No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  She paused in her reading. If I’m to believe this, then the earth was once dark and wet. And this God of the whites is a Spirit who moves through the air. What good is a God like that to me? How is He any different from the spirit gods of my ancestors?

  Closing the book and placing it back in her pocket, she promised herself she would read from a different section when she had more time. She remember the dominee speaking of the white man’s God as if he were a man—Jesus, who walked the earth a couple of thousand years ago, healing people and playing with children. Though it was hard to imagine such a personal God, perhaps He was a God she could relate to, even if the pictures she had seen of this Jesus showed that He was the wrong color. She decided she would consider it while she served her shift as sentry.

  Taking up her position at the top of a rise, she nodded at the two men she replaced, watching them walk back to the camp and wondering who would come to stand with her. She shivered, suppressing the fear that it might be Abrafo.

  No. Themba oversees the choosing of the sentries, and he would never allow Abrafo to be alone with me.

  And then she spotted the approaching figure, and her heart leapt. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he walked like … But why would Themba stoop to perform a duty more easily covered by someone of lesser stature in the camp?

  Before she could find a plausible answer to her question, Themba was nearly in front of her, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder as a grin spread across his face. “So, my brave and beautiful woman is on guard duty today. How appropriate.”

  Chioma moved her gaze up from the scar on his chest but not as far as his eyes, to settle somewhere around his chin. It seemed the safest place, though even then the sight of his grin unnerved her. Why would he say it was appropriate for her to be on guard duty today? Was there some special reason that made this day different from any other?

  Once again, seemingly tracking with her thoughts, Themba’s mouth opened and he said, “You’re very beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

  Chioma felt her heart skip, and against her will her eyes moved up to lock with his. What was this power he seemed to have over her? Was it just that he was their leader, that they all followed and obeyed him? Or was it something else, something much more personal?

  Though she knew it was wrong, she tried to pull up the memory of Andrew, the forbidden white man who had also drawn her to himself and had even given his life for her. She had always known their relationship could only lead to disaster, as well it had, but now she relied on it to help her keep the wall up between herself and Themba. Frighteningly, Andrew’s visage remained faint, while Themba’s shone in the sunlight, not two feet from her.

  “Are you unable to speak today, Chioma?” Themba asked, the smile fading from his lips but still dancing in his dark eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  She knew he was toying with her, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was, after all, his “woman,” giving him certain rights. Her stomach churned at the thought.

  “I … Of course I can speak. I just don’t have anything to say.”

  Themba’s now-familiar laugh burst from his mouth, and Chioma flinched. Swallowing, she squared her shoulders and determined not to show any more fear.

  And then the man with the muscles of steel reached toward her and took her arms in his hands, pulling her to himself before she realized what had happened. Suddenly her cheek was pressed against his chest, and she could feel his scar touching her face. Terrified, she wondered if he could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, ready to burst out and fly away. What was he doing? What was he planning to do? And what would he do if she fought him and wrestled herself from his grasp?

  All these thoughts and more raced through her mind, and yet she stood, unmoving, skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, waiting and wondering if this would be the day she finally joined her ancestors—and Andrew—in the next life, if indeed there was one.

  “I told you before,” he said at last, “you’re my woman. It’s appropriate that you stand guard as my woman today, for tonight you will become my wife. I’ve already instructed Mbhali to move your things from your lean-to into mine. We’ll have the ceremony after the evening meal. As for the bride-price, since you don’t have a living relative, I’ll pay it directly to the community, as we’re your family now.”

  Chioma felt the air being sucked from her lungs, as blackness invaded the edges of her sight. She was going to faint, and there was nothing she could do except trust the man who was about to become her husband to catch her before she fell.

  When she awoke, she was lying on the ground, her head in Themba’s lap. Lifting her eyes, she saw that her intended sat in the dirt, leaning against a tree trunk as he gazed into the distance, alert for any intruders who dared to approach the encampment. Afraid to move, she lay perfectly still, studying him.

  Within seconds, Themba grinned, though his eyes remained on the horizon. “You’re watching me when you should be watching for our enemies. You’re on guard duty, remember?” He glanced down and caught her eyes. “Don’t think, beautiful woman, that as my wife you can shirk your duties. Everyone must work here. No exceptions.”

  She swallowed and nodded. He returned the gesture and then lifted his head to resume his watch. “So, why do you remain on the ground now that you’re awake? I share your sentry duty today, but I don’t carry it for you.” He smiled and caressed her cheek, though he didn’t look down at her. “Perhaps you haven’t moved because you like being close to me. That’s good, beautiful Chioma. Tonight you’ll be especially close, and every night after that. But during the day, we’re still two comrades who must do our duty. Understood?”

  Chioma understood. Shoving her thoughts of what would take place tonight from her mind, she stood to her feet to resume her duties.

  By the time they returned to the camp, it was obvious that word had spread about the evening’s festivities. The women smiled at Chioma as she passed by, and the men shot knowing grins toward their leader. Chioma realized the group was restraining themselves from what would otherwise be loud, boisterous, and even lewd remarks and gestures about the coming event, simply because their leader had instructed them to keep down the noise level within the camp at all times. Yet Chioma felt she was the butt of a giant joke, and she was the only one not laughing. But sometime during the hours of sentry duty, having completely forgotten she had planned to devote that time to considering what she had read in the book about the white man’s God, Chioma had instead accepted her fate and resigned herself to go to Themba’s lean-to without a fight.

  “So, cousin,” Mbhali said, smiling as she came up beside her, “at last the ceremony will take place and we will officially be family.”

  Chioma nodded but said nothing, not trusting her voice or the tears that felt dammed up behind her eyelids. She had always thought her wedding day would be a joyous one, filled with laughter and excitement and dreams of the future, with at least her brother in attendance. Instead, she felt only fear and dread, and a sad sense of loneliness and resignation—though she had to admit that as she stood pressed up against her betrothed, she had also experienced the stirrings of anticipation, wondering what it would be like to be married, to share her life so intimately with another. If only it could have happened in a different way …

  Smiling bravely throughout the day, she made it nearly to the evening meal before tragedy struck. It was the noise that first caught her attention. To hear such shouting just beyond the camp’s clearing where the meals were prepared was unnerving. Even more unnerving was the fact that her name seemed to be the primary word uttered in the midst of the shouting.

  Hurrying toward the sound, along with everyone else from the compound, Chioma was horrified to break out of a stand of trees into a small clearing near the creek and see Themba and Abrafo glaring at one another, knives in hand. Already blood dripped from Themba’s cheek and gushed from Abrafo’s leg. What were they fighting about? Could it be her? If
so, what would happen if Abrafo won?

  Nearly dizzy with fear, Chioma found herself on the sidelines with the others, screaming Themba’s name. Why didn’t the men who were devoted to Themba rush in to help him, particularly his bodyguards? And then she realized there were others, traitors cultivated by Abrafo, who cheered their champion on instead. If Themba’s supporters joined the fight, so would Abrafo’s, and there would be mass carnage.

  And so, as if by unspoken agreement, everyone stood back and let the two warriors circle and slice at one another. “Themba, be careful!” Chioma screamed, wondering if her desire was to preserve Themba’s life or simply to end Abrafo’s. Either way, there was no question in her mind how she wanted this confrontation to end.

  She screamed again, as Abrafo lunged, tearing at Themba’s chest and re-opening the old wound that had caught Chioma’s eye each time she looked at the man who called her “beautiful woman.” Was he going to die now, leaving them all in the hands of the madman Abrafo? Would she, the little bird, be the next to die at this interloper’s hand?

  But just when it looked as if Themba might be finished, he came roaring back, knocking Abrafo to the ground and quickly pounding his sharpened dagger into the man’s throat. As blood spurted from Abrafo’s neck, the crowd quieted, until all Chioma could hear was Themba’s heavy breathing and a gurgling sound coming from Abrafo.

  At last the gurgling stopped, but just as Chioma thought to race to Themba’s side, he collapsed beside his defeated foe, face up and chest heaving, as blood continued to pour from his wound.

  Chioma and Mbhali reached Themba at the same time, as Mbhali ripped at her skirt to form makeshift bandages while Chioma sobbed and clutched Themba’s hand to her breast. “Don’t die! Please, Themba, don’t leave me! I can’t bear it if you die, too!”

  “Be quiet,” Mbhali ordered. “If you’re not going to help me stop his bleeding, then get out of the way and let someone else help. There’s no time for your tears.”

  Chioma looked across the body of the man she was to have married that night and exchanged glances with Mbhali. Her friend was right, of course. Right now they must do whatever was necessary to save Themba’s life. Her tears would come later if the two women failed in their efforts.

  In the rush to save their leader, no one gave a thought to checking on Abrafo, who now lay lifeless on the ground just feet from Themba, or to the handful of men who only moments ago were chanting Abrafo’s name in loyalty and now slunk off into the bush without a word.

  Chapter 15

  THE SECLUDED VELD AMIDST THE STAND OF ACACIAS had long been Anana’s favorite spot. It was one of the few places in the area where she could enjoy the brilliant splashes of color provided by South Africa’s national flower, the King Protea, which favored this tiny location on their farm with its wild but protected presence. To sit there on a blanket under the warm midmorning sun with Emma and enjoy the peaceful surroundings as they snacked on a late but simple breakfast of rusks and fruit was about as close to perfect as Anana could imagine.

  Her heart squeezed for a moment, as she realized how imperfect things really were, with John and Andrew gone, as well as Gertie. And yet, there was still much to be thankful for, much to appreciate. It was always a joy for Anana to watch her sister bask in the beauty of South Africa after having been away for such a long time.

  Personally Anana could not visualize herself ever leaving her homeland. South Africa was such a part of her—and of Pieter as well. Of course, that was the difference. Anana had fallen in love with another Afrikaner, a son of the same beloved homeland as she, while Emma had chosen to share her life with an American. And so, the older sister had gone off to start a new life in a new land, with new customs and a new culture …

  No. Though Anana could understand Emma’s desire to follow her heart and her man to a faraway land, she could not understand ever transferring her loyalty from South Africa to another country or continent. South Africa defined Anana in so many ways. Who would she be if she no longer had this land, this spot of earth, to call her own?

  The two women had discussed this very subject at length over the last few days, but not only as it related to them. They had continued to read the journal and to discuss its entries, and as a result they found themselves beginning to view their lives, as well as the lives of all other South Africans, in a very different light.

  “Is it possible,” Anana ventured now, her voice soft and trembling a bit, “that I—we Afrikaners—have been presumptuous in our sense of … ownership of South Africa?” Just saying the words caused her heart to race, and she watched her sister with great anticipation, waiting for her answer.

  Emma, who had been gazing out over the land, “drinking it in,” as she so often said, turned to face her. The blue of her eyes glistened in the muted sunlight that filtered through the trees. “Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “I believe we have.”

  Anana raised her eyebrows, surprised less at Emma’s frankness than at her self-inclusion in the statement. A sizeable portion of Emma’s heart was obviously still connected to her original homeland, regardless of the ties she now had with America. Anana was pleased at the thought but disturbed by her sister’s quick and clear-cut admission of guilt on the part of Afrikaners.

  She glanced down at the journal that lay on the blanket be-tween them. Why did it seem to have such power over her, almost as if it had a life of its own? When she tried to ignore it, it called to her, begging her to read with her heart and not just her eyes …

  Looking back at Emma, she knew her sister heard the same call. Wherever they went these days or whatever they did to pass the time, when they were alone they invariably returned to the journal. But it was the entry regarding the incident at Sharpeville—referred to by the journal’s author as a “massacre”—that had disturbed the two women so deeply they hadn’t been able to read on. Today, however, Anana knew they would, and her heart beat with anticipation and dread.

  Chioma’s primary task now was to tend to her husband and help him heal from his wound, which thankfully had proved less serious than she had first imagined. Once again, Mbhali had assured her, the gods had spared Themba to fight on for the cause. All that remained was for Chioma to nurse him back to health and enable him to regain the strength he needed to resume his leadership position.

  “He’ll heal quickly,” Mbhali had told her. “True leaders have little patience for ill health and weakness—and we certainly can’t call for a doctor or healer.” She grinned. “But I think my cousin will enjoy the personal attentions of his new wife.”

  Chioma felt the heat rise to her cheeks, as she remembered the informal ceremony that, even in his wounded state, Themba had insisted be performed. Now she would spend her wedding night tending to her husband. That tending included washing him—from head to foot—to minimize any chance of infection. Chioma had been horrified when Mbhali had instructed her to do it, once Themba had been moved to the relative privacy of his—now their—lean-to. Chioma had begged Mbhali to do it instead, but Mbhali had firmly refused, saying that Themba’s care was now the concern of his wife.

  As Chioma turned toward the lean-to where she would follow her friend’s instructions, Mbhali grabbed her arm and turned her back to face her. “See that you perform your duties well. Our survival may depend on Themba’s.”

  With shaking hands, Chioma had then spent the remainder of the evening carrying out Mbhali’s instructions, sleeping fitfully beside her husband when she could. If he stirred or even moaned in his sleep, she was alert to his care and scurried to meet his needs. By the third morning Themba was showing the positive effects of her continual ministrations, as he slept quietly and without a fever.

  “You have cared for me well,” Themba said, the suddenness of his proclamation startling Chioma from her half-sleep. Her eyes snapped open in the first light of day, as she pulled herself back to the present. Had Themba spoken, or had she dreamt it?

  Pushing herself up and leaning on one arm, s
he looked down at the man she had bathed and fed and watched over for the last three days, praying she would be successful in her efforts and trying not to think of what it would mean to her if she were not. She was surprised to find him staring up at her, a slight grin on his face.

  “So, now you are more than my woman; you are my wife.” He nodded. “As it should be. As I said it would be.”

  She swallowed. Though they had yet to consummate their union, Chioma now belonged to him, and there was nothing she could do about it. Surprisingly, she was not as repulsed by that fact as she might have been just days earlier, though she was unsure what had made the difference. But when she had seen Themba lying on the ground, bleeding and, for all she knew, dying, she had known she couldn’t bear to lose one more human being who claimed to care for her.

  With Abrafo it had been different. The beast had never even hinted that he cared about her, only that he wanted to use her—and then wring her neck like a chicken when he was through with her. Themba, on the other hand, had treated her with respect—though as leader he could have done otherwise—and promised to care for and protect her. To see even that taken from her had overwhelmed her, and she had lost all inhibitions at crying out to the unknown gods to spare Themba’s life. Since then, many in the camp, including Mbhali and Mandisa, had commented on her obvious love for their leader.

  Love. Chioma wondered if she had any idea what the word meant. She had loved her parents, but they were dead. She had loved Masozi, but he, too, was dead—as was Andrew. Had she loved him? She wasn’t sure, nor was she sure he had loved her. They had never really had time to find out. But he had given his life for her. She would never forget that.

  “What are you thinking, beautiful woman?” Themba asked, interrupting her reverie, his voice only slightly less booming than usual. “About me, I assume?”

  He was grinning again, and Chioma tried not to squirm under his gaze. She was still uncomfortable with anyone looking directly into her eyes. And yet Themba was her husband now; she would have to get used to that idea quickly—especially once he regained his strength.