No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  She felt her cheeks flame again at the thought, but cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “How are you this morning, Themba? If there’s anything you need or desire, I’ll gladly get it for you.”

  Themba responded by reaching up to take her arm, surprising her by the strength that flowed from his grip. “The only thing I need or desire is you, my dear wife. And I shall have you as soon as I regain my strength. Then you’ll know what it means to belong to a true leader.”

  She tried to suppress the sharp intake of her breath, but she was certain he heard it, as he smiled once again and pulled her close, so close she could feel his breath against her neck, even as she did her best to keep her gaze averted, fixed on the wall behind Themba’s head.

  “I can’t promise you wealth or long life,” Themba said, “but I promise you my protection. I’ll defend you with my life. Do you understand that, Chioma?”

  Chioma knew he was looking at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to return his gaze. Instead she swallowed and nodded. “I understand.”

  He released her. “Good. So long as you also understand that I require complete loyalty in return—and to hear you call me ‘husband’ on occasion.”

  She nodded again. “Yes … husband,” she managed to say. Chioma understood Themba’s words—as well as all that was implied in them. She belonged to him now—body and soul. She was his wife, and only he could change that. If she was to believe his word, then so long as he lived and she did not betray him, all would be well.

  Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, Pieter knew something was different with Anana—and possibly with Emma, too, but he didn’t know his sister-in-law well enough to be certain.

  As he rode the bay mare across the land he had loved for as long as he could remember, Pieter imagined the change must have something to do with the fact that the two sisters were discussing their losses. Commiserating and weeping together was something that seemed to help women heal—or so he had been told. There were times he wished it were as easy for men.

  Spurring his horse on—the horse that had belonged to Andrew before Pieter’s world was turned upside down, leaving him wounded and confused—Pieter wondered why his faith didn’t give him more peace. Shouldn’t the knowledge that his father’s God existed somewhere “out there,” caring for and watching over Pieter’s every move, be a source of comfort for him? If not, what good was the religion that had been passed on to him by his parents, ingrained in him from childhood? Pieter had spent every Sunday in church since he was born into this world. He had been baptized and raised on the teachings of the church, one of which was the need for separation of the races. He had been the faithful dominee of the servants who had worked on his farm over the years, including the young woman who caused all the trouble that eventually took Andrew’s life. Pieter had tried to teach them, tried to instill the Christian faith in them and set them free from their pagan ways, but what good had it done? Andrew was dead, the girl’s brother was dead, and she was gone—who knew where? She had even taken two of the other servants with her, causing Pieter financial loss on top of everything else. Is that what he got for his obedient observance of religion? Couldn’t he at least expect some comfort or reward from the God he so faithfully served?

  His thoughts returned to Anana and Emma, and to the way they sometimes referred to God as if He were right there next to them, rather than inhabiting some faraway place called heaven where they all hoped to go one day. Was that the change Pieter was seeing in his wife and sister-in-law? Was their grief driving them to fanaticism—or were they simply working through their pain in one another’s company?

  Deciding it was the latter, Pieter Vorster once again spurred on his mount, determined to put away pointless musings and get back to work. There was a lot to do on a farm that size, and it was not about to run itself.

  Chapter 16

  EMMA WAS STUNNED BY THE MOST RECENT journal entry, and it was obvious that Anana, though having read it several times already, felt the same.

  once considerd becomeing a Christian, but that was before Sharpeville. Now I am called by many a Comunist becaus I folow Mandela insted of the white man’s god. I have herd that to be a Comunist is a bad thing. I dont no if that is true. Perhaps it is so only if it is a step down. For me it is a step up. And so I take that step for I see no other choise.

  Each time Emma considered the often misspelled but always powerful and poignant words written by the now-deceased author, it was as if an electric shock had stung her heart. What had this man looked like? Who was he? Though she and Anana had searched the pages from start to finish, they found no mention of his name. They knew only from the final inscription that the author had met with a violent death, as had his wife, and that he had been the father of a boy named Masozi and a girl named Chioma, the one who had made that final journal entry about the death of her parents and who, according to Anana, had recently worked for the Vorster family and had been at least somewhat involved with Andrew and his death.

  “How is it possible,” Anana mused aloud, staring through the sitting room window into the darkness outside, “that a man who might be considered our enemy suddenly seems so human when we read these words from his heart?”

  Dinner had long been served and eaten, and the servants had cleaned up and gone to their quarters. Pieter was in his office, finishing up some work on his books, while the sisters sat together, contemplating the contents of the little journal Chioma had left behind. Emma was becoming more and more convinced that God Himself had orchestrated the placement of that journal in their hands, though she was still a bit unclear on His purpose. Having lived in the States for many years now and grown away from her family’s apartheid beliefs to settle with her husband and family in a more evangelical, racially mixed church setting, she couldn’t help but wonder if at least part of God’s reason was to help Anana see the error of the apartheid belief system as well. But was there more, something Emma also needed to see or learn?

  “Quite possibly,” Emma ventured, “it’s because God is using the man’s words to open our eyes to the truth that’s been right in front of us all these years—not that the Bible or the Christian faith is wrong, for we know it isn’t, but that we’ve not always interpreted it correctly or lived it as we should.”

  She waited then, watching Anana for a reaction. After a moment, her younger sister turned toward her, questions and tears intermingled in her blue eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she said, her voice hushed. “It’s something I’ve thought about for many years, something Andrew questioned as well, and now, suddenly, I can no longer avoid it.” She paused, reaching out her hand to span the distance between their chairs. Her hand was light and trembling as she laid it on Emma’s. “What do I do if I find that my questioning requires actions that might cause … trouble between me and Pieter?”

  Emma swallowed. How was she to answer such a question? She knew how very close Anana and Pieter were, and she couldn’t imagine anything coming between them. And yet …

  “It’s not for me to say,” Emma answered at last, “for I really don’t know. But I do know that God requires us to do what’s right, even as He requires us to submit to our husbands. I’ll pray for you, Anana—for wisdom and strength and courage. That’s all I know to do.”

  Anana dropped her eyes, then looked up again and nodded slowly as she spoke. “It’s exactly what you should do … and I as well. And I believe God will answer us both.”

  Now that she was officially known as Themba’s wife and the threats she had endured from Abrafo had been eliminated, Chioma felt even more compelled to read the little Bible she now kept in the pocket that once housed her father’s journal. Though she would always miss being able to read the journal’s precious words that held such bittersweet memories, nothing could ever steal her remembrances of the man who had been her hero from the time she was old enough to toddle after him and listen to his powerful stories.

  Now she had another book
, and she read at least something out of it each day. Today, as she sat in the relative privacy of the lean-to she shared with Themba, waiting for him to awaken so she could bring him his midmorning meal, she cautiously pulled the book from her pocket and found the place where she had left off reading the day before.

  For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility …

  So many times as Chioma read this book, she felt a tugging at her heart—to continue reading and to really listen, as she had never bothered to do before. Despite having heard many of the verses read by Dominee Vorster, there were still so many words and phrases in this book that didn’t make sense to her. This time, however, Chioma felt an immediate connection when she read the words “the barrier, the dividing wall,” for she couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been a wall separating her people from the whites of South Africa. It was simply the way things were, and though she had dreamed for years of fighting for the cause, she had never even imagined that wall of separation between blacks and whites being broken down—until Andrew. Suddenly that wall had loomed larger than she had ever realized, even as a part of her dared to dream of what it would be like to scale it …

  She shook her head. No. There were some walls that weren’t meant to be scaled. Look what had happened to Andrew! Better to fight for the cause, while leaving the breaking down of walls to someone else.

  “What are you reading, beautiful woman?”

  Themba’s words interrupted her thoughts, and she started, feeling guilty over her musings about Andrew and dropping the book to the floor beside her. Before she could retrieve it, Themba snatched it up and held it in front of his eyes. “Ah, the holy book. I wondered which you would choose of the three I brought you. I should have known.”

  He handed the book back to her, and she took it with trembling hands. Would he be angry that she was reading what many considered a white man’s book? But why then would he have brought it to her? Surely he wouldn’t object. She held her breath, waiting.

  Themba smiled. “Few of our comrades can read, as I can. Fewer yet have wives who can. I’m honored to be one of them.”

  Chioma exhaled, a flood of relief shooting down from the top of her head to warm and relax her. He wasn’t angry! She could read her book without hiding now. For reasons she couldn’t clarify, even in her own mind, she was pleased. Themba could be terrifying at times, but he also treated her with kindness, though his position as her husband and as leader of their group didn’t require him to do so.

  Themba pulled himself to a sitting position, and Chioma could tell he did so with less effort than since before the fight with Abrafo. “Serve me my food. I’ll eat it outside with the others so they’ll see that I’m well enough to resume my position.”

  Instinctively Chioma reached out to lay her hand on his arm, alarmed at the thought that he would return to danger so soon after his injury. “Are you certain, Themba? Has your strength returned sufficiently to do so?”

  Themba’s dark eyes dropped to the place where her hand touched his arm. When he lifted his head to look into her face, all traces of good humor were gone. “Don’t ever question my strength or my authority. You’re my wife. Your job is to serve and obey me. Is that clear?”

  Chioma snatched her hand away as if it had been burned. What had made her think this brute cared anything for her or would treat her any differently from any other man—than Abrafo, for that matter? Yet she knew she had crossed a line by questioning her husband’s decision. She wouldn’t be so foolish again.

  She dropped her eyes. “Forgive me, my husband. I’ll be more mindful of my place in the future.”

  Chioma heard his grunt of approval as he rose to his feet. He had stepped out into the sunlight before he turned back to her.

  “Must I serve myself?” he demanded, his words nearly catapulting her from her sitting position to his side. She then hurried to the cooking pot, where many in the compound had already gathered. Murmurs of welcome and approval greeted Themba as he stepped up beside her and took the plate she offered him.

  With her eyes still downcast, she waited for Themba to dismiss her to eat with the women, while he joined the men who already awaited him. But Themba didn’t move, and Chioma sensed his gaze nearly burning a hole in the top of her head. Slowly she looked up into his face and was surprised to see that it was not disdain or anger that greeted her, but rather open, blatant lust.

  “Tonight, my wife, we will finish what we started.”

  Though Chioma had slept in Themba’s lean-to since the night of the fight that ended Abrafo’s life, she had done so fully clothed and with nearly a foot of distance between herself and her husband. When she awoke the morning after Themba’s declaration that they would finish what they had started, she was lying with her head on his broad shoulder. Though it had been more than four years since her parents were murdered, Chioma knew her mother would have told her she was a woman now, a wife in every sense of the term. How she wished her mother were still here to discuss all that had happened, particularly during the long night when she had made the passage from young girl to woman. But her mother was dead, and there was no one else. Chioma was not close to any of the women in the group, other than Mbhali and Mandisa. Chioma was certain Mbhali had already made the journey into womanhood, though she had no husband, but Chioma had no desire to discuss the most personal aspects of her life with her husband’s cousin. And Mandisa? Though acting mother to little Sipho, the girl knew nothing about being a wife.

  Chioma sighed, blinking back the tears that misted her sight. She had expected it to be much worse, and she realized it could have been had Themba treated her as some men might have done. For whatever reasons, her husband had shown her gentleness and consideration, and she would respond accordingly. After all, if she forgot her place again, she didn’t doubt that Themba had another side to him that she would rather not experience on a personal level.

  When she felt him stirring beneath her, she sat up, thinking to dress and then hurry to the cooking pot to bring him some nourishment. She reached for her clothes, but he was already pulling her back down to his chest. “No clothes,” he said. “No breakfast. Today we stay here, together. Tomorrow I return as leader. In time, I may even take you with me so you can stand beside me as we fight for our people.”

  Chioma nearly gasped at the realization that soon she would have the opportunity she had dreamed of, to accompany Themba and the others as they raided the enemy, disrupted the government, and fought for the cause. At last, she would have the chance to avenge her ancestors … and yes, even Andrew.

  She smiled. Not only was she a wife now, but she would soon be a true comrade as well.

  Chapter 17

  IT WAS THE FIRST DAY THEMBA HAD GONE WITH THE others, leaving Chioma nearly alone in the camp, with one guard on duty and only Mandisa and little Sipho for company. The baby slept peacefully, nestled against Mandisa’s chest in a sling that hung from her neck. It was obvious the young woman had taken to motherhood, naturally and wholeheartedly, as she and Sipho had become inseparable.

  Chioma smiled as she watched them, Mandisa tending the small garden she had convinced Themba to allow her to plant. Chioma knew they would not stay at their location long enough to reap any benefits from Mandisa’s work, but it was obvious the young mother was in her element, nurturing both infant and newly planted seeds.

  A pigeon cooed in a nearby tree, and Mandisa turned from her labor, flashing a smile when she spotted Chioma watching her. The two were as close as any sisters could ever be, Chioma thought, grateful for the young woman’s companionship—grateful, too, that Mandisa hadn’t been left behind at the Vorster farm as Chioma and Mbhali had first considered doing. It almost seemed as if Mandisa had come to the camp just to raise Ebele’s son, and though Chioma knew someone else would have taken the baby if Mandisa hadn’t been around, it was obvious she was perfect for the job.

  Such a short time sinc
e we were on the farm, Chioma mused, working for the white man and … An image of Andrew floated through her mind, and she shook her head. She belonged to Themba now; she had no right to think of another man. So much had happened since the three women had joined this rebel band. Mandisa had become a mother, Mbhali a proven comrade, and she—Chioma—was now a wife.

  Her heart tugged at the thought. Though none of it had happened as she would have expected or desired, she already felt a fierce loyalty to Themba, and when he was away—as he was this day, for the first time since the fight—she worried about him. He was her protector, her provider and defender, the one sworn to care for her. What would happen to her if … ?

  Once again she shook her head. There was no time for such foolish speculation. Theirs was not a normal existence. Danger was an everyday reality. They all knew their lives could be taken from them at any moment. They had many enemies—those of their own kind who, like Abrafo, fought them for supremacy within the cause; those of Zulu heritage who, though they shared their skin color, didn’t share their political views or ideals; and, of course, the white government, which would like nothing better than to kill them and save themselves the cost of throwing them into prison.

  No, it was no easy life Chioma had chosen, but then her parents hadn’t had an easy life either—or an easy death, for that matter. For a brief moment, Chioma allowed herself to close her eyes and think of the journal, of how she wished she had brought it with her and what a comfort it would have been to read the familiar words penned by her beloved father. But the journal was gone, and with it the thoughts of a great man.