No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  But, of course, he hadn’t. Chioma was his woman and would soon be his wife—at least, according to Themba. Chioma knew that in her mind, but the rest of her had yet to accept it. And yet, this surprisingly tender side of him, showing through in the way he dealt with little Sipho, tugged at her heart in a way that surprised her.

  Allowing her eyes to sweep from Themba’s face down to his feet and up again, she noticed for the first time the small bag he held in his left hand. She studied it for a moment, then raised her eyes to his face, only to find him gazing at her, grinning. Had he mistaken her glance of curiosity for one of desire? She felt her face grow hot and dropped her eyes. Even then, she could feel him watching her.

  At last she knew he had turned his attention back to Mandisa, as Chioma heard him say, “Is it a man-child?”

  Without hesitation, though with trembling in her voice, Mandisa answered, “His name is Sipho.”

  Chioma dared to lift her head and look at Themba, whose surprised but amused expression was still aimed at Mandisa. Finally he said, “Sipho. Gift.” He nodded. “So it shall be. And you shall be mother to this little gift. Take care, Mandisa, that he thrives and grows up brave and strong. We need to raise comrades for the cause.”

  Chioma darted her eyes toward Mandisa just in time to see her friend’s shocked reaction. It was almost as if she had received a physical blow, as she stumbled backward, almost falling in the process. “Me?” she squeaked at last. “I am to be Sipho’s mother? But … why me?”

  Chioma wondered at her friend’s extreme response. Didn’t Mandisa realize she was the obvious choice to mother the little orphan? Or was it simply that she imagined someone else in their community more qualified?

  Once again Chioma saw Themba raise his eyebrows, his amused smile gone. “Because I said so. Isn’t that enough?”

  Chioma held her breath, waiting for her friend’s response. When it came, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Yes,” Mandisa said, a glow coming over her face as she spoke. “It’s enough, Themba. And I thank you for the honor. I’ll raise him well.”

  Themba nodded. “Good. Before the milk goat arrives, find a way to feed your little comrade.”

  Turning his attention back to Chioma then, he dropped the bag at her feet. “This is for you,” he said. With that he turned and strode to his lean-to without another glance at Mandisa and the baby … or Chioma.

  The evening was quiet, the farm peaceful as Anana and Emma sat, once again, in the wicker chairs on the veranda. Dinner was over, the servants had cleaned up and retired to their rooms for the night, and Pieter was in his study, going over the books. It was the quality “sister time” Anana had so loved and missed over the years.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” Emma observed, her face alight in the glow from the open door. “Just as I remembered it.”

  Anana nodded. “Yes. I have often thought how very much you must have loved John to give all this up and move so far away.”

  Emma turned toward her, a wistful smile teasing her lips. “I did. I do. I have loved him almost from the day we met, and I shall always love him.”

  Anana nodded again. She understood exactly. Her passion for Pieter, though tempered and matured over the years, was no less now than on the day she had become his bride. How fortunate she and Emma were to have married men they loved so dearly—and who loved them in return. It seemed a rare commodity these days.

  “I always wanted that same type of enduring love for my children,” Anana said, and then stopped. Why had she brought that up? Gertie had been dead for years, and now Andrew, too, was gone. There would be no loving relationships or marriage or children for either of them, and that was a grief that nearly exceeded Anana’s own loss.

  Emma reached over and laid her hand on her sister’s. “Now it’s my turn to understand. And I do. I, too, wished—indeed, prayed—for that sort of love for Mariana.” Emma paused before continuing, and Anana knew it was out of consideration for her loss. “I know how blessed I am to have seen those prayers answered. Eric and Mariana have such a wonderful marriage, and I am so looking forward to becoming a grandmother.”

  Anana smiled. Despite the stark difference in their lives, she truly was happy for her sister. Emma might have lost John, but she still had Mariana and her family to help keep his memory alive.

  Anana’s heart constricted yet again at the thought of what it would be like if she lost Pieter. He was all she had left—no children or grandchildren to give her life meaning or to fill her house with joy and laughter. Unbidden, the memory of Andrew’s last night on earth flashed through her mind—the sight of him, lying motionless on the ground near the river, Pieter kneeling beside him … and yes, the young woman, Chioma, standing in the distance, looking on.

  Was it possible Andrew and Chioma could ever have experienced the type of love Anana and Pieter shared? The very thought was so foreign it seemed unfathomable. And yet, if Andrew had lived and apartheid had died, was it possible … ?

  Emma squeezed her hand, bringing her back to the present. “You’re daydreaming again.”

  Anana smiled sheepishly and nodded. “About Andrew … and the night he died.” Her voice cracked, as she dared to speak to Emma about something she had held inside since Andrew’s death. “And about … Chioma.”

  Emma’s eyebrows raised. “Chioma? Wasn’t she one of your maids?”

  Anana nodded again. “Yes. She came to us with her younger brother, Masozi, some years ago. Though I never learned all the details, I’m sure their parents were dead. We took them in, gave them work …” She stopped, wondering if she could go on but knowing she must.

  “And then …” She paused. “Just a few months ago … Masozi died.”

  Emma squeezed her hand again. “That must have been very hard on Chioma. What happened?”

  “He was …” Anana had not said the word before, not even to Pieter. She took a deep breath. “He was … murdered.”

  She heard the sharp intake of Emma’s breath, saw the shaken look on her face. “How?”

  Anana had known the question was coming, but still she wasn’t prepared. “By the same ones who … murdered Andrew.” She could scarcely believe she had said the words, but there they were, almost visibly hanging in the air between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. At last Emma opened her mouth and broke the silence.

  “I … thought Andrew’s death was an accident.”

  The tears came then, and Anana knew there was no point in trying to hold them back. Giving them free rein, she clung to Emma’s hand as the story poured out, everything from Masozi’s death to Andrew’s, and all that had transpired in between—at least as much as Anana knew, and some she only suspected. By the time she finished, she was exhausted but felt hopeful for the first time in many weeks. At last she could talk with someone about all the awful things that had happened—someone besides Pieter, who preferred to deal with his pain by not discussing it any more than necessary.

  “Oh, Anana,” Emma whispered, “I’m so sorry! However have you been able to bear it—all this pain, all this deception and cover-up? Is no one to be punished for these awful crimes?”

  “Apparently not,” Anana answered, surprised at the note of bitterness in her voice. She understood the way things were in South Africa and the complications of how the murders took place, particularly Andrew’s involvement with Chioma and the fact that much in both cases would have rested on her word against the word of white Afrikaners. And yet …

  For a few moments, neither of them spoke, taking solace in their clasped hands and united hearts. Then, quietly, Emma said, “Tell me about apartheid. I know. I’ve lived here. I was raised in it. I should understand. But I’ve been away a long time, and … there’s much that doesn’t make sense to me.” She paused. “I think maybe you feel the same way. Am I right, dear sister?”

  With fresh tears pooling in her eyes, Anana nodded. Oh, yes! There was so much that didn’t make sense about their way of life, so much
she didn’t understand and wanted to cry out against. Was it safe at last to speak of these things, to pour out her heart to perhaps the only one who would receive her words and lock them away in a safe place? How long had she yearned for this opportunity without being aware of it?

  At that moment she thought of something, and she knew she had to share it with Emma. “Wait here,” she said, rising from her chair as a puzzled Emma gazed up at her. “There’s something I must show you.”

  Anana went into the house and crept past Pieter’s study and into their room, where she pulled something from the drawer beside her bed. When she returned to the veranda and to her sister, who still sat where Anana had left her, she held a small black journal in her hand. Perhaps it would be easier to read the entries together …

  Chioma sat silently in the darkness, hunkered down in the quiet spot that had become her refuge. The camp was sleeping at last, including Mandisa and little Sipho, who had slurped his meal through a makeshift bottle consisting of twisted rags soaked in goat’s milk and then, content and full, drifted off for a few hours’ sleep.

  Once she was certain her friend and the newest addition to their compound were out for a while, Chioma slipped away, carrying with her the contents of the bag Themba had given her. She was puzzled. Though she remembered an instance when Themba overheard and commented on a conversation between Chioma and Mandisa, during which Chioma mentioned that her father had taught her to read and write and how she regretted leaving his journal behind, she never expected their gruff leader to respond by bringing her a gift. She imagined that Themba considered the books to be the traditional gift from a man to his new bride, but she was uncomfortable with the thought. And yet, what other explanation was there for Themba bringing back such an offering from his most recent raid and presenting it to her? Two of the books in the bag hadn’t interested her, but the third …

  She pulled it out now, laying aside the bag with the other two books as she held the third book in her lap and caressed it. There was no moonlight tonight and it was impossible to read it, but there was something about it that spoke to her, called to her, as if it were alive.

  Holy Bible. That is what the words in gold on the front of the book said. Immediately upon seeing them, Chioma had thought of Andrew. She knew he believed in the God spoken of in this book, though she herself did not. She had heard about Him many times from Andrew’s father, the dominee who led the mandatory services for all the servants on his farm, but she had seen no reason to believe in the white man’s God, since He apparently condoned the oppression of one race by another. But there was something about this book—a connection to Andrew perhaps—that overrode the hypocrisy she had seen in the lives of the so-called white Christians she had known over the years. Might she better understand them—Andrew most of all—if she read this book?

  Determined to find the time and opportunity to do so, she marveled that it was Themba who had brought it to her. Daily, it seemed, she was amazed at the slivers of kindness that peeked through his battle-worn exterior. But what would he think if he knew the thoughts it provoked as she touched it? Would he take it from her? Deciding that was a definite possibility, she tucked it back into the bag and then rose to return to the camp.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  The hard voice of Abrafo nearly knocked her back to the ground, as she realized he was standing just inches from her. Had he been watching her? Why hadn’t she heard him approach? What did he want from her? What would he do? Should she cry out for Themba? She was, after all, Themba’s woman, and he was sworn to protect her.

  As if reading her mind, Abrafo leaned close, his hot breath against her face. “If you’re considering calling out to your intended, don’t bother. I have no intention of taking you—not here and not now. If things were different, I would have made my intentions clear, publicly, from the beginning. But remember, you can’t get away from me, little bird. I know where you are at all times, and sooner or later, I’ll find you when even Themba himself is not around to interfere.” He paused. “One day I’ll find Themba alone as well, and when I finish with him, I’ll come for you.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her even closer, until their foreheads touched. “Do you understand me, little bird?”

  Chioma was too terrified even to answer. She wished only that she truly was a little bird and could fly away from this evil creature … but, of course, she couldn’t. And so she stood, eyes wide and mouth clamped shut, as she clutched her bag and waited.

  After what seemed an eternity, Abrafo shook her loose. “Go back to the camp,” he growled. “But remember, I’m watching, restraining myself because of the way things are at the moment. But one day soon, those things will change, and I’ll do a lot more than watch.”

  A tiny cry escaped Chioma’s lips then, and she broke into a run, more frightened even than on the night she had run from the scene where Andrew was killed. Must she forever run for her life, chased by demons and devils alike? Was there no peace or safety for her anywhere?

  Back in her lean-to between Mbhali and Mandisa, who slept with Sipho in the crook of her arm, Chioma bit her lip so she wouldn’t awaken them with sobs. If only she knew what to do! Should she tell Themba? Would he believe her? And what if Themba went after Abrafo, only to be killed himself, leaving the rest of them at the mercy of a man who had none?

  Hugging the bag of books to her chest, much the way Mandisa hugged her new little charge, Chioma lay in the darkness for a very long time before she finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

  Chapter 14

  THE HAUNTING STATEMENT WITH MISSPELLED words was the opening sentence in the worn journal.

  I have come to the sad conclushen that sometimes vilence is warented.

  The words tore at Anana’s heart—and, she could tell, at Emma’s as well. Was it true? Was violence indeed warranted? And exactly what circumstances qualified it to be so?

  On a more personal level, what had driven the author of the statement to believe the words he wrote? Anana, of course, had read the journal entries—many times now—and had been able to discern that the author was Chioma’s father. She had also been able to string together at least part of what had transpired in the man’s life, both before and after putting his pen to this painful revelation nearly thirty years earlier. But she still had many questions. Maybe reading the journal with Emma would help her understand.

  She listened as Emma’s voice spoke the words that followed the opening statement.

  It greaves me to beleeve this and yet what choise do I have? we gather for a politicle discushen, and they kill us men, women, and childern. After Sharpeville nothing can ever be the same …

  Emma laid the book in her lap and looked at her sister. “I remember hearing about Sharpeville,” she said, her voice soft. “The first time was when I was in high school. But I must admit, I was too busy with my studies and social life to be concerned with what happened there.”

  Anana nodded. “As was I. When I heard that sixty-nine blacks and coloureds were killed in the Sharpeville township, I remember asking Pa why. He said the police had been defending themselves, quelling a violent riot, protecting our way of life and stopping the spread of communism.” She dropped her eyes for a moment before lifting them again. “I accepted his explanation and scarcely gave it another thought after that.”

  “How different it must have been for the families of those sixty-nine who died,” Emma mused. “And for other blacks and coloureds as well. I’ve heard several times since that those people were shot in the back. How is that possible if the police were simply defending themselves?”

  Anana had no answer for her. She, too, had wondered at that very inconsistency. Quite obviously one of the two accounts was incorrect. Or was it possible the truth lay somewhere between the two versions of the story? And why had she never carried her questioning any further? Why had it taken so much personal tragedy for her to care enough to seek the actual truth? For since beginning to read the journal, that
is exactly what she had wanted to find.

  Emma returned to her reading.

  One thing is sure. I will never mary. How can I bring childern into a world where I am not alowed to protect them? I will devot my life to freing my people. And if I die I die. At least I wont take a famly to the grave with me …

  Emma’s voice trailed off, and Anana saw a tear trickle down her sister’s cheek, speaking more eloquently than either of them could do with words. Quite obviously circumstances had changed in the author’s life, to the point that he had chosen to take the risk to marry and have children. Anana reasoned that Chioma’s mother must have been a very special lady to have overcome this man’s concerns about taking on the responsibilities of providing and caring for a family. But then, Anana mused, truly great love had a way of overcoming nearly anything.

  Silently and together, the two sisters considered what this man had penned nearly three decades earlier … and wondered how it would affect their own lives in the future.

  Chioma knew she didn’t have much time before someone noticed she wasn’t at her post, but she desperately wanted to sneak a look at the book Themba had brought her. She had transferred it from the bag to her apron pocket, where she once carried her father’s beloved journal. Carefully, hiding behind a tree and taking one last look to verify that no one was near, she opened the book to the first page of what appeared to be the first chapter.

  In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

  So, it was a history book of the world. She didn’t remember Dominee Vorster reading this part of the book during any of the services on the farm. Or perhaps he had and she had just not paid attention. At any rate, she was curious to see what else this book had to say about the past.

  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.