by Kathi Macias
With the restored journal in her left hand, she snatched up her rifle with the other and spun on her heel, determined to get the answers she sought—whatever the cost.
Saturday night and Sunday loomed long to Anana, as she sat in the wicker chair on the veranda and continued to reassure herself that Emma was fine and would be back in less than forty-eight hours. If only she could know that for sure! But without a phone at the compound, it simply wasn’t possible. More than once she had considered asking Pieter to have their driver take them out there so they could check on her sister and the young missionary couple, but always she stopped herself before mentioning it. Where was her faith? Why did she pray if she didn’t believe God would answer? Surely the Lord knew where Emma was, and He loved her more than Anana did and could care for her better than anyone else. Anana would simply have to rest in that truth and leave Emma’s safety in the capable hands of her Savior.
Sighing, Anana turned her thoughts from Emma to the incredible scene that had played out less than an hour earlier when her husband had made his humble announcement to the assembled servants. He had told Anana before the meeting what he planned to do, but neither of them had known what to expect from his listeners. The response, Anana thought, was so typically South African. From the depth of their hearts, the congregation had burst into song, giving thanks and glorifying God. Rather than questioning or grumbling, they had expressed gratitude and praise. Afterward, Anana had returned to the house on her husband’s arm, amazed at what she had learned about pure, childlike faith from the very people she and Pieter had presumed to teach through the years.
Now, as Pieter once again sat in his study, going over his books, Anana stared out at the darkening velvet sky, even as the stars blinked to light one by one, and wondered at the grace and mercy of a God who would give His life for such as she. There was so much about His awesomeness and majesty that she would never understand in this life! For the first time in months—perhaps even years, since before Gertie’s tragic death—Anana found herself at peace in God’s love for her. Maybe that was all she needed to know. Maybe there really was nothing else that mattered.
With that, she rose to go inside before Pieter came and scolded her for being outside alone after dark.
Emma was ashamed at the level of fear she first experienced when the young woman named Chioma burst back into the front room, brandishing her rifle and the book from Emma’s bedside table, demanding to know who had stolen her father’s journal. After all, Emma’s face still throbbed from the impact of her captor’s rifle butt. Yet, at the sudden realization that this was, indeed, the same Chioma who had worked for Pieter and Anana, and with whom Andrew had apparently been so smitten, Emma relaxed. A sense that God had orchestrated the situation in which she now found herself and that He was still in control washed over her, warming and calming her, even as the angry young woman jammed her rifle first in Emma’s face, and then in Jeannie’s and Paul’s, demanding an explanation.
With Jeannie whimpering beside her, Emma breathed a silent prayer before she spoke. “I brought it here … from the Vorster farm.”
The jerk of the rifle from Paul’s face back to hers didn’t frighten Emma. She was too busy watching Chioma’s expression morph from anger to shock. Emma’s words had hit a nerve.
After a brief instant of what appeared to be confused hesitation, Chioma’s eyes blazed. “The Vorster farm? How do you know that place? And how did you come to be there?”
Though it was apparent the young woman was still angry, the slight tremor in her voice showed there was a stronger emotion brewing in her heart. Help me, Lord, Emma prayed. Give me the words to speak, and give her the heart to listen.
“I was there, visiting my sister,” Emma said, measuring her words yet knowing they flowed with God’s direction. “Anana Vorster.” She paused, and then lowered her voice slightly as she added, “I am Andrew’s aunt.”
Chioma’s head filled with the swirling words. The woman in front of her, who sat huddled and bound with the young missionary couple, was the aunt of the white man who had died trying to save Chioma’s life—the one whose heart still held claim on her own, though she knew it was wrong.
“I don’t believe you,” Chioma spat, knowing even as she spoke that she truly did believe the woman but desperately needed to hear her admit she was lying. How was it possible that she, the daughter of a loyal ANC martyr and the wife of a rebel leader, had come to this place, to be in the same room with a blood relative of her former baas, the man who had sat beside her on a rock, holding her hand as their feet dangled in the cool water, until—
She jerked herself back to reality. The last time she had allowed herself to get caught up in feelings to which she had no right the situation had ended in death. There was no reason to think it would be any different if she yielded to her feelings now. She must focus on the things her father had taught her, the things he had recorded in the journal she had finally recovered, and the things Themba had reinforced by demanding complete loyalty to him—and to the cause. For she knew at that very moment that if she lost her focus, she would pay the ultimate price.
“It’s true,” the woman said, her voice soft and alarmingly similar to the voice of Anana Vorster. Hadn’t she seemed familiar, even from the first time Chioma laid eyes on her? Was it because she looked like her sister … or her nephew? A dart of pain stabbed Chioma’s heart, as she remembered the photo on Andrew’s dresser. How many times had Chioma cleaned that room, even dusted that very picture of the smiling family, visiting the Vorster farm from a faraway land called America? The woman in front of her appeared a bit older than the one in the photo, but Chioma knew they were one and the same.
“I’m Emma,” the woman said, once again confirming Chioma’s thoughts. “I’m here from America, visiting my sister and her husband.” Their gaze locked briefly, and the familiar blue of Emma’s eyes added fire to her next statement. “I came to comfort my sister after the loss of … her son.”
The words crushed Chioma’s heart, smothering the air in her lungs. She tried to call up her strength, to harden herself so she could pull the trigger and stop the woman Andrew would have called Auntie Emma before she spoke another word. But Chioma’s hands trembled, and her will refused to obey. Then, without explanation, she heard words from the holy book echoing in her heart: For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility …
She recognized the words immediately. They were, in fact, words she had returned to, time and again, though she couldn’t understand why they drew her. What did they mean, and why would she think of them now?
Summoning what little strength she had left and forcing herself to treat Emma roughly, she untied the woman with eyes like Andrew’s and ordered her to the back room, prodding her unnecessarily with the rifle stock in her back until the woman stumbled through the door and onto the bed. For a flash of a second, Chioma considered shooting her in the back of the head before she could regain her equilibrium and sit up to face her. Instead, Chioma breathed deeply and blinked away tears, as Emma turned over on the bed and then sat up on its edge, lifting her face to her captor’s. The softness Chioma saw there both angered and unnerved her. As overjoyed as she was at regaining her beloved journal, a part of her wished she had never found it.
Jabbing at the chest of the kind-faced woman with the point of her weapon, Chioma demanded, “What are you doing here? And how exactly did you come to possess my father’s journal?”
Chioma was ready to listen now, and as the woman named Emma began to speak, the story that unfolded seemed to flow through the hard places in Chioma’s heart like warm honey. More than once the armed girl tried to turn away, but she couldn’t. And so the woman continued to speak, explaining that she had come to the compound to bring Bibles for the families whose children attended the missionary school, and then going on to explain how she had come to be in possession of the book.
“Anana and I spe
nt many hours, sitting together and reading from your father’s journal,” she said, the look on her face affirming the truth of her words. “We discussed his entries, and we thought and prayed about them as well. Anana has already read the journal through many times, so she allowed me to bring it along to finish while I was here.” Emma took a deep breath and continued. “He was an amazing man, your father.”
Chioma wanted to punch her or hit her, to slam the rifle butt into her face as she had done before, to scream at her, “How dare you speak of my father?” But instead she stood quietly, waiting and listening, wondering where this stunning conversation would take them.
When Emma said no more, Chioma surprised herself by saying, “You’re right. My father was amazing. He was brave and kind, fierce and loyal.” She stopped, sensing her voice would break if she continued. When she regained her composure, she said, “He is my hero. I wish only to be like him.”
Emma smiled and nodded. “I felt the same about my own father. He’s dead now too.”
Chioma felt her eyebrows draw together. Was it possible to have something in common with this woman? She doubted it, and yet the woman had indicated they both loved and admired their now dead fathers. Chioma was certain, however, that Emma’s father had not died in the violent manner of Chioma’s father, and that difference stood as a vast divide between them.
For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility … Even as the words resurfaced, Chioma fought them. What did they have to do with her and this woman who knew nothing of the life Chioma and her ancestors had lived? She must stop this slide into sentimentality before it undid her.
“You have no right,” she announced, forcing a hardness into her voice, “no right to read my father’s words. The book belongs to me.”
Emma appeared unfazed by Chioma’s harsh tone. “You’re right, of course. But when Anana found the journal that night when …” Emma’s voice trailed off, though Chioma could easily have finished the sentence for her. Instead, she remained silent, waiting.
Andrew’s aunt cleared her throat before continuing, ignoring her previously interrupted statement. “My sister kept the journal with her, treasuring it because of the time and manner in which she found it. She meant no disrespect when she read it, nor when she showed it to me. We … learned much from the words we found written within its pages. I’m glad, though, that it’s finally been returned to its rightful owner. It’s quite obviously no accident that God has brought about all that’s happened here for His purposes.”
Chioma frowned again. God? His purposes? No doubt the woman referred to the God of the white man, but what purpose would He have in returning to Chioma the book that contained the writings of her father, now long dead and gone to be with his ancestors? As for this God of the whites, why would He allow His own people—such as Emma and these missionaries—to be treated so badly, possibly even killed? If He was as loving as He was rumored to be, why hadn’t He stopped this attack on their compound?
No wonder Chioma couldn’t understand the words in the white man’s holy book, for the God it spoke of was impossible to understand. But now she would no longer have to struggle over those words, for she could instead read the words of her beloved father, written by his own hand and recorded in his own journal, and be reminded of why she lived … and why she fought for her people.
Yes. Circumstances had indeed come together as they should—whether the white man’s God had anything to do with them or not. For now, Chioma had learned what she needed to know. It was time to return Andrew’s aunt to her companions before Kefentse came in and accused Chioma of shirking her duties. That was not a report she wished Themba to hear upon his return.
Chapter 25
CHIOMA SCARCELY HAD TIME TO REJOIN EMMA to the others when she heard a commotion outside. Amidst muffled voices, a baby’s cry broke through, followed by the bleating of a goat, and Chioma realized Mandisa and Sipho had arrived. However, despite her initial pleasure at the thought of having Mandisa there to keep her company until Themba returned, Chioma sensed her friend’s presence would somehow complicate the situation.
“Chioma?”
Mandisa stepped into the doorway at the same moment she spoke Chioma’s name. The baby, as always, was in the sling that hung from her neck, fussing and flailing his arms in obvious frustration over not having his needs met quickly enough.
At the sight of them, Chioma’s apprehensions at Mandisa’s arrival melted, and she rushed to her friend and gathered her into her arms. “Welcome! I’m glad you’ve come. But where are Mbhali and the others who brought you?”
“They went on to join Themba,” Mandisa answered, her familiar smile warming Chioma’s heart. But Mandisa’s smile was interrupted when she looked past Chioma and spotted the three people, tied together with cords, sitting on the floor against the wall. “Who are they?” she asked, instinctively pressing Sipho more tightly against her and evoking a wail of protest.
Chioma turned from the new arrivals to glance at Emma and the young couple, who stared back at them in wide-eyed curiosity and possibly relief that it was a young woman and a baby who had entered the house and not the tall leader of the group or even the fierce guard with the AK-47.
“These are … missionaries,” Chioma said, turning back to her friend after making a quick decision not to mention Emma’s identity. “But they’re no concern to you. Come, you and little Sipho must be hungry after the journey. I’ll fix you something while you feed the baby.”
Mandisa nodded and sank into the only available chair, immediately pulling out her makeshift bottle and popping it into the struggling infant’s mouth, calming him as he sucked the life-giving liquid.
“You’re right,” Mandisa said. “I’m very hungry. Tired too. It seemed a very long journey, but I’m glad to be here. I didn’t like being left behind without you.”
Chioma smiled as she prepared a plate of food for the young mother. Mandisa had become very dear to her, more like a sister than a friend. The only family I have left, Chioma thought, then quickly corrected herself. Except Themba, of course. The image of her husband, looking down into her face just before he left, flashed through her mind. She wanted him to be proud of her when he returned, to know he could trust her and depend on her. That left her no choice but to do what he asked.
She sighed, blinking back tears and steeling herself against the emotions that raged inside her. This was no time to go soft. It was a season of testing, and she mustn’t fail, for she sensed that if she did, there would be no second chance.
Anana awoke with a start. Blinking her eyes against the dark and gathering her thoughts, she confirmed that Pieter slept peacefully beside her. Eyes wide open now and ears attuned for anything unusual, she lay without moving, waiting. All was quiet.
She felt herself relax. Whatever had awakened her had obviously been nothing to be concerned about. And yet … there was still the question of Emma’s safety. Perhaps God had prodded her awake to pray for her sister, or for …
A picture of Chioma swam into view, and Anana frowned.
What is it, God? You haven’t put this young girl’s face into my mind without reason. Am I to pray for her? Is that the reason You awakened me? Is she in danger? Oh, Lord, I don’t know where she is or what’s happening in her life since she left here that awful night, but You know. You know exactly where she is and what’s going on with her—in her life and also in her heart. Help her, Father. Protect her. Help her to make wise decisions. And above all, draw her to Your heart. Show her the truth of Your great love for her, Lord. Please, Father…
A sense of peace washed over her, and Anana sighed. Yes, that had been the reason God had awakened her—to pray for Chioma. Anana wondered if she would ever see the young woman again, but she knew it wasn’t important. In her heart she sensed she would one day see her in eternity, and that was all that really mattered.
After Sipho and Mandisa had filled their stomac
hs, Chioma escorted them to the back room, insisting they sleep in the home’s only bed. The young mother and her child were asleep before Chioma closed the door behind her.
Chioma’s eyes, too, felt heavy, and she knew she could easily fall asleep if she gave herself half the chance. But she wasn’t about to leave the three captives unattended, and she certainly didn’t want to call for Kefentse to come and relieve her. Instead she decided to make a strong pot of the coffee she had spotted in the missionaries’ cupboard and do her best to keep herself vigilant and alert throughout the night.
She glanced at the three nestled together on the floor. It appeared they were trying to sleep, so she went ahead with her plans. By the time she had a steaming cup of coffee in hand, she noticed Emma was watching her.
“Do you want some?” Chioma asked, telling herself the small kindness on her part didn’t mean she was weak. After all, Themba hadn’t told her she couldn’t feed their captives.
“I’d like that,” the woman answered, her voice soft though noticeably weary.
Chioma filled another cup and took it to her, then lowered herself to the floor where she could watch her charges while enjoying her drink. As she studied the little group, she couldn’t help but remember the young woman’s confession that she believed she was pregnant. Though Chioma had tried not to dwell on that possibility, she had to admit it made the thought of “eliminating” the threesome even more discomforting. Perhaps Themba would consider letting the pregnant one live, though she doubted it. Besides, to be such a young widow with a child on the way would be no easy life.
Many of my own people have suffered such losses … and more. Why should I care about this one white woman? Or the one sitting next to her, for that matter?
Her eyes fell again on the older woman with the bruised face, holding the cup between the palms of her bound wrists, watching her with Andrew’s eyes. Chioma hated her for that, but her heart also softened at the sight. How much easier Chioma’s life would have been if she hadn’t run into this woman, this reminder of the past, who watched her as if she had a choice other than to follow Themba and fight for the cause. The woman might not realize there was no other life for Chioma, but Chioma knew it, and there was no point in considering anything else.