, small nose, creamy skin, even lighter than Chioma’s … And then she remembered the time, just weeks before she and Masozi were orphaned, when she had asked her mother why her skin was so much lighter than Chioma’s father’s. Her mother had smiled down at her.
“Things happen,” she said. “Things we don’t always have control over. Life can change in a moment, and all we can do is accept it. There is white blood in my veins, Chioma … and in yours and Masozi’s, though it’s more obvious in you. But it doesn’t change who you are inside.” She laid her hand against Chioma’s heart. “Your heart is pure, and that’s all that matters. Do you understand, my daughter?”
Chioma had nodded, though she didn’t understand at all. Thinking she would wait until she was older and ask her mother again one day, she didn’t realize that death would soon steal that opportunity from her.
And now she would never know the story behind her mother’s light skin—or hers. All she knew for sure was that she was coloured, not black. She could accept that so long as she thought of it in those terms. It was more difficult and painful to consider that she was part white. And she couldn’t help but wonder if that fact had something to do with her attraction to the young baas—for that’s what it was, and she could no longer deny it. It was the reason she had to get away from the Vorster farm as soon as possible. She must align herself with Themba and his freedom fighters, no matter how violent he might be, if ever she was to break the hold of the white blood that flowed within her.
“You shouldn’t be here, you know.”
The soft, deep voice, so close to the rock where she sat, ripped into her consciousness like a knife, searing and terrifying, yanking her back to the present. Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked her head to the left, toward the sound of the words that had shattered her solitude.
“Andrew,” she said, realizing even as she spoke that it was the first time she had said his name aloud.
He didn’t immediately answer, instead standing over her, looking tall and regal and—white, even in the semidarkness.
Her heart pounded against her rib cage, pumping her part-white blood through her veins, and she wondered if she should run, or try to explain herself, or just sit there and hope he really was as kind as he had appeared in the last few weeks. The only thing she knew for sure was that she shouldn’t be looking into his eyes—and yet she couldn’t look away.
Andrew examined the large rock where Chioma sat, then raised his eyes back to hers and asked, “May I sit down?”
Chioma swallowed and breathed deeply. Wisdom screamed to her to say no, to escape while she still had a chance, but she knew her legs would betray her if she tried. She also knew no words would come if she opened her mouth to speak, so she simply nodded her assent.
Once settled beside her, the scent of him—leather, soap, and a hint of sweat—made her light-headed. Why had she come here? Why couldn’t she be more like Mbhali or Mandisa? Though the two girls were complete opposites of one another, at least they both had the good sense to be sleeping peacefully in their own beds, in the relative safety of their room.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. And then Chioma caught her breath, terrified as Andrew began to untie and remove his shoes. What was he doing? What was he—?
When he dropped his bare feet into the water, his pale skin nearly shining in contrast to hers, she exhaled and felt her shoulders relax. What a strange man, this Andrew Vorster! Were all white men so unpredictable and odd?
Still they didn’t speak. Chioma kept her eyes straight ahead as they sat in silence, occasionally feeling his gaze on her but refusing to return it. She had never felt so completely vulnerable and helpless in her entire life—not even when she had stood at the humble graveside of her murdered brother. How was it possible for anyone to have such power over another human being? How was it possible that his presence could call to her—draw her—without his even speaking a word? Could it be this white man truly was a devil after all?
“It’s beautiful out here,” Andrew said at last. He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Like you, Chioma.”
Chioma thought her heart would stop and she would die, right there on the rock next to the white man who had tried to save Masozi, the white man who smelled of leather and soap and sweat. Why would he say such a thing? Didn’t he know they could never speak of such things—to each other or anyone else? Many people had died for much less—her people, at least, despite the fact that the Mixed Marriages Act had been repealed and, technically, people of different races could now marry, though they would have to renounce their citizenship and leave the country to find a safe place to coexist.
Oh, if only she had the strength to jump up from that rock and run away, as far and as fast as she could! But her heart, which had indeed started beating again and was now pumping at double-time, had betrayed her and refused to allow her to move. The realization that the reason she wasn’t getting up to escape was because she wanted to stay, to be as close to the tall white man with the sky-blue eyes as possible, was more terrifying than anything she had ever experienced.
When Andrew took her hand in his, Chioma once again felt the hot tears rising up behind her eyes, and though she tried to blink them back, one by one they escaped and dripped down her cheeks and onto her lap. When one of them landed on their joined hands, Andrew used his other hand to turn her face toward his. With the glow of the moon and stars lightening the darkness around them, and the electrifying sensation of his fingers on her face, she gasped with surprise. Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of seeing that his eyes were also filled with tears.
“How long do we fight this, Chioma?” he asked, his voice husky and low, sending shivers down her back.
“As long as it takes,” she answered, surprised that she was able to speak. “Forever—or they will kill us.”
Andrew’s eyebrows rose slightly. “They might not like it, but I doubt it would cause anything that drastic.”
“That’s because you’re white,” Chioma argued. “You h
aven’t seen what I’ve seen. They’ll kill us, I tell you—me, at least.”
“She could be right, you know.”
The deep male voice behind them froze Chioma’s blood, as she and Andrew turned in unison, their hands still joined, only to find themselves face-to-face with the man who had slammed Masozi into a tree, ending his life before it had a chance to begin.
Chioma closed her eyes, remembering her parents and reminding herself that if tonight was her time to die, she wouldn’t grovel or beg. She would die with dignity, like her father—though she regretted that she would do so without first accomplishing something for the cause.
Chapter 5
ANDREW SENSED A FLASH OF FEAR SHOOT THROUGH him, but it was quickly lost in anger over his so-called friend’s rude interruption. Hendrie du Preez had been a troublemaker for as long as Andrew had known him—and that was most of his twenty-one years. Hendrie and his younger brother, Johannes, lived with their family on the adjoining farm, and as a result, Andrew and the du Preez boys had practically grown up together. The other member of their foursome, Marius Davies, lived on another nearby farm, and he, too, was known for getting into trouble, especially when he’d had too much to drink, which was more and more often these days.
Andrew had never really trusted Hendrie—or any of the three, for that matter. But proximity and commonality had thrown them together from their youth. After the experience on the roadside that led to Masozi’s death, however, Andrew had purposely distanced himself from his former companions, though they continued to try to convince him to rejoin them.
“What are you doing here?” Andrew demanded, dropping Chioma’s hand and standing to his full height so he could look down at Hendrie, who was several inches shorter. “I thought you and Johannes and Marius were all going to town.”
Hendrie smirked, apparently not cowed by Andrew’s height. “I’m sure you did. And we were going to, but then we decided to come back and give you another chance to join us.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I figured your parents wouldn’t answer the door at this hour, so I went around back to your room and looked inside. When I didn’t see you, I thought I might find you here. I know how much you like coming down here, especially at night.” He grinned. “Now I know why. Guess I also know why you didn’t want to head into town with me and the boys.”
Andrew looked into the darkness behind Hendrie, but he saw no sign of Johannes or Marius. He had no problem taking on one or two of them, if it came to that, but he was not sure about all three, especially Marius, who was taller and more muscular even than Andrew. And if they had been drinking, which he was sure they had, there would be no reasoning with them.
“Don’t worry,” Hendrie said. “The boys are waiting in the truck, up by the house.” He smirked again, and Andrew thought he saw Hendrie sway a bit, confirming Andrew’s suspicions that the trio had already begun drinking. But if what Hendrie had said was true about Johannes and Marius, then at least the odds were stacked in Andrew’s favor.
As if he could read Andrew’s thoughts, Hendrie added, “But all it would take is one yell from me, and they’d be down here to join me.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “But then, why would I want to yell and bring them running? Any reason you can think of, Vorster?”
Andrew glared, weighing his options. His primary concern was to diffuse the situation and get Chioma out of there—safely and quickly. Hendrie had proven himself to be the bully Andrew always suspected him to be when he killed Chioma’s brother, even if the incident had been ruled an accident, and Andrew’s heart told him the young hothead wouldn’t hesitate to kill Chioma as well.
“What do you want, Hendrie?” he demanded, his voice steady, even as he eyed his friend-turned-foe, watching for the slightest movement. “You came here once and invited me to go with you, and I said no. I’m saying it again, so why don’t you just go on back to your friends and head into town? There’s nothing for you here.”
Hendrie’s eyes moved from Andrew’s face to a place behind his back, where Andrew knew Chioma huddled, silent and no doubt terrified. Why had he come here and put her in danger? When he had awakened from his brief sleep, thinking of the words he had read from the Bible, why hadn’t he just rolled over and gone back to sleep instead of walking out onto the veranda for a breath of fresh air? And when he had seen Chioma making her way toward the creek, why hadn’t he just let her go? He’d had no business following her, putting her in a compromising and dangerous situation. If he had stayed at home where he belonged, he could have intercepted Hendrie and the others, and Chioma would be safe. And, of course, if he had heeded his parents’ admonitions to maintain a strict separation of the races, none of this would even be an issue.
Greater love has no one than this …
The words he had read earlier that evening echoed in his heart, as if someone were speaking them, calling out to him—
The words from within were interrupted by Hendrie’s voice. “I’m not so sure about that. I think maybe there is something here for me—maybe the truth of what has been going on right under our noses, the reason you got so upset about the death of one worthless coloured boy.” His eyes squinted and his chin came up, as his shoulders squared. “Now I think maybe you have something going on with the boy’s sister. Maybe—”
Andrew’s fist exploded from his side and caught Hendrie squarely in the middle of his face. The crack of cartilage and the eruption of blood told Andrew his former friend’s nose was broken, but he didn’t care.
“Run, Chioma!” he shouted, grabbing Hendrie and slamming him to the ground. “Get out of here before the others arrive!”
“No,” she cried. “I won’t leave you!”
Hendrie was clawing at Andrew’s face, as he tried to throw the bigger man off him. “You have to!” Andrew yelled. “I can’t protect you from all of them. Go!”
After only a moment’s hesitation, he heard her fleeing through the veld toward the house, sobbing as she ran. Oh, God, he prayed silently, his hands pinning his captive’s shoulders beneath him, don’t let the others see her!
He flinched, crying out in pain as one of Hendrie’s fingers gouged his eye, but he held on. He had to keep him there until Chioma had time to get away.
For God so loved … that He gave …
More snatches of verses spilled through Andrew’s mind as he wrestled with his thrashing opponent. He sensed that what he heard without words was more than just flashes of memory from the Scriptures he had read; it was God, speaking to him, trying to make him understand something …
“Help!” Hendrie called, weakly at first, then louder. “Johannes! Marius! Help me!”
Andrew removed his right hand from Hendrie’s shoulder and clamped it over the writhing man’s mouth, praying the others hadn’t heard, as Hendrie continued to struggle beneath him. And then Andrew felt the searing fire of Hendrie’s teeth sink into the flesh of his palm, and he bellowed in agony, yanking his hand away and freeing Hendrie to start yelling once again.
He knew then there was little chance the others hadn’t heard the commotion by now; he could only hope that his father and some of the other workers on the farm had heard it as well and would come to investigate. Oh, God, whatever happens, let Chioma be safe, please!
Forcing himself to ignore the pain, he pulled his right arm back to punch Hendrie once again, but he was too late. Before he could slam his fist into Hendrie’s face and silence his screams, he felt someone grab his arm from behind. He was yanked to his feet and had just enough time to see Marius’s hate- filled eyes in front of his own, and then the bigger man slammed him in the stomach, and Andrew felt the air explode out of his lungs.
Oh, God, where are You? Where is Chioma? Doubled over, grasping his stomach and gasping for air, he prayed she had escaped in time.
He who believes in the Son has eternal life … Do you believe, Andrew? Do you believe in My Son?
Andrew felt Marius grab him by the hair and yank his head back to look in
to his face. To the side he could see Hendrie pulling himself up from the ground. But where was Johannes?
His eyes darted around the clearing, as much as he was able without turning his head. And then he heard it—muffled sobs and shuffling feet, moving in his direction—and he knew Johannes had captured her.
Andrew renewed his struggle with his captor, raging against the iron grip that had now turned him to stare at Chioma and Johannes as they stumbled into his radius of vision. Marius had pulled Andrew against him, forcing him to face outward, while held in place by Marius’s muscular right arm clamped across Andrew’s neck and throat. Andrew’s hand throbbed where Hendrie had bitten him, and his breath still came in short gasps. But none of that mattered when he saw the terrified look on Chioma’s face—and the smirk on Johannes’s as he clasped her to him in similar fashion to the way Marius held Andrew.
Hendrie, his nose still dripping blood, seemed to be recovering from Andrew’s battering, as he rose to his feet, smirking at the scene in front of him. “So,” he said, his eyes darting between Chioma and Andrew, “still want to play hero?” He laughed, flinching as he did so and putting his hand to his obviously painful nose.
For just as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, even so the Son gives life to whom he is pleased to give it …
There it was again, that sense that God was speaking directly to him, trying to get his attention. Well, it was working.
“I don’t understand,” Andrew answered, not realizing he had spoken the words out loud.
Marius tightened his grip against Andrew’s neck, momentarily interrupting his air supply. As Andrew fought to maintain consciousness, Marius eased his grip and said, “What is there to understand, Vorster? You know the rules—and you know the consequences when you break them.” He leaned in to Andrew’s ear and whispered, “And not getting pally-pally with the blacks and coloureds is one of those rules you really don’t want to break.”