by Kathi Macias
She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, as the book lay unopened in her lap. “What do You want me to learn from it, Lord? Show me, Father. Teach me. Help me to understand …”
The light from inside the house blinked on even as she heard Pieter’s voice.
“Anana? Are you out here?”
“Coming, Pieter,” she called, jumping up from her seat, which now sat exposed in the stream of light emanating from the screen door.
The door squeaked open and Pieter peeked out. “Anana? What are you doing out here? I’ve told you, you shouldn’t be out here alone, not at night.”
“I know, Pieter,” she said, quickly tucking the journal back into her pocket before going inside to join her husband. “And I’m sorry if I worried you, my dear. But I’m fine. Truly I am.”
The compound was more dirt than anything else, but it served as a gathering place and was easily evacuated if necessary. In the three days Chioma and her companions had been there, they had learned little except that temporary was a way of life, and nothing was permanent or certain. That the group had occupied this particular compound for nearly a month was a record.
“We stay ready to move at a moment’s notice,” Themba had informed them. “There is a bounty on our heads, and if we’re caught, there will be no trial.”
Chioma knew that included her, simply because she was there. It wouldn’t matter that she hadn’t participated in any of the crimes or terrorism for which the group was wanted. She was coloured, and she was guilty by association. She had therefore decided she would become guilty by commission when necessary, which she imagined wouldn’t be long. To be truthful, a part of her looked forward to that moment with longing, for with every drop of blood that had been spilled of someone close to her, Chioma’s need for revenge had grown.
Still, she knew she could not push. Mbhali had been more readily accepted into the group because of her blood relationship to Themba. Chioma and Mandisa, however, would have to prove themselves before they would be viewed with anything but wary tolerance.
Of course, they were not the only women in the compound, though they did appear to be the youngest. Of the handful of women who lived with the group, all appeared to be in their mid- to late twenties or early thirties. One of the youngest, Ebele, was pregnant and looked to be near her delivery date. When Chioma inquired as to the whereabouts of the baby’s father, she was met with knowing smiles or vague responses, which served only to confirm her existing concerns that she and Mandisa might be expected to contribute to the group in ways she didn’t even want to consider.
Chioma watched Ebele as the days progressed, marveling at the young woman’s ability to maintain her share of work. Apparently Themba’s admonition that everyone do their part extended even to those about to give birth.
As Chioma tended the small fire one morning, making coffee and warming the hard bread that served as their first meal of the day, her mind drifted to the many times she had cooked at the Vorster farm. They, too, had coffee in the morning, called boerekoffie, though it was mostly made of hot milk, in which they would dip their rusks, the hard bread that was a staple for many in South Africa. But some white farmers also indulged in occasional delicacies that few blacks or coloureds had ever tasted.
As Chioma’s thoughts began to settle on her memories of Andrew, she was interrupted by Mandisa’s soft voice. Startled, she turned to her friend, who stood beside her, sleepy-eyed.
“Sure could use some of that coffee,” she mumbled.
Chioma smiled. Mandisa had always had a hard time waking up, and for the first hour or so after she got out of bed, she reminded Chioma of a little girl, in need of a mother’s lap. But then, aren’t we all? she wondered.
“Just about ready,” she assured her friend.
Ebele joined them then, her stomach seeming to show up quite a bit ahead of the rest of her. Chioma marveled at the tautness of the young woman’s skin, stretched beyond reasonable limits over a baby that rolled and kicked and elbowed its mother unmercifully. From the first time Chioma laid eyes on Ebele’s bare stomach—which she refused to cover, saying the baby needed air—Chioma was stunned that the woman could even walk, let alone do anything else. Chioma wished the pregnant woman would wear something to cover the constant reminder of her condition, as the very sight made Chioma uneasy. Perhaps it was the thought of bringing yet another life into a world that would be less than kind to it. Whatever the reason, it was enough to make Chioma swear off of ever having children.
“How are you this morning, Ebele?” Mandisa asked, her eyes soft as they always were when she gazed at the pregnant woman’s protruding belly. Chioma shook her head. How could Mandisa be so captivated by a sight that repulsed Chioma? For a brief moment she allowed herself to think of Masozi and wonder how things might have been had he lived long enough to become a man and take Mandisa for his bride. Would she have walked around with equal pride and excitement over a pending new life, created by the love she shared with her husband? When that thought led Chioma to a glimpse of Andrew’s eyes, looking down at her in the moonlight that last night at the farm, she quickly shook it off.
The coffee was ready and the bread warm, but before Chioma could fill their cups, Themba strode up to them, followed by two companions, whom Chioma assumed were his bodyguards. The men were ready to eat; the rest of them would have to wait.
She quickly filled three cups and handed them to the men, who seemed not to notice her except to thanklessly accept her offering. But as his companions grabbed chunks of bread and walked away, Themba remained for a moment, his eyes fixed on Chioma, causing her to drop her gaze in embarrassment.
“You are well?” he asked.
Chioma swallowed. It was the first time he had spoken to her in a personal way since their arrival at the camp, and his seeming concern confused her. What did it mean? Why would he ask her and not the others? She sneaked a glance at his eyes in an attempt to read his thoughts, but the two dark orbs were as impenetrable as flints, unblinking and focused. Why did Chioma feel naked when the man looked at her? Surely he wasn’t interested in her as a woman, and she certainly wasn’t interested in him—or any other man, for that matter, she reminded herself quickly. Still, it would be easier if he weren’t constantly walking around without a shirt, wearing his scar with obvious pride and allowing his muscles to ripple with his every move.
Settling her gaze above his scarred chest but below his eyes, while blocking out the image of Andrew that always danced at the edges of her memory, she forced herself to speak. “I’m … well. Thank you.”
Unmoving for several heartbeats, Themba finally nodded and turned away, leaving Chioma weakened. From fear? She wasn’t sure. What else could it be?
When the men were out of earshot, Ebele whispered, “Our leader has eyes for you. Interesting. I haven’t seen that from him before—at least not to such an extent.” Chioma noticed a flash of something—pain, confusion, anger—in Ebele’s eyes before the girl continued. “He takes what he wants, yes, but never does he show that level of interest. You must have made quite an impression for him to want you so.”
Chioma inhaled sharply, ready to counter the woman’s words, but Ebele shook her head. “Don’t deny it,” she cautioned. “Themba is a brave warrior. He takes care of us, and he fights valiantly for the cause and for our people. But when he says he’s in charge, he means it. If Themba wants you, he’ll have you. It’s simply the way of things out here—the only way any of us can survive.”
Out here. What was that supposed to mean? In her heart she knew, and Chioma swallowed again, her hands going damp at the implications of Ebele’s declaration. If he wants me, he’ll have me. What if I don’t want him? What if I want to be left alone?
Her eyes darted then to Ebele’s stomach, and she suppressed a gasp. Had the pregnant woman been trying to tell her something? Is that what had happened to her? Is that why she seemed to have no husband, no man to care for her or the child she was about to bring into th
e world? Was it possible Themba was the baby’s father?
Ebele’s stomach rolled then, from one side to the other, and Chioma recoiled, even as Mandisa squealed with delight and placed her hand on the undulating belly. It was obvious the three young women were not cut from the same cloth, and Chioma knew she was the mismatch in the group. It was little comfort when she thought of Themba’s dark eyes holding hers like magnets, and the words of Ebele: “If Themba wants you, he’ll have you.”
She realized then that as badly as she wanted to fight for the cause, she would also leave this place if she just had somewhere else to go. But she didn’t, and so she would stay. But she would do so with a wary eye, even when she slept.
Emma Rhoades parked her five-year-old Ford LTD station wagon in the garage and made her way to the door that led inside to the kitchen. It had been a long day, but an exciting one. The arrangements were made, and soon she would be on a plane headed for Johannesburg and her beloved South Africa. Though she hadn’t lived there in nearly twenty-five years, since meeting and marrying John, an American businessman, and relocating to the United States, a large part of her heart had never left her homeland. Now that she was a new widow and the insurance claim would be settled soon, there was no reason she shouldn’t fly home for a visit.
Home. The word brought tears to her blue eyes, eyes that John had repeatedly told her were so like her younger sister’s. Poor, dear Anana! It was tragic enough to lose one child, but to lose them both, first a daughter and then a son, was beyond imagining. Though John’s passing had left a sizeable hole in Emma’s heart, she still had her daughter and son-in-law, as well as a soon-to-be-born grandchild, to comfort her. Anana and Pieter would never know the joy of holding a grandchild on their lap or watching them grow, and instead would bear the pain of missing their only children until they joined them in heaven.
Emma sighed as she pulled some nondescript leftovers from the refrigerator and dumped them into a pan. Adjusting the flame under the pot, she dropped the lid in place and then put some water on to boil for tea. She wished her reason for going on this trip was a bit more positive. She hadn’t spent much time with her only nephew over the years, or any of her sister’s family for that matter, simply because they were separated by so many miles. But she smiled as she remembered how Pieter and Anana had made that one trip to Southern California to visit Emma and her family, bringing along their two adorable children, Gertrude, named after Anana and Emma’s mother, and Andrew, named after Pieter’s father. Emma and John’s daughter, Mariana, only a few months older than Andrew, had taken great delight in showing her cousins everything American—including Disneyland.
Emma closed her eyes, remembering the picture-perfect day they had all spent at the “happiest place on earth,” and how the children had laughed and squealed with delight when they had their pictures taken with Mickey Mouse. Emma and Anana had stood hand in hand, watching their offspring at play and marveling at the overflowing joy and blessings in all of their lives.
Then Pieter and Anana had taken their children and flown back across the ocean to their faraway plot of land in South Africa, only to lose their precious daughter in a tragic accident just two months later. Though Anana had clung to her faith and persevered, Emma knew she had never again been as happy as she had been that day when they all stood in line, eating popcorn and waiting to swoop down the Matterhorn.
Emma lifted the lid and stirred her unappetizing meal, trying to blink away the stinging tears that seemed to have resurfaced since Andrew’s death. She had wanted to go to her sister right away, but John was too sick, too near his own death. Now that he was gone …
A tear spilled over onto her cheek, and she swiped at it with her sleeve. No wonder she had done so much crying lately! Was there no end to the tragedies their family must endure? Both of her parents gone now, as well as her husband and her niece and nephew, not to mention Pieter’s parents … Wasn’t that enough?
“I’m sorry, God,” she whispered. “I know it’s not my place to question Your timing or Your ways. But I must admit, there are times I wonder …”
She shook her head, reminding herself that she wasn’t going home to bring her sister more grief. Despite their many losses and the fact that they would undoubtedly shed some tears together, they could also enjoy their long-overdue visit. In addition, Emma was especially pleased that while she was there she would be able to include a visit to a young missionary couple, sponsored by Emma’s church, and friends of Mariana. Emma would be delivering a much-needed box of Bibles and study materials to the couple, and she looked forward to that almost as much as to her time with Anana and Pieter.
Emma smiled, scooping her now hot food onto a plate. Yes, it would be a good visit, despite their personal losses and the turmoil in South Africa. What a blessing that God had provided everything she needed to make such a timely trip! Emma couldn’t help but believe good things would come from it.
Chapter 9
EMMA IS COMING! OH, PIETER, MY SISTER IS COMING to visit!” Pieter Vorster watched his wife nearly twirl around the sitting room in anticipation of once again seeing her only sibling. With thousands of miles of ocean separating them for nearly a quarter of a century now, it was not a visit they enjoyed often. Pieter and Anana and the children had flown to America to see Emma and her family only once, while Emma’s little clan had managed to cross the waters to South Africa three times—in part, Pieter imagined, to quell Emma’s ever-present longing for her beloved homeland.
Pieter smiled, hoping his sadness didn’t show through. It seemed it had been so long since either he or Anana had smiled at anything, and if Emma’s visit was what it took to coax Anana’s mouth to curve upward again, then Pieter would also rejoice at the news, despite the underlying sorrows that might have precipitated the reunion.
“That is wonderful, my dear,” Pieter said, his voice soft as he leaned to plant a kiss on his wife’s cheek. The almost forgotten glow in her pale blue eyes made any effort on his part worthwhile. Anana had suffered so much loss in her forty-two years of life that it seemed a miracle she could smile at anything.
Of course, Pieter was no stranger to grief himself. In addition to sharing with Anana the death of their only children, he had also lost his parents in an automobile accident when he was scarcely out of his teens. Marrying Anana when he was twenty-three and she nineteen had been the point of rescue and hope he had so desperately needed to keep him believing in life. Never had he dreamed on their glorious wedding day that he would have to witness his gentle bride endure such harsh realities.
“She’ll be here in a couple of weeks,” Anana announced as if for the first time, though she had already informed him of this fact several times. “I must get the guest room ready. She’s allergic to feathers, you know, so the feather bed must be replaced with blankets, and the pillows with foam.”
Pieter’s heart warmed to hear his wife’s familiar chatter, something their home had sadly lacked since Andrew’s death. Death. Why can’t I call it what it really was? It was murder, plain and simple. Had it been a black or coloured who struck the fatal blow, rather than one of those spoiled whites who called himself Andrew’s friend, it would have been murder for sure. Or if Andrew had been defending the honor of a white woman … Instead, it appeared those three hooligans would get off with a slap on the wrist. Where was the justice in that?
He shut down his thoughts. Nothing constructive could come of allowing them to drift in such an impossible direction. The situation was what it was, and the legal system—including apartheid—was not going to change because the Vorsters’ personal circumstances were adversely affected by it. Still, Pieter had always rationalized and even justified the special treatment inherent in apartheid—before. Now that this special treatment had reared its head in his own home, nothing seemed as certain as it once had.
“Pieter? Are you listening?”
He pulled himself back to the present, forcing a smile as he realized Anana was speaking to him. �
��I’m sorry, my dear. I was daydreaming. What were you saying?”
The hint of understanding that invaded her eyes threatened to extinguish the light that still flickered there, but before it could, Pieter took her in his arms and pulled her to himself. “I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t let me—or any-thing—interfere with your joy at seeing your sister again.” He kissed the top of her head, marveling at the sweet, clean smell of her blond hair, neatly clasped at the back of her neck. “It will be a wonderful visit, and I’ll help you prepare for it any way I can.”
Anana’s arms tightened around his waist as she pressed against him. Regardless of all else that came into their lives, he was thankful beyond words for the strength he drew from the woman God had given him to be his partner. Though her presence didn’t take away the pain of losing their children, her sharing of that loss made it bearable. He only hoped the anticipated visit with Emma would prove to be the positive experience Anana so obviously needed.
The airport was crowded, and Emma was grateful that Mariana had been able to accompany her into the city to see her off. Even after more than twenty years of living in the ever-expanding Los Angeles area, Emma wasn’t comfortable driving beyond the beach town of Santa Monica, and especially now that John was no longer there to chauffeur her around. Though the residents of Santa Monica and other small Southern California towns had seen their share of growth in the past few decades, the streets were still relatively quiet and crime-free. The stop-and-go traffic she and Mariana had run into on their way to LAX that morning had only reinforced Emma’s appreciation for her own family-oriented neighborhood, as well as the Vorster farm that represented all she held dear about her native land.