by Kathi Macias
Mandisa gasped, letting go of Chioma’s arms and throwing her hands over her own mouth as if to stifle a scream, even as Mbhali raised her perfectly arched eyebrows questioningly.
“So,” Mbhali said, “the white devil who attempted to beguile you is dead.” She held Chioma’s gaze for a moment, then turned and spat on the ground. “One less of them to worry about. It’s not a loss worth mentioning.” She shot her eyes to Mandisa and then back to Chioma. “It’s even more important now that we find Themba—and that we do it quickly.”
Without another word, Mbhali turned and strode purposefully in the direction where she and Mandisa had been hiding in the trees. At the edge of the clearing, she stopped, looked back, and frowned at Chioma and Mandisa, who still stood in the middle of the clearing, unresponsive and unmoving.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Mbhali demanded. “Are you two coming with me, or must I leave you here and go find my cousin alone?”
Chioma blinked, pulling herself back from the tidal wave of emotion that called to her, demanding recognition. Instead, she set her eyes on Mbhali and determined to push on. After all, what choice did she have? And if she chose to follow after Mbhali, she knew Mandisa would do the same. Staying behind was not an option.
She took a step, determined not to let her mind drift backward. Mandisa quickly fell in behind her, establishing what would soon become their unspoken order of travel, with Mbhali always out in front by several strides. Chioma could only hope the determined leader of their trio knew where she was going.
The moonlight was gone, and the faint rays of a rising sun would soon brighten the edges of the horizon. Chioma was sure she couldn’t take another step, and she wondered how long Mbhali would continue her resolute march. Mandisa was already whimpering from exhaustion, and Chioma knew the girl who plodded faithfully behind her couldn’t continue much longer. The way had already been long and hard, and more than once they had come across multiple lines of barbed-wire fence, necessitating added steps on their journey as they searched for open gates. But not even barbed wire or the unspoken prohibition of trespassing on private property, or the distinct possibility of running into one of many deadly night snakes had deterred Mbhali, as she pressed forward at a pace that left her companions nearly breathless. At last, as if she had read Chioma’s thoughts, Mbhali stopped so suddenly that Chioma and Mandisa nearly piled into her.
“It’s getting light,” Mbhali observed, gazing off into the distance. “The jackals and owls will be silent soon, and even the frogs will stop their singing. We, too, must stop and get some rest before going any farther.”
As they gathered around the base of an acacia tree, well hidden in the midst of a thick stand and shaded from the rising sun, Chioma sighed with relief as she sank down to the ground and pulled her knees up to her chin. She hoped she was tired enough to block out the painful memories that tormented her and fall asleep quickly, as she doubted Mbhali would wait long before ordering them back on their way.
She had scarcely closed her eyes when she felt Mandisa take her hand. Turning her head slightly toward her younger companion, Chioma came dangerously close to giving free rein to her emotions when she saw the compassion mirrored in Mandisa’s eyes. Instead, she squeezed the girl’s hand and then turned away, determined to maintain control.
With her eyes closed once again and her head leaning back against the tree trunk, Chioma counted slowly, forcing herself to breathe evenly and deeply, willing away the images that danced through her mind, stabbing her with fresh, searing pain and deep regret. If only she hadn’t gone to the creek! If only she had run away when Andrew first approached. If only …
If only she had not convinced Masozi to stop beneath that other tree those few weeks ago—weeks that seemed like years. If only the truck hadn’t stopped. If only her father and mother hadn’t been killed, leaving her and Masozi to fend for themselves. If only she had been born with a different color skin … or somewhere other than South Africa … or Mandela hadn’t been put into prison … or apartheid had never become a reality …
As the if-onlys finally drifted into the recesses of her mind, Chioma slept fitfully for what couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours before she heard Mbhali calling to her.
“Wake up,” she ordered, shaking Chioma’s arm. “Both of you, get up! We must get moving before those white devils decide to come looking for us. We won’t be safe until we find Themba. Come.”
Chioma and Mandisa rose slowly, rubbing the sleep from their eyes even as Chioma wondered at the eerie sensation that surrounded them. And then she realized it was the absence of the sonbesies that made the daylight seem so foreign to her. For weeks now the armies of little beetles had filled the air from sunup to sundown with their monotonous buzzing, but this morning it was obvious that the time of the sonbesies had passed. Another cycle of the moon had come and gone, and it was time, as Mbhali had said, to move on with their lives and to find Themba.
But would finding him truly provide them with safety, Chioma wondered. Indeed, could anything or anyone provide them with safety in this life? Hadn’t Andrew tried to protect both Masozi and then Chioma herself? And look how that had turned out!
Falling into place as the middle link of their little human chain, Chioma reminded herself to conserve her energy, even as the blazing sun, which would soon be directly overhead, sapped it with every step she took. Her lips and throat were dry and her tongue was beginning to feel thick, as she struggled to push on, knowing Mandisa and Mbhali felt the same and wondering how Mbhali managed to maintain her brisk pace without lagging or complaint.
Just when Chioma thought she could not possibly go on for another moment, she detected the sound of a running brook. Her companions quite obviously heard it, too, as they veered to the right in unison, picking up their pace as they neared the welcome respite. Before Chioma and Mandisa could break into a run, however, Mbhali held them back with an outstretched arm, as she checked the surrounding area with wary eyes and open ears. At last satisfied there was no immediate danger, she led them forward.
As the three girls dropped to their stomachs and plunged their cupped hands into the water, eagerly lifting the welcome liquid to their lips, Chioma wondered how much longer it would be before they located Themba—or if, indeed, they would find him at all. If they didn’t, what would they do then?
The crack of a rifle so close behind them froze her in place, stopping even her heart, as her hand halted midway between the softly rippling creek and her open mouth. Chioma felt her eyes widen, and for a split second she questioned how many years they would spend in jail—or just how long and how severely they would suffer before they died.
And then the strong, rough hands were around her waist, yanking her to her feet. The smell of sweat and earth was strong in her nostrils, as she heard Mandisa cry out. All three of them had been grabbed from behind and pulled up from the ground, and now stood face-to-face with their captors. With only a very brief sense of relief that the armed group of half a dozen men standing before them were black, Chioma also noticed that none of them looked at all friendly or welcoming. But at least they didn’t appear to be Zulus, sworn enemies of all ANC followers, so there was yet a ray of hope that the three young women might survive this encounter.
She swallowed. Should she speak, ask questions, try to defend herself in some way? As outnumbered as they were, there seemed no point. Escape was out of the question, so she waited, silently, her heart having restarted and now pounding a rapid tattoo against her rib cage. No sound came from either Mbhali or Mandisa, so Chioma assumed they, too, had wisely opted for silence.
The deep-throated laugh that broke that silence startled Chioma more than anything that had happened in the last minute or so since she had gratefully lapped the cool water. She turned her attention to the tall, muscular man from whom the ongoing laughter emanated, and her breath caught in her throat. It had been months since she had seen him, but she would recognize him anywhere—Themba,
Mbhali’s fiercely handsome, almost terrifyingly strong warrior-cousin, with his battle scar descending down and across his chest like a military ribbon.
Chioma exhaled, a sense of relief washing over her as Mbhali’s laughter joined Themba’s, and she rushed to him and fell into his arms. Chioma took Mandisa’s hand as they watched the joyful reunion.
“You came!” Themba’s pleased exclamation rang out again and again, as he twirled Mbhali around several times before setting her down in front of him. “You finally came to join us!”
Mbhali nodded, her joy evident as her ear-to-ear grin reflected in her dancing eyes. “Yes! Yes, I have come, and I brought Chioma and Mandisa with me. We want to join you, cousin—all of us—to fight for the cause, for our people!”
Themba laughed again. “Is that so?” His almost almond-shaped eyes slid to Chioma and Mandisa, examining them as if they were slabs of meat—naked, helpless slabs of meat, Chioma thought—hanging on display in a window somewhere. She shuddered, at once terrified, repulsed, and yet strangely captivated, even as she fought to ignore her conflicting feelings and to avoid direct eye contact with this fearsome warrior. She couldn’t even imagine what poor Mandisa must be thinking, her eyes downcast as the towering man studied them both with unabashed curiosity.
When Chioma realized Themba was no longer laughing, the butterflies already flitting around in her stomach began dancing in overtime. Why did Themba now appear so serious? What did that mean? What was going through his mind as he continued to assess the “baggage” his cousin had brought along with her? What would happen to them if he decided there was no room for baggage in the life of his rebel band? Equally disconcerting was the question of what would happen to them if he decided to let them stay.
She shook her head and opted to stand her ground. She had never gotten anywhere before by letting her fear show. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to return Themba’s gaze until the light rekindled in his eyes and he once again showed signs of breaking into a smile.
“So,” he said, nodding and speaking to Mbhali but still eyeing Chioma, “what do you and your companions have to offer us? You are my cousin—my family, my blood. But what of them? Why should I let them stay? Why, for that matter, should I even let them live?”
Chioma sensed Mandisa stiffen beside her, and they tightened their grip on one another, as they awaited Mbhali’s answer. What could she say to convince Themba to spare their lives and possibly even allow them to live among them? As he had said, why should he? What could they possibly do for him and his valiant freedom fighters?
Chioma suppressed another shudder, refusing to allow her mind to wander in the direction of a likely answer to that question. Perhaps a quick death might be preferable to living with these wild, bloodthirsty fugitives, however righteous the cause they represented.
And then Mbhali spoke, and Chioma felt her heart beating in her throat as she listened, knowing her fate and Mandisa’s hung in the balance of Themba’s reaction to his cousin’s words.
“Because they have nothing left,” Mbhali said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I have you. They have nothing—or no one. All are dead. They have nothing left to lose.”
Themba’s eyes moved away from Chioma and Mandisa and rested on Mbhali, as if considering her logic. As the three young women waited, the fate of at least two of them about to be decided by the leader of this fearsome group, Chioma realized how strong a leader Themba must be. For it was not just she and her two companions who hung on his every word, but the men who followed him as well. From the moment the girls had been captured as they lay beside the water, the other men had looked to Themba for direction, following his lead in everything, speaking and acting only at his command. Though still fearful of this intimidating cousin of Mbhali’s, Chioma could not quell the rising respect she felt for him in her heart.
At last Themba nodded. “That’s good,” he said, glancing again at Mandisa and Chioma before returning his gaze to his cousin. “If they have nothing to lose, then they won’t expect anything in return.” He grunted and slung his battered assault rifle over his shoulder. “I grant them their lives, and my protection so long as they are with us and cause no trouble. But they must earn their keep and work for the cause. I tolerate no laziness. Is that clear?” Before any of them could answer, he added, “And if anyone betrays us or the cause, they will be dead before they take another breath.” Then he turned back to Chioma and Mandisa, his eyes narrowing and his veins popping out on his neck as he demanded, “Is that clear?”
Chioma’s determination not to show fear forgotten, she nodded quickly, not trusting herself to speak. Mandisa whimpered but said nothing as she, too, nodded. The deal had been made. They were under Themba’s protection—and at his mercy.
Then, as quickly as they had seemingly come from nowhere, Themba and his men began to move away from the women at a rapid pace. Just before they were out of sight, Mbhali grabbed Chioma’s arm.
“Come,” she ordered. “Both of you. We must follow them. Hurry!”
And once again, in their previously ordered human chain of Mbhali in the front and Mandisa in the rear, Chioma plowed ahead between the two, their pace increased dramatically from what it had been before meeting up with the men.
Where was this seemingly violent band taking them? What would they expect from them in return for their protection and as a result of their silent pledge to unquestioning loyalty?
And yet, in the midst of the many questions and uncertainties that danced through Chioma’s mind, she couldn’t help but remember Themba’s admonition that they must “work for the cause.” Isn’t that what she had always wanted, what she had dreamed of since she was a little girl, sitting beside the fire and listening to her father’s many stories?
Her father’s stories! Nearly stumbling at the thought, Chioma reached into her apron pocket, anxious to feel the worn cover of the journal that had been her one remnant from her past life … but it wasn’t there. Her pocket was empty, and she knew with certainty that the journal had dropped out during the scuffle that eventually took Andrew’s life.
Suddenly the emotions she had held in check throughout the long hours of the night surfaced with a power she hadn’t known possible. Unable to restrain them any longer, she allowed the tears to flow freely as she walked, silently grieving the loss of the beloved words, the scratchy scrawl, the familiar penmanship that had been her father’s written history of the South Africa he loved, and eventually died trying to change. Of all Chioma had lost, the journal seemed the most painful—and final. It was at that moment that she knew it no longer mattered what the future held or what was required of her to survive it. She would do whatever was necessary, so long as it included revenge against those who had used their power to take everything from her, and from her people.
All that was left now was the cause, and through her tears she vowed to give herself to it without reservation.
Chapter 8
ANANA VORSTER SAT SILENT AND STILL IN THE wicker chair on the wide, open veranda in front of her home, outside alone where Pieter had told her never to go in the middle of the night. But she didn’t care. Why should she? She had buried the second of her two children, as well as what was left of her heart. What purpose was there to continue living? What did she have left? She almost wished she could give in to the need for revenge, to pursue her son’s killers and make sure they paid, though she knew there was little chance of that happening under the circumstances. Andrew was not there to defend himself, and Chioma had disappeared into the night and wouldn’t be considered a reliable witness anyway. From the look of things, the three troublemakers would go unpunished yet again, despite Pieter Vorster’s vow to make sure that didn’t happen.
Guilt sliced her conscience as she thought of her dear husband, sleeping now though unaware he did so alone. He, too, was grieving, and Anana knew that even if justice wasn’t served in Andrew’s death, she had to live for Pieter, to help him through from one day to the next … but for w
hat? To oversee the running of the farm? To be sure the crops were tended and the cows milked? Was there nothing else, nothing of lasting value or limitless worth, nothing that truly mattered?
I am.
The eternal whisper came from somewhere within her, and yet from outside her as well. She knew the Source, and she didn’t doubt the Truth of what she heard. And yet … she felt so disconnected, so unrelated, though she was well aware the words had come from her Father.
“Why can’t I feel You?” she whispered. “Why do You seem so far away?”
I am always with you, daughter. I never leave you. The words were like wind, soft and gentle, fading even as they lingered in her heart.
Anana felt the tears rising up from the seemingly endless cistern within her, as they had day and night since Andrew left them. Would the pain of missing him ever end? A picture of Gertie flashed through her mind, and she had her answer.
“How will I bear it, Lord?” she cried. “How will I go on? And why should I?”
I am.
She caught her breath, the impact of the repeated words nearly knocking her from her chair. The promises within those words should be enough for me. And ultimately they will be. But right now …
Reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief, Anana touched the rough binding of the journal she had carried with her since Andrew’s death. She drew it out and held it gently in her hands, gazing down at it though it was too dark to read the words that had become so familiar to her since she found the worn book beside her son’s broken body that fateful night.
“You meant for me to find this, didn’t You, Lord?” She was whispering again. “It was no accident that Chioma left it behind. There are things in here I need to understand. But I … I confess I don’t truly understand them, Father. Not really, not completely … though I’m willing.”