by Kathi Macias
The midmorning sun was already beating down on Chioma’s head, as she went about cleaning up the camp before beginning her bullet-loading and knife-sharpening duties. Her so-called betrothal to Themba had apparently not lessened her obligations to the group.
The buzz of an annoying fly was interrupted by the faint sound of a plane overhead, and Chioma stilled the sweep of her nearly threadbare broom long enough to gaze up into the azure sky. She had never been near enough to an airplane to know what one actually looked like close up, but she never ceased to marvel when one flew above her, never failed to wonder who the giant silver bird was carrying to or from her home in South Africa, or how many of the huge flying machines might even now be soaring through the sky. She never wondered about them long, however, as she knew she would never ride on one herself. Her destiny was here, in her homeland, to live and die for the cause.
At the thought, she shivered, even under the sun’s warm rays, when her mind wandered, as it often did these days, to the handsome but terrifying leader of their group, Themba, to whom she was now pledged for life. My fate is in his hands. If only I knew what that would bring …
The plane was gone from sight now, and she turned back to her work, but before she could stir up another swirl of dust with her battered broom, Mbhali joined her. “Have you seen him?” she whispered, leaning close.
Chioma frowned. “Seen who? What are you talking about?”
Mbhali cut her eyes to the small cluster of men across the yard. “There. The new one, to the right.”
Chioma followed her friend’s gaze, her eyes landing on a broad-shouldered, bare-chested man with almost ebony skin and muscles that looked as if they could snap a man in two as easily as a twig.
“Who is he?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“That’s because he just arrived,” Mbhali explained, keeping her voice low. “His name is Abrafo—‘troublemaker’ or ‘executioner.’ From what I hear, both names are appropriate. His own band of followers was killed in a raid last week. Somehow he managed to escape, and now he’s come to join us.”
When she stopped speaking, Chioma turned her gaze from the newcomer to her friend, whose eyes had narrowed with intensity, though she continued to inspect the object of their conversation. “It doesn’t bode well for us,” Mbhali continued. “There’s bad blood between Abrafo and Themba. Though they fight for the same cause, they’ve never been brothers. I don’t like it. There’s trouble in the wind.”
Though this was the first Chioma had heard of any of it, she realized she didn’t like it, either. She looked back in the direction of Abrafo just as he turned his head and caught her gazing at him. She felt her eyes widen as he fixed his stare on her, and a cold fear crept up her spine. The half smile he soon cast her way was more of a sneer, and the evil behind it was undeniable.
Quickly she looked away. “Why is he looking at me like that?” she whispered.
Mbhali hesitated before answering. “I don’t know,” she said at last, and in a rare occurrence, Chioma heard fear in her friend’s voice. “But if it’s what I think it is, it can only add to the trouble that already exists between him and my cousin.”
Chapter 11
THOUGH EACH VISIT BETWEEN ANANA AND HER sister had been memorable, none had been more needed than this one. Thank goodness the plane had arrived on time, and they were now home with their precious cargo.
Anana puttered around the kitchen, smiling at the memory of their reunion. Even Pieter had joined in the hugging and welcoming ritual, but then had fallen silent as he drove back to the farm, chauffeur-style and alone in the front seat, allowing the sisters to sit together in back and chatter the entire way. Anana resolved to make a point to thank her husband for his quiet thoughtfulness.
Now, with Emma settling into the guest room, Anana was determined to make boerekoffie the way her sister liked and complained she was never able to get in America. Anana wasn’t about to trust Kagiso or any of the other servants to make this special Afrikaner coffee; it must be exactly as only Anana could make it.
Anana was also planning a special meal for Emma that evening, and though she wouldn’t do the cooking herself, she would be careful to oversee every aspect of the preparation. She wanted this first day back in South Africa to be especially perfect for her sister.
Deep down Anana harbored the wish that Emma would move back to her homeland now that John was gone, but she also knew how unlikely that was, since Emma would never be willing to leave Mariana or her family behind in America. But how lovely it would be for Anana to have her only sibling nearby, where they could visit daily and share their everyday events—and their pain.
The reminder of Andrew’s death, as well as John’s, stabbed at Anana’s heart, disturbing the unabashed joy she had felt since first laying eyes on her sister. Admittedly she had been shocked at the white hair that now highlighted Emma’s temples, though the woman was still four years shy of fifty. And yet, Pieter’s hair was already showing signs of gray, and he and Emma were the same age. Why should Anana be surprised that Emma would reflect those same changes?
Because I don’t see her every day, Anana told herself. With Pieter, it’s such a gradual change that I don’t notice; with Emma…
She shook her head. Though Emma would always be her “big sister,” it was difficult to accept that she was no longer the young and vibrant mentor who had held Anana’s admiration for decades.
But then, I’m not so young and vibrant anymore, either. I might have thought I was, before Andrew died, but now I know better.
She sighed, measuring just the right amount of milk into the pot. So many things I thought were true before Andrew died—
Anana started at the sound of Emma’s voice behind her, nearly dropping the pot of milk as she spun around to see her sister’s surprised expression.
“Are you all right?” Emma asked. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
Anana smiled, her heart rate quickly returning to normal. “I’m fine,” she assured her, turning back to place the pot on the stove before giving her attention to Emma. “I was just … daydreaming, I suppose.” She smiled, hoping to reassure her sister.
Emma returned the smile, and the softness in her blue eyes, so much like Anana’s, telegraphed her empathy. “I understand. My mind drifts more than ever these days … to happier times.”
Anana nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as the two of them seated themselves around the small wooden table. “Happier times. It’s difficult not to daydream when those happier times are all in the past.”
Emma reached across the table and placed her hand on her sister’s. “Don’t allow yourself to think that way, dear one. It’s true we’ve lost loved ones and our hearts are heavy, but it’s not true that we can never be happy again. We must be willing to allow God to bring what He wills into our lives—including happiness.”
Anana locked her eyes with Emma’s, willing her big sister to convince her of the words she had spoken. She wanted to believe them—needed to if she was to find any meaning or purpose in getting out of bed each day. But did Emma truly believe them, or was she simply trying to cheer up her little sister, as she had done so many times over the years?
“I’d better check the milk,” Anana said at last, pulling her hand away and rising from her chair. She was sure it wasn’t ready, but she hadn’t been able to wait any longer for an answer she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear. If Emma, of all people, couldn’t convince her there were better times ahead, what was the point of continuing on? Gertie was gone, and now Andrew. Once Emma returned to America, Anana’s only reason for breathing would be to keep Pieter going. Though he came across as a bit of a gruff but strong farmer, Anana knew his heart was ragged with pain. Life had dealt them both some heavy blows, but at least they still had one another. If anything ever happened to Pieter—
She stopped before her thoughts could take her any further. Emma was here, recovering from the loss of her own dear husband, and it w
as time to experience the gift of companionship God had given them, even if only for a brief time. They would start by enjoying a perfect cup of boerekoffie.
Pieter sat atop the bay mare that had been Andrew’s mount for several years. Pieter had never particularly cared for the horse—or for any horse, which was a strange thing for a farmer. But riding the animal that had been so much a part of Andrew’s life somehow helped Pieter stay connected to the son he so desperately missed.
As he slowly rode the fence line that Andrew had inspected from this same vantage point so many times, Pieter’s heart pounded painfully with each clop of the mare’s hooves. It was masochistic, he knew, but he just couldn’t seem to break away from the animal that had carried the one who would always be so beloved to Pieter.
Father. Pieter would never forget that one of Andrew’s last words was father. Looking back, he now suspected his son was speaking to God and not to him. He was glad Andrew’s last thoughts on this earth were of his heavenly Father, whom he was about to meet face-to-face, but Pieter couldn’t help but wish his son had spoken to him one more time before he breathed his last.
His heart squeezed with the agony of missing his boy, the young man in whom Pieter had placed all his hopes and dreams, the one who was to carry on the Vorster name and the Afrikaner ways. Why, he asked himself for what seemed the thousandth time, had Andrew chosen to get involved with that coloured girl? Why couldn’t he have left her alone, and then he, not Pieter, would be riding the mare and checking the fence line, and his parents would not be suffering nearly unfathomable grief?
Pieter shook his head, determined to clear his mind of such macabre thoughts. He knew they did no good, accomplished nothing positive, but how was he to be free of them? How could he move past the pain and get on with his life—or help his dear Anana do the same?
Briefly he comforted himself with the thought that at least for now—for a few days and weeks—Anana would have Emma to help cheer her. Pieter knew it wasn’t enough, but it was more than he could give her, and for that he was grateful.
Mandisa had been watching Chioma, and she knew her friend was in trouble. It was obvious it was only a matter of time until her situation with Themba—and now Abrafo—came to a head. What would Chioma do? Themba was frightening, yes, but even in his otherwise boorish ways, he was a gentleman compared to Abrafo. And Mandisa couldn’t help but believe that their fearless leader truly cared for Chioma.
Mandisa had watched the interloper’s arrival, having been on sentry duty the day he showed up. Her skin had crawled as the newcomer stared her down, and she had been thankful for the other guard who had escorted the terrifying man to Themba. She had no desire to be alone with Abrafo and always kept as wide a space between them as possible.
Chioma was not so fortunate. Though Abrafo had quickly been set straight about the relationship between Themba and Chioma and therefore kept his distance when Themba was present, he still cast leering glances her way. And when Themba was gone, Abrafo made every effort to get close to her, though his unwelcome advances were always met by a fleeing Chioma before he got near enough to verbalize his interest.
Mandisa watched him carefully this day, wondering when he would make his move now that Themba had left the camp, announcing before he did that he wouldn’t return for several hours. Mandisa had seen the look of alarm in Chioma’s eyes when she heard Themba’s words, and it was obvious Chioma was terrified of Abrafo.
True to expectations, Abrafo rose from the circle where he sat with his growing number of admirers, a handful of men Mandisa was sure Abrafo was trying to win over from Themba. Without hesitation, Abrafo went straight to the fire, where Chioma tended the large pot of pap, the daily staple that served as the late afternoon meal for everyone in the camp. Mandisa wished she had the courage to warn her friend or to at least go and stand beside her, but she felt frozen in place as she watched the scene play out.
Abrafo was only steps from the fire when Chioma lifted her head and spotted him, her eyes widening at the sight.
From the moment Chioma sensed the approaching evil, she knew it was Abrafo. She had anticipated it from the moment she heard Themba’s announcement of his departure. Chioma had considered running off into the trees to hide until Themba returned, but she knew she would pay a hefty price for abandoning her duties. Torn, she had stayed beside the fire, reassuring herself that even Abrafo wouldn’t try anything under the watchful eyes of those remaining in the compound.
But now he stood just inches from her, his rock-hard chest rising and falling as he glared down at her, his dark eyes firing darts of contempt in her direction. Chioma’s heart raced, and it took every bit of self-control she had to stand her ground. But she raised her chin in defiance, even as she avoided his eyes and determined not to speak to the arrogant man who stood belligerently in front of her, wordlessly daring her to try to escape.
At last he spoke, and his words were as intimidating as his size and the malevolence of his expression. “Where’s your hero now?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “You no longer have a protector in the camp. Where will you fly to escape me, little bird?” When she didn’t answer, he raised his clenched fist in front of her. “You know I could catch you and crush you before you made it outside the camp, don’t you?”
Chioma felt her head begin to swim, and she was having trouble breathing. Forgetting her decision not to speak, she raised her eyes to meet his and opened her mouth, but no words came out.
The sneer that spread across Abrafo’s lips as she stood there, quivering and speechless, was followed by words so evil Chioma thought she would rather die at that very moment than continue to live in such terror.
“So you think you belong to Themba?” Abrafo hissed. “You’re wrong, little bird. You belong to me. And once I’ve rid this place of your so-called brave leader, I’ll have you to myself—until you displease me. Then I’ll find another little bird to take your place. And you? I’ll pluck your feathers and wring your neck like a chicken that’s outlived its usefulness.” He paused, leaning in toward Chioma’s face. The smell of sweat and dirt nearly knocked her from her feet. “The secret is not to displease me,” he said, as she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the vision of his malevolent grin.
When he laughed, she couldn’t help but compare the promise of trouble she heard in the sound with the deep, joy-filled laughter of Themba. Their leader might be frightening and demanding, but at the moment there was nothing Chioma wanted more than to hear his voice nearby.
As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, Themba’s words interrupted Abrafo’s laugh, and Chioma’s eyes snapped open. Themba and his companions had returned. Nearly forgetting to breathe, Chioma watched as Abrafo moved from her side and back toward the circle of men he had been sitting with moments earlier. If Themba noticed any of this action, there was no acknowledgment of it on his part, as he gathered additional weapons and once again prepared to leave. As if it were an afterthought, he stopped at the edge of the compound and turned back toward the small circle of men where Abrafo now sat.
“You,” he said, nodding at Abrafo, “come with us. We need another warrior on this raid.”
The battle of wills that played out between the locked eyes of the two men was short-lived, and soon Abrafo was gone, along with Themba and the others. Had Themba come back for the express purpose of checking on Abrafo? Was Themba aware of this new threat to his leadership in the camp, as well as to his relationship with his future wife?
Chioma couldn’t be sure, but she found herself exhaling in relief that Themba had returned when he did. Though she didn’t eagerly anticipate a future with Themba, at least he had talked about one day having children with her, which meant he would give himself to protecting her and preserving her life. Abrafo, on the other hand, had promised only to use her until she displeased him—and then to wring her neck like a worthless chicken.
Why had she ever believed that running away from the farm with Mbhali and Mandisa and joi
ning Themba’s band of freedom fighters would afford her some sort of safety? For only a brief moment, she wondered if she might have been safer staying behind at the Vorster farm, even after Andrew’s death …
Chapter 12
THE CRY WAS SO FAINT SHE WASN’T EVEN SURE SHE heard it. She was, after all, dreaming. Somehow she sensed that. And yet …
There it was again, louder this time, though still no one else seemed to notice.
Anana looked around her, unfamiliar with her surroundings or the people she saw there, and yet certain she was exactly where she was supposed to be. The cry was somehow a sign that God had heard the cry of her own heart, that lonesome, aching wail that is born out of fear and abandonment—and aching, aching loneliness.
The need to belong. That’s what she heard in the cry. And somehow she knew it was up to her to convey that belonging.
Running now, as if through quicksand, Anana struggled to move forward, to reach the crying child, opening her mouth to call for help—but no sound came forth. The only audible component of her struggle was the continuing cry of the baby, a newborn, she was sure.
Mine? No, I’m too old. A grandchild, perhaps? No. Even that’s impossible now. Then whose baby? And why me? What purpose do I have in all this?
Sipho …
The strange but vaguely familiar word echoed in her mind. What did it mean? And what did it have to do with her struggle to reach the crying infant?
Sipho. Sipho. Sipho …
Anana bolted upright to a sitting position, clutching her feather bed covering to her chest as Pieter sat up beside her and pulled her to himself.
“What is it, my dear?” he whispered. “Did you have a dream, a nightmare?”
Anana waited while her heart slowed and her mind cleared. Yes, she’d had a dream. But a nightmare? No. Though it was confusing, she didn’t sense the darkness that came with nightmares.