No Greater Love

by Kathi Macias

  “God is great,” Emma said. “That’s a very beautiful name. Your parents must have loved you very much to give it to you.”

  The flash in the girl’s eyes caught Emma off guard, but she scarcely had time to notice it before Chioma smashed the butt of her rifle against Emma’s cheek, knocking her head back against the wall. Lights flashed before Emma’s eyes, as the searing pain launched itself from her head down through her body. She was unsure if she had cried out, but even as the pain swirled around her and something warm and sticky began to drip down her face, she became aware of Jeannie, sobbing openly now beside her, though the ringing in Emma’s ears muted the sound.

  “Shut up!” Chioma’s command penetrated Emma’s haze, and even as Emma sensed Jeannie trying to stifle her sobs, the fear Emma detected in Chioma’s strained voice denied the fierceness the girl tried to portray.

  Emma was certain now. Even with the throbbing of her head and cheek, and her slowly clearing vision, she recognized Chioma’s soft spot and understood the blow she had delivered was meant to be a substitute for obeying the command to kill the captives if they moved or spoke without permission.

  Chioma had a gun and could easily have killed her. That she hadn’t was the first ray of hope Emma had seen since her heavenly Father’s reassurance that He was there with them. Perhaps they would make it out of there alive after all.

  Anana woke to the sound of a baby crying. She sat up and listened, but the sound had already faded. When she looked to Pieter’s side of the bed to see if he had heard it, he was gone.

  Anana sighed. After the earlier instances when she had heard the baby’s cries, she had dismissed it as her overactive imagination and her longing for her own babies, now gone from her until she joined them in heaven. And she hadn’t heard it again … until now. The haunting cry had returned while she slept, leaving an aching in her heart that went beyond missing Gertie and Andrew.

  Was it some sort of sign, a promise or even a warning from God, of something to come? Whatever the reason, the memory of the plaintive wail made her loneliness even greater.

  Rising from bed, she hurried to find Pieter. She wasn’t sure if she would tell him about what she had heard in her dream, but she knew she needed to be near him right now.

  She stopped and peeked in the open doorway of her husband’s office, her heart reassured when she saw him sitting in his usual place with his Bible open on his desk. But why was his face buried in his hands? Was he praying? Crying? Either would be very much unlike him.

  Tiptoeing toward him, she stopped at his side and waited. When he didn’t move, she gently laid her hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he lifted his head, his eyes wet and red-rimmed. So he had been crying after all! Suddenly Anana was frightened. Pieter didn’t shed tears lightly. What had happened to bring him to such an emotional state? Had he been thinking of Andrew? She shivered at the next thought that popped into her mind. Had he heard something about Emma? Had something happened to her only sister?

  Pieter reached up to her then and gathered her into his arms, pulling her down to sit on his lap. “My sweet Anana. I’m so glad you’ve come. I need to talk with you.”

  Anana’s heart nearly burst from her chest, as a cry of dismay escaped her lips. “Is it Emma? Did something happen to Emma?”

  Pieter’s eyes widened with surprise, then softened. “I’m so sorry, dear wife,” he said, reaching up to brush back a lock of hair from her face. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. No, nothing has happened to Emma. I’m sure she’s fine. But—” He paused, smiled slightly, and then said, “But something has happened to me. And I really must tell you about it.”

  Chioma tried to put her violent act behind her, but hitting the woman with the rifle butt had bothered her more than killing the men who had invaded their camp. The incident with the men was self-defense, but she was struggling with justifying what she had just done to the defenseless woman who sat tied up on the floor, next to the young couple who was obviously very much in love—all of whom Themba had promised to allow her to “eliminate” when he returned. Though she had long desired to fight for the cause her father had told her about for years, to help bring justice and equality to their people, she had no desire to murder helpless human beings simply for having the wrong color skin or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  She might better be able to accept the fate of these people if they were rich, like the ones Themba had said he was going to rob. But those people wouldn’t even be hurt, since they were likely not home. For a brief moment, it occurred to Chioma that any servants left behind to care for the house or the grounds would be black or coloured and would undoubtedly be bribed—or killed. If she had gone with Themba and the others instead of staying here to guard these three captives, she would have been expected to help kill those unsuspecting servants. So why should she hesitate to kill these white people who had never done anything for her except steal her heritage and destroy her homeland?

  Perhaps it’s because I’m here with them—seeing them up close, smelling their fear, and sensing their pain. I mustn‘t let myself get close to them or begin to care for them in any way. I must distance myself from them.

  She glanced around the house. Maybe, if she rummaged around a bit, she would find something of worth in this modest home, though it was doubtful. Still, if she did, she was sure Themba would be pleased.

  Yes, that’s what she would do. That would keep her from thinking about these three people who were her sworn enemies—and whose lives were in her hands. But first, Themba had told her it was all right to let them relieve themselves, one at a time. She would start with the young woman who sat in the middle.

  When Chioma came toward her, Jeannie was terrified. She knew she shouldn’t be afraid, as God had promised never to leave or forsake her, regardless of the circumstances. But, though she knew that in her mind, her heart was having a hard time believing it. Why was this young girl, whom Emma had called Chioma, untying the cord around her feet and not her hands? And why wasn’t she doing the same for the others?

  “Come with me,” Chioma ordered, prodding Jeannie with the rifle stock.

  Jeannie felt Paul stiffen beside her and then, even with his hands tied at the wrist, reach out as best he could and grab her arm. “Don’t go. She might kill you.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Chioma whipped the rifle barrel away from Jeannie and planted it firmly in Paul’s face. “I’ll kill you first,” she hissed, “if you make one more sound.”

  Jeannie caught her husband’s eyes, pleading silently for him to be quiet and let her go. She could see the struggle warring across Paul’s features, but at last he released her. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he slumped back, transferring her, Jeannie knew, from his hands into God’s. It was obvious Paul felt like a terrible failure as a husband, and Jeannie wished she could communicate to him that he had done the right thing and she understood.

  Walking ahead of Chioma, who prodded her forward with the rifle, Jeannie realized the girl was taking her into the bedroom area. Why? And then she understood—and was grateful. Chioma was allowing her to go to the bathroom, which Jeannie had desperately needed to do for several hours now.

  With her hands still tied in front of her, Jeannie struggled to use the toilet, feeling particularly uncomfortable because Chioma stood in the open doorway, watching her every move. When she was finally done and ready to return to the others, she waited for Chioma to move. Instead, the girl glared at her and finally asked, “Is he your husband?”

  Jeannie swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” she said, afraid to say more.

  “How long?”

  “Just a few months. Not long before we came here.”

  Chioma’s face hardened. “And why did you come here?”

  Jeannie searched her mind for the right words, but could find none. “To help,” was all she could think to say.

  Chioma sneered. “That’s what they all say—those who want to take our land
from us, and our culture and our ways.” She spit on the floor beside Jeannie’s bare foot. “That’s what I say to your help.”

  Jeannie had no idea how to respond, so she stood still, her head bowed slightly, praying God would somehow get them through this and help this angry young woman in the process.

  “Are you with child?” Chioma asked suddenly, her voice only slightly less harsh than before.

  Jeannie snapped her head up, astonished the girl had asked such a personal question. How had she known? Was it that obvious? If so, why hadn’t Paul noticed?

  “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “At least … I think so.”

  Chioma’s eyes softened for a moment before returning to what Jeannie imagined was a practiced hardness. “This is a bad time to have a baby,” she said, then stepped aside and motioned for her to walk through the doorway.

  Neither of them said another word as they returned to the other room, but when Jeannie had squeezed back in between Emma and Paul, trying to telegraph to her husband with her eyes that she was fine, she noticed Chioma wasn’t quite as rough when she retied her feet—and the cord wasn’t as tight.

  The servants had gathered for the service, as they always did on Saturday evening. Pieter looked out at them, and for a moment he thought he would break down as he had earlier with Anana. How had he not seen this before? How had he looked at these people and not realized their worth in God’s eyes, and therefore their equality with the white race? Some had been with him for years, and yet he knew little more about them than their names.

  They were waiting. It was time to begin. When the door creaked open and Anana walked in and came to stand at his side, his heart nearly burst with gratitude. No one knew him as did his beloved wife.

  He looked out once again at those who were gathered to listen, and it was obvious they were uncomfortable at the unusual occurrence of seeing the dominee’s wife in attendance. No doubt they wondered if they were about to receive some unwelcome news.

  “Our service tonight will be very different,” Pieter began, making a concerted effort to keep his voice gentle but even. “It will also be quite short, as I don’t plan to give you a message other than this one.” He dropped his eyes and breathed a silent prayer before continuing. “I have sinned … as have we all. But I the more because God has given me so much, and I have abused His great gifts.” His voice cracked, and he paused to collect himself. Swallowing, he began again. “I must ask your forgiveness. I haven’t treated you as our heavenly Father would wish me to. His love for you is so great—and I haven’t shown you that love. Tonight I not only ask that you forgive me, but I pledge that things will change around here. Beginning immediately, your wages are being doubled, and your living quarters are going to be refurbished. I’ll still expect a hard day’s work from each of you, but I’ll see that you are fairly compensated.”

  He stopped again and studied the room full of silent faces, few making eye contact with him but all appearing stunned and even frightened to some extent. And why wouldn’t they be? This was certainly not the type of treatment they were used to receiving. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  “That’s all,” he said, his voice gruff as he once again fought tears. “You may go. We’ll speak of this more later.”

  For a few moments, no one moved. Then, slowly, a barrel-chested man with calloused hands and wounded eyes stood to his feet, raised his hands toward heaven, and began to sing praises to God. Within seconds, others had joined him. What began slowly swelled to a joyous roar, multiplying and reverberating throughout the room, as Pieter stood before them, arm-in-arm with his wife as tears streamed down their cheeks. Even as the singers began to make their way outside, the praise continued, until no one was left but Pieter and Anana, listening to the joyful sounds of praise and thanksgiving as the servants returned to their quarters.

  “Thank you,” Pieter said, pulling Anana into his arms. It seemed the only words he was able to say.

  Chapter 24

  THE SUN WAS BEGINNING TO SLIDE BELOW THE horizon, but the tiny two-room house was still stifling. After a light meal, prepared by Chioma and shared against Kefentse’s objections with their three captives, Kefentse had moved outside to take up his post under a nearby acacia tree where he could watch both the compound grounds as well as the road. Chioma imagined, too, that it was the coolest spot around, since a slight evening breeze stirred the branches above Kefentse’s head but didn’t blow strong enough to reach the room where she and the others remained. Still, she was glad Kefentse was gone. The man made her uncomfortable, and she didn’t need him anyway. The missionaries were bound, and Chioma had a rifle. The situation was well under control as night approached, and she had no reason to anticipate any problems before Themba returned.

  But what will happen when he does? she wondered yet again. The captives were religious people, and killing them might anger the gods, if indeed there were any. And yet … that possibility didn’t seem to bother Themba.

  Chioma frowned, confused. Though she understood that Themba had brought her the white man’s holy book, along with the other two books, simply as a gift he thought would please his new wife, she also thought it odd—and more than a bit frightening—that he thought nothing of killing religious people. The books had undoubtedly been stolen from just such people, possibly even after the people were murdered by Themba himself. The contradiction in this very act seemed to highlight the contradiction of character within this fearsome leader who could take a life one moment and in the next, express tenderness toward his wife or concern for an orphaned baby.

  Whatever Themba’s reasons for the things he did, would he make good on his threat to eliminate the captives when he returned? Worse yet, would he truly expect Chioma to help him in such a deed? The cold flush of fear that clutched her throat confirmed that he would most certainly do both, and any objections or arguments on her part could result in her own elimination as well. Her position as Themba’s wife afforded her respect and protection only so far as she exhibited unquestioning loyalty to her husband.

  Pushing the thought from her mind, she remembered her resolve to search the missionaries’ house to see if she could find something of worth to present to Themba when he returned. As unlikely as it seemed that such people would possess anything of value, it couldn’t hurt their chances or hers if she found something Themba could use to fund their cause.

  Calling up her fiercest demeanor, she cast a piercing look at the three captives, who still sat huddled together on the floor, bound with electrical cords and fear. She hoped her angry look reinforced that fear, even as she tried desperately not to show concern over the swollen discoloration of the older woman’s face where Chioma had hit her with the rifle. Turning away from them and taking her weapon with her, she decided to start her search in the back room and work her way forward.

  Chioma switched on the feeble light on the table beside the unmade bed, where less than twenty-four hours earlier its occupant had slept, peacefully unaware that her life was about to change—possibly even come to a violent end. But Chioma wouldn’t allow herself to consider that now.

  Other than the bed, the crude table was the only piece of furniture in the room. On it sat the lamp with the dim light, casting a faint glow on a couple of books sitting next to the lamp. The one on top was similar to the holy book Themba had brought Chioma—quite obviously nothing that would be of any use to her or their cause. She was about to turn away to check the lone piece of luggage that rested in the corner when a snatch of something nostalgic tugged at her heart.

  She looked back at the two books on the table. Why did the one underneath the holy book seem familiar? Her heart rate increased as she stared at what little of the second book she could see, peeking out from under the one on top. Trembling, she lifted the top book … and gasped, nearly crying out in surprise and joy. Her father’s journal! How had it gotten here? What explanation could there possibly be? And yet, even before she picked it up to con
firm what she already knew, she had no doubt what she would find. She would recognize that precious treasure anywhere! How many hours had she lain awake, wishing she hadn’t left it behind that fateful night and wondering what had become of it since?

  Hot tears blurred her sight as she set her rifle down on the bed, and then tenderly lifted the tattered tome and pressed it against her breast with both hands. She closed her eyes and let the tears slip down her cheeks. It was as if she were holding her father close, as he had held her so many times when she was young. For the first time in far too long, his voice was clear to her, telling her the stories of Sharpeville and the cause for which their people must always fight. Oh, how the gods must be smiling upon her to allow her to once again find the journal that tied her to her ancestors!

  Or was it the God of the whites who had reunited her with the book? The thought rocked her, as her eyes snapped open and immediately fell on the holy book on the table. What was the connection? Why did these two books seem so intertwined in her life? And why would the God of the whites want anything to do with her? Hadn’t she ignored Him all those years when she had been forced to listen to her baas, Dominee Vorster, as he preached about this God and His so-called love for all people? If such a deity did indeed exist, Chioma doubted His love extended to her or her people. So why did His book seem to speak to her as if it were alive?

  She shook her head, dismissing the thoughts. Those were not the questions she needed answered at the moment. What she wanted to know now was how and why her father’s book had ended up in the possession of these religious people at this remote missionary compound.