by Kathi Macias
As if by direct instruction, Emma opened her eyes and immediately found herself captured in the glare of the dark-eyed beauty who accompanied the three men. Emma opened her mouth, though she had no idea what she would say. Before she could utter a word, a flash of compassion and doubt invaded the young woman’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by hostility, as she jerked the rifle in Emma’s direction. “Keep quiet,” she ordered, and then transferred her gaze to the tallest of the three men, who nodded back at her.
“Watch them,” he ordered. “If they move or say a word without permission, kill them.”
Turning toward the door, the man who had just pronounced their death sentence and whom Emma had begun to suspect was the leader of the group strode quickly outside, where she overheard him talking, though she could not make out his words. That meant there were more than just these four. How many? And why had they come? Dear God, she pleaded silently, please don’t let them hurt this precious young couple!
She noticed then that Jeannie was crying, though it was obvious she was trying to conceal it. But Emma was leaning up against her, and the young woman’s lithe body shook with silent sobs. Mercy, Lord, Emma prayed. Their life together has just begun …
Emma wanted to speak to Jeannie, to comfort or pray with her, but she had heard the man’s instructions to the woman who now stood with her rifle trained on them: “If they move or say a word without permission, kill them.” In the few short moments since their lives had been invaded by this incomprehensible terror, Emma had seen nothing to make her think the man had not meant what he said, or that the young woman wouldn’t obey his command, despite the fact that attacks against what many blacks considered “religious people” were uncommon.
Keep us quiet and still, Lord. Give us Your wisdom and Your peace, even in the midst of this evil.
The familiar words came to her then, echoing from the deepest recesses of her heart and flowing courage through her veins: Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
She felt herself relax. Whether God delivered them or took them home to be with Him, they wouldn’t be alone. Their heavenly Father was with them, and that was enough.
As Pieter sat in his office on Saturday morning, thankful that Anana was still sleeping when he got up, he considered what he would preach about that evening when he served as dominee to the gathering of his servants. Since Andrew’s death, he had found it more and more difficult to open the Scriptures and attempt to teach them with any sense of authority. Was it simply grief over the loss of his son and the indirect involvement in that tragedy by one of his former servants that caused his unease, or was it because he questioned the very words he was called to proclaim?
Pieter stared at the open book, lying on the desk in front of him, yet nothing registered. There seemed to be no message, no meaning, no purpose in what he was preparing to do. He was well aware the servants attended only because the meetings were mandatory; given the chance, they would all choose to do something else. So why did he bother—particularly given the fact that he, too, would prefer to do something else?
Romans 10.
More clearly than any words spoken to him in his lifetime, these two reverberated in his heart. Was it a message from God, a direction for the evening’s sermon?
Vaguely familiar with the passage, Pieter turned to the designated chapter and began to read. When he reached verse 12, he stopped, stunned, reading the verse over three times:
For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on him.
He was sure now God was, indeed, speaking to him, but he was still not clear why. He sensed the words of this verse were tied in with the words from the Gospel of John—“For God so loved the world”—that he had pondered the previous night. But the specific purpose continued to elude him, the depth of it dancing just around the edges of his understanding.
Going on to the next verse, he read slowly: Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. It was obvious God was reinforcing His call to all people everywhere to repent and return to Him. Pieter understood that. Whatever else he might not be clear on, he knew God’s call to salvation was universal, though some within the Afrikaner faith denied that, claiming blacks had no souls, a doctrine Pieter had never been able to accept. Didn’t he reflect his belief in a universal call to repentance by faithfully preaching the gospel each Saturday evening to those who worked for him, despite knowing they didn’t want to listen to him?
The thought struck him then that after all the years he had been delivering his weekly sermons, not one of his listeners had visibly responded. Was he that ineffectual or incompetent in his preaching? Should he stop preaching altogether? His eyes fell on the next verses, and he had his answer.
How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can they preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” But not all the Israelites accepted the good news. For Isaiah says, “Lord, who has believed our message?” Consequently, faith comes from hearing the message, and the message is heard through the word of Christ.
Pieter knew in that moment he had no choice. He must preach the gospel, whether anyone believed his words or not. And yet …
Was it possible, though his words were a message of good news, his attitude didn’t reflect the same? Could it be his listeners hadn’t believed the gospel because his attitude and actions toward them didn’t confirm his faith? Was God trying to tell him the unthinkable—that His love for blacks and coloureds was equal to His love for whites because they were indeed … equal?
As if a crushing weight had descended upon his shoulders, he buried his face in his hands, fighting a nearly uncontrollable urge to cry. “Oh, God,” he whispered, “how I have failed You! How I have failed Your people! Forgive me, God. Forgive me!”
As Mariana slid into her nightgown and prepared for bed that Friday night, her mind turned to Jeannie, and she smiled. Mom’s probably there now, visiting with her and Paul, she thought, laying her right hand on her ample stomach as her baby moved within her. How I wish I could be there with them! What a lovely visit that would be …
She glanced at Eric, already curled up in their king-sized bed, the blue comforter pulled up nearly to the top of his head, leaving only his short blond curls visible on the pillow. Mariana smiled again, pulling down her side of the comforter and climbing in beside him. What a wonderful father Eric would be! She hoped their son would look just like him, though she would also like to see a hint of his grandfather in the child’s face.
Her heart squeezed at the thought. How she missed her father, and how much more she would miss him as she watched her child grow up without the benefit of knowing his grandfather.
“Everything okay?”
Mariana started. She had been daydreaming again, caught up in her thoughts about her father, her baby, her family in general. She seemed to be doing that a lot these days.
Turning to Eric, who had lowered the edge of the comforter and peeked out at her, she said, “Everything’s fine. Sorry if I woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Just lying here, waiting for you.”
She reached up to the lamp on the headboard and flipped the switch, plunging the room into darkness. Then, a bit clumsily because of her growing bulk, she lay down beside her husband, snuggling up in the spot where she felt most safe and secure.
“Well, here I am. You can go to sleep now.”
“I’d rather talk awhile. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately, especially with your mother at Pieter and Anana’s.”
“Actually, if Mom is sticking to her schedule, she’s at the missionary post now, visiting with Jeannie and Paul.” She sighed. “I was just thinking how I wish w
e could be there with them. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? It’s been years since I’ve been to ‘sunny South Africa,’ as Mom loves to call it, and even though I wasn’t born and raised there, I feel such an attachment.”
“That’s only natural. You’ve heard your mother’s stories hundreds of times over the years, and you know how much of her heart has always remained loyal to her homeland.”
“True. She must have loved Daddy very much to leave it all behind and come and start a new life with him here, so very far from everything she knew and loved.”
Eric nuzzled her hair and whispered, “But aren’t you glad she did?”
“Yes. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.” She paused, once again laying her hand on her belly. “Or without our baby.”
Eric’s hand joined hers as it rested on her abdomen. When the little one responded with a kick, they laughed. “Sorry about that,” Eric said, withdrawing his hand. “Too much weight all at once, I suppose.”
“Could very well be,” Mariana conceded. “Whatever the reason, this little one has a mind of his own, that’s for sure.”
“Like his mom. Your dad always said you were that way, even when you were a baby.”
Mariana hesitated before speaking again. “Do you think I’ll ever get over missing him?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. But I’m sure it won’t always hurt as bad.”
“I hope you’re right.” She sighed, her mind once again drifting to South Africa. It was Saturday morning in that faraway land, and as Mariana tried to picture her mother at a small, remote, and undoubtedly primitive missionary post, a twinge of fear passed through her. “Honey, could we pray for Mom? I don’t know why, but … I’d just feel better if we did.”
Eric’s hold on her tightened. “Of course we can. Maybe that’s exactly what God wants us to do at this very moment. No one can ever have too much prayer.”
The lingering pain in Chioma’s throat since the assault a couple of days earlier was finally beginning to dissipate. Even the sound of her voice was returning to normal. Nothing else, however, seemed normal at all.
She glanced at the three captives, leaning on one another and occasionally dozing fitfully or moving slightly in what she was certain was an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Chioma wondered why she had to keep them in that same spot for so long. After all, Chioma and her group had all the weapons; the three whites had none, and their wrists and ankles were tied. What could it hurt to let them stretch a bit or go to the bathroom, even if just one by one?
But Chioma was not about to suggest it—to Themba or anyone else. It wasn’t her place to do so, and if there was one thing Chioma continued to learn, it was exactly what and where her place was. Right now that meant she was to serve as Themba’s wife and obey his commands. He was a fair leader, but a fierce one as well, and he brooked no disloyalty. Mbhali had told Chioma of more than one occasion when Themba had shot one of his closest comrades on the spot, simply for questioning his decisions.
Chioma’s glance settled once more on the woman who had been sleeping alone in the other room when they first arrived. Her eyes were shut. She was older than the other two, old enough to be their mother or auntie. Could that be their relationship? It struck Chioma that the woman had a vague familiarity about her, as if they had met somewhere before.
She squinted her eyes, trying to distinguish something that would help her identify the woman, but nothing came. Perhaps it was just her imagination. After all, it was sometimes difficult to tell these whites apart, with their pale skin and washed-out hair and eyes.
An image of Andrew flashed through her mind, and she felt her cheeks grow hot at the memory, realizing that he, too, had the same pale complexion and faded features, and yet she couldn’t deny that she had been drawn to him. Before she could dwell on the thought, Themba stomped into the house, jarring her back to the present.
He jerked his head toward her, beckoning her to join him. She crossed the room in a few short steps and stood submissively in front of him, waiting.
“Look at me, wife.”
She raised her head, the practice of gazing directly into someone’s eyes, even her husband’s, still an uncomfortable sensation for her.
Themba studied her. “I must go away for a while. I’ve decided it isn’t safe to leave Mandisa and the little one back at the camp, so I’ve sent Mbhali and two others to fetch them and bring them here. They should be back before the sun goes down. You’ll stay here tonight—and tomorrow if necessary. Until I return. Certainly no later than Monday.”
He paused, and Chioma longed to ask where he was going, but she knew better.
Apparently satisfied that she understood his directions, he continued. “I’m taking all but you and Kefentse with me. He’ll stay to protect you and to help you guard these three until I return. While I’m gone, untie them only to relieve themselves, and then only one at a time. Do you understand?”
Chioma nodded, not pleased to be left behind, particularly with Kefentse, whose ferocity frightened her. But the choice wasn’t hers. “Yes, Themba,” she answered, hoping he wouldn’t be gone long.
He hesitated, and Chioma wondered if he was considering whether or not to confide in her about his mission. His decision would tell her much about where she stood in his eyes. At last he spoke.
“I’ve heard about a wealthy home, only a few hours’ walk from here. I have it on good information that the family will be gone for the next few days, and that those who oversee the estate can easily be bought off—or eliminated. The money and possessions are ours for the taking, if we hurry. And there are other houses of equal value in the area. If it’s as I’ve been told, this one raid could fund our operations for months to come.”
He cast a quick glance at the huddled trio on the floor and then looked back to Chioma. “When I get back, I’ll allow you to help eliminate these foreigners who poison our young people’s minds and turn them from the cause. We must drive others like them from our land by making an example of these three.” His eyes flashed with something Chioma sensed was close to pride. “After what you did at the camp two days ago, I know I can trust you to guard them until I return.”
Chioma swallowed, her throat complaining less than it had since the man had tried to strangle her. “Yes, my husband. You can trust me.”
With a quick squeeze to her shoulder, Themba turned and left the house. Other than Kefentse, Chioma was now in charge.
Chapter 23
SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE FOR THE THREE CAPTIVES, though they managed to doze for a few moments now and then.
Emma had overheard bits and pieces of what the man who was their leader had told the young woman, who was apparently his wife. It seemed he and the others were leaving for a while, going somewhere they expected to find more financial gain for their efforts than here at the poor mission post. She also heard him say something about eliminating the “foreigners” when he returned. Apparently this leader was not concerned about the local taboo against harming or killing religious people. Despite her reassurance that God was with them, their immediate future didn’t look promising.
Emma watched the young woman, who appeared to be the leader’s wife. She was quite attractive, though obviously young—fifteen or sixteen, Emma imagined. What could happen in such a few short years to turn someone to such a violent life? Did Emma dare hope the young woman had a soft spot and might help them somehow? It was becoming more and more obvious to Emma that if they didn’t escape, they would, indeed, be added to the long list of Christian martyrs that had grown throughout the centuries. It was not that she so much minded for herself, though she knew it would be devastating to Mariana, particularly right after losing her father. But Paul and Jeannie—they were so young! She glanced at the two of them, their heads leaned together and their eyes closed, with dried blood running a thin streak down the right side of Paul’s face. They had come here with such pure hearts, such noble intentions. Was this how their lives were to end, almost
before they had begun?
Emma glanced at the fierce-looking man who stood guard at the inside of the door. It seemed he never separated himself from the automatic weapon slung over his shoulder or the large hunting knife strapped to his waistband, so even if she could convince the young woman to help them, they would never get past that behemoth. Each time she considered asking if they could move around a bit or use the tiny bathroom off the room where Emma had been sleeping, their male captor made some sort of antagonistic gesture in their direction, and she thought better of it.
At last the man spoke to his companion and informed her he was going to take a look outside and make sure all was well. He reminded her of their leader’s command to kill any of the captives who made a move or spoke without permission, and then he left. Though the woman had said little to him in return, Emma noticed the man called her Chioma.
“God is great.” A common name here. Anana mentioned that one of their former servants, the one who was involved with Andrew, had that name as well. These people don’t name their children lightly. Does this beautiful girl with the gun at her hip have any idea what her name implies?
“Chioma?”
The word was out before Emma realized she was about to say it. The girl whirled on her, the rifle aimed at Emma’s head.
“You are not to speak,” Chioma commanded.
Emma swallowed. Where had she found the courage to say that one word? Dare she say more?
Before she could decide, the girl spoke again. “How did you know my name?”
Taking the question as permission to continue, Emma answered, “I heard the man say it, before he went outside.”
Chioma nodded, her eyes squinted and focused on her prey.
Emma waited, but when the girl still didn’t speak, Emma took a deep breath and plunged in, reflecting on the words of Queen Esther in the Bible when challenged to risk her life to save others: If I perish, I perish. What was the worst that could happen? Chioma would shoot her, and Emma would go to be with Jesus … and with John. Her only concern was that the girl not take out her anger on Jeannie or Paul.