What’s he doing here? Is he here because he knows Beauty’s here too?
She’d never told me what happened with him, and I’d never asked as that would have been admitting that I’d spied on her, but I didn’t have a good feeling about his being anywhere near us. Something about that man made me very nervous.
I sped up my search, quickly circling the van, and spotted a gate in the fence leading to another property. A small pile of bricks was heaped just on the other side, so I unlatched the gate and darted through. I carried six of them across in three trips, alternately running and pausing to listen out for any danger, and then latched the gate closed again. The double layer of bricks on the surface of the drum gave me the extra few inches I needed, and when I hopped on again, I could finally see into the room.
Forty-two
BEAUTY
19 MARCH 1977
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
The room is dark and grimy. Its avocado-green walls look black in the corners where the light from the candles does not reach. Cigarette smoke rises up to the roof, and as I walk through the haze, a few heads turn to look at me. I am quickly regarded and just as quickly dismissed, which suits me. The room is already half full and I cannot see anyone matching Mpho’s description.
I need to decide where to sit. The couches in the corner look too relaxed, and I know my stiff-backed nervousness will be too obvious if I try to lounge in one of them. The grouping of beer crates around a low table looks uncomfortable; something that young men would play cards and dice around. Instead, I choose one of the proper tables lining the wall and sit down facing the door.
A white candle is wedged into a green wine bottle on the bare table. The flame gives off a subtle, unassuming heat. It is not hostile in the way of shops that have been torched and police cars set alight; it does not burn like dreams going up in smoke. There is a light breeze in the room and the tiny flame is swaying. It does a languorous, almost sensual dance around the wick as if the fleck of fire is dancing to the beat of my thundering heart. The sight is mesmerizing: the orange and gold and yellow and blue and green of its light, the purple of its core; its tapering tip struggling upwards either in supplication or hallelujah. I watch the tendrils of smoke as the fire consumes itself.
“Sawubona, mama.” I am snapped out of my reverie by the young woman who has appeared at my table. She speaks Zulu, but I am able to understand her. All our languages overlay one another like blankets of mist on a mountaintop.
“Good evening, my child.”
“What will Mother have to drink this evening?”
“I am afraid that I am not much of a drinker. I am just waiting for a friend.”
“Everyone who comes to Fatty Boom Boom’s is a drinker, Mother. Otherwise Fatty herself will show you the door.”
“In that case, what do you have?”
“Wine, gin, whiskey, brandy, umqombothi—”
I cut off her recitation. “I will have a small glass of umqombothi.”
The girl laughs. “Fatty is a big woman, Mother, and she believes in big glasses. You will find nothing small here.”
The home-brewed traditional African beer I have ordered is illegal, just as the shebeens are illegal, because the government wants to make money off its state beer sold at its beer halls. The revenue from their beer goes to the state treasury and so I will not drink it on principle. Many believe the apartheid government has not banned Africans from drinking alcohol because they are compassionate enough to allow the black man that one pleasure. In actual fact, the state encourages drunkenness in the townships because it knows that oppressed and exploited people, who are always spending their hard-earned wages on drink, are people who are easier to control and keep down.
The young woman returns with my sorghum brew, wiping my table before setting the glass down. Just then, the familiar strains of the pennywhistle uncoil from the record player in the corner as Elias and His Zig Zag Jive Flutes launch into “Tom Hark.” I take a tentative sip of the sour beer and my foot begins to tap under the table. By the time Dolly Rathebe starts singing “Meadlowlands,” I am halfway through my beer and feeling much more relaxed.
After a while, a man wearing a blue tie pauses at my table as he looks down at me. “Patience?” he asks.
I almost shake my head before I remember the false name Wilhelmina gave him. He is light-skinned and wearing glasses, just as she described him, and I nod. “Mpho?”
He smiles and pulls the chair out to sit down. “I’m sorry I was late, but I had to take the long way to get here. The tsotsis are out in packs with it being Saturday night and everyone coming home with their weekly wages.”
“I am glad you got here safely,” I say. “Please excuse my drinking. They would not let me sit here without ordering one.”
Mpho smiles. “I’ll order the same and then I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Once Mpho’s drink arrives, he leans in close and begins to relay his story in a hushed voice. The room is noisy and I wish he would speak louder, but I know he is nervous about being overheard. He tells me of being in the shebeen two nights ago and the conversation he overheard about the women MK operatives.
“Wilhelmina had asked me to keep my ears open in case there was any talk of them. You are looking for one of the women?”
I nod as I straighten my back to relieve the tension caused from leaning in so close. I am about to answer when something catches my eye over Mpho’s shoulder. It is one of the serving girls. She looks exactly like the girl from the photo that Nothando Ndlovu showed me a few days after the uprising. It is Nomsa’s best friend, Phumla. I am sure of it.
My heartbeat quickens, pounding like a drum, and I take a few deep breaths to steady my nerves. If this girl is back from the MK camps, then maybe Nomsa is back with her. If this girl is here tonight in the same room as me, my daughter could be here too. This is the closest I have come to finding Nomsa after more than nine months of searching, and I am light-headed with the possibility of being reunited with her.
I stand so quickly that I upend my chair and it clatters to the floor. I do not stop to set it right again. If I take my eyes off the girl, I fear she might disappear. Ignoring the startled faces that turn towards me at the sound of the commotion, I begin to make my way to where Phumla is standing. Weaving through the tables, I duck around patrons and chairs as I try to find the quickest route to her.
When I am a mere few footsteps away, a man rises from a table and blocks my path. He struggles to put his jacket on, and by his uncoordinated movements, it is clear that he is drunk. I wait a moment and then another, but when Phumla turns to walk away, I touch the man’s back.
“Excuse me, I need to get past you, bhuti.”
He turns and squints at me. “What is the rush?”
“There is someone over there I need to speak to.”
Still he struggles with the jacket, putting the wrong arm in the wrong sleeve, and under his flailing arm, I can see Phumla walking away. I cannot lose sight of her! In desperation, I tug at the man’s lapel and he staggers to the side.
“Shit!” He curses as his hand connects with the candle on the table. I push past him as he snatches his palm back.
Just as Phumla is about to slip through a doorway, I reach out and grab her arm. She turns at my touch, frowning. When she sees I am not a young man who has had too much beer and is trying to accost her, her expression softens.
“Yes, Mother? Can I help you?” She smiles.
“Phumla?”
Her smile wavers. “No, Mother. My name is Zinzi.”
“No, you are Phumla. You are Nomsa’s best friend. I recognize you.” My voice has risen.
She shakes her head. “You are mistaken. I do not know a Nomsa. You must go.”
“But—”
“Now. You must go, Mother. Please.”
From the r
ecord player, Miriam Makeba’s plaintive voice calls out to me as she croons. “Khawuleza, mama. Khawuleza.” Hurry, Mama, hurry. Don’t let them catch you.
Forty-three
ROBIN
19 MARCH 1977
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
From my position on top of the drum peering through the window, I watched Beauty grab the arm of one of the serving girls. When the girl turned around, the white mark that extended down her chin and into the collar of the blouse came into sight. A spark of recognition flared but quickly fizzled out.
I’ve seen that girl before. But where? And when?
At first, the girl smiled at Beauty, but then her smile fell away and she took a step back and shook her head. She was strongly disagreeing with or denying whatever it was Beauty was saying.
A man from a nearby table suddenly staggered up to Beauty and shoved his hand in her face. It looked like he was shouting at her. Luckily, her companion, the man she’d been sitting with earlier, raced up and came to her rescue, pulling the man away from Beauty. It was during this commotion that the girl slipped away. She looked scared as she rushed through the side door, and I wondered what Beauty had said to spook her.
Just as the girl fled through the door leading into the house, an enormous woman stepped out. She was brightly dressed in colorful wraps and wore a towering red turban. Her presence was welcomed with loud cheers and a few of the patrons called her over. She merely waved at them, and then directed her attention at Beauty and the two men.
After a few moments of discussion, Beauty and Mpho returned to their table while the woman called a towering man over to escort the drunken man out. She then began circulating through the room, stopping at every third group to talk to her customers. It was clear that Beauty was waiting for the girl to return, because she kept looking past Mpho towards the door.
I wondered then if there was another window at the back of the house that might give me a look into what was happening in that other room. Hopping off the drum, I hoped I wouldn’t have to drag it all the way around the house. Once I turned the corner at the back of the property, I could see two windows along the back wall. They were at a normal height so the drum wouldn’t be necessary. I crouched as I scampered across and peeped into the first window I came to.
The room looked like some kind of bar and crates of beer were piled up everywhere. Two long tables took up most of the room and the serving girls bunched inside, grabbing drinks from three men who were doing the pouring. The girl with the white mark wasn’t in the room. I hunkered down again and scrambled across to the next window. When I peered inside, I spotted the girl standing behind a closed door. She wasn’t the only person in the room; a man was in there with her.
I recognized him immediately. He was the tall, stocky man who’d come to fetch Beauty that one night, the one who drove the van and had made her wear the blindfold. He was holding the girl by the upper arm as though restraining her. Something caught the light at his side. It was a gun in a holster. The girl’s eyes were wide with fear, and I began to panic. Just as my mind raced to figure out what to do next, a hand reached out from the darkness and grabbed my wrist. I looked up to see the towering black man who’d escorted the drunken man out.
“Ufuna ntoni?” he growled.
I snatched my wrist away and my glove came off in his hand. He looked at my white skin, shock written on his face, and I used that moment to kick him in the shin as hard as I could before I took off running like the hounds of hell were snapping at my heels. And at least one hound was; the same scrawny one who’d eaten my trail of bread crumbs, and who wanted what was left in my pocket.
I managed to find my way back to the right house despite my trail of crumbs having been devoured and slipped back into the bakkie easily enough though getting rid of the yapping dog was harder. It wouldn’t quiet down and soon a door opened.
“Who’s there?” It was Willy checking what the noise was about. I’d forgotten to close the bakkie’s side window that I’d opened earlier and was nervous Willy would notice it.
There was no answer for a moment or two. The dog was quiet again and had probably been spooked off by Willy’s voice. I was just hoping she’d go back inside without coming to the car to investigate when Beauty returned. I’d made it back just in time.
“Did you see Mpho?” Willy asked.
“Yes, he—”
Before Beauty could answer, another voice cut through the night.
It was a girl’s voice and she was out of breath. She spoke in Xhosa, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying but her tone was urgent.
“Phumla?” Beauty asked.
The girl started talking again but then stopped abruptly.
“This is my friend Wilhelmina. You can speak in front of her.” Beauty was speaking in English and the girl then thankfully switched to English as well.
“But she is white.”
“Even so, child. I trust her.”
There was a pause before the girl started talking again. “I am sorry about earlier, but Mama Fatty does not like us to use our real names and forbids personal issues from affecting our work. I need this job and do not want to get fired.”
“Please tell me you know where Nomsa is, my child. I know that you crossed the border with her many months ago to join Umkhonto we Sizwe, and now you are back. Has she returned with you?”
“No, Mama. It is true that I crossed over from Venda into Rhodesia with her to join MK, but after four weeks of training, it was too much for me. It was too difficult, all the running and the drills and the lack of sleep. We were starving without food and I was exhausted.” There was a pause before she continued in a softer voice. “I was not strong enough and so I quit. They allowed me to come back.”
“And Nomsa?” Willy asked.
“Nomsa was stronger than me. She has the courage of a lion, that one. She worked so hard and was an excellent soldier. She would not come back. She wanted to stay.”
“Is she still in Rhodesia?”
“I do not know. We have not spoken since then and no one from MK will tell me anything because they say they cannot trust me.”
“And the man?” Beauty asked.
“What man?”
“The tall man. The one they call ‘Shakes’? Do you know where he is?”
“No, Mother. I think he is still with Nomsa and the other MK cadres.”
• • •
Five minutes later, Beauty and Willy were back inside the bakkie, the engine starting up as we began our journey home.
I wondered why Phumla had lied to Beauty about where Shakes was and decided it was probably because she was scared of him. I was actually relieved about her duplicity. I didn’t want Beauty anywhere near him; he was clearly a very bad man who we had to keep away from.
I must have fallen asleep after that, lulled by the motion of the van, because I woke up when we lurched to a halt outside our building.
“Thank you, Wilhelmina. I could not have done this without you,” Beauty said.
“Ag, that’s okay. I’m just glad it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
“Come inside for a cup of coffee.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not the one who’s been drinking beer all night long,” Willy teased.
Beauty laughed. “It is a long drive back to the West Rand. A cup of coffee will help wake you up.”
“Okay then. Just one cup.”
Once they were both inside, I slipped out the back once more and headed up to Morrie’s flat. I was relieved to see he’d left the door unlocked just as we’d arranged, and I locked it behind me before tiptoeing to his room. He was sleeping on a bed he’d made for himself on the floor, and the duvet of his single bed was turned back, waiting for me.
I leaned down over him and kissed him without waking him. One down, nine to go.
Forty-four
BEAUTY
22 MARCH 1977
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
The phone rings just before midnight. I am still awake as I have been writing in my journal, but I snatch it up so that it does not wake Robin.
“Hello?”
“Stop what you are doing.”
“Hello? Who is this?”
“You must stop asking questions or he is going to do something bad to you.” The voice is a woman’s and she is whispering.
“Nomsa? Is that you?”
“No.”
“Then tell me where Nomsa is. Please.”
“Just stop it or she will not be able to protect you any more than she has.”
The line goes dead.
Forty-five
ROBIN
5 MAY 1977
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
One chilly afternoon in early May when the air held more than a rumor of winter, Morrie and I were sitting in the huge oak tree in the park. It was our usual after-school spot and I loved leaning my back against the tree’s thick trunk while stretching my legs out on the fourth branch from the top. I enjoyed being suspended like that, not on the ground but not quite untethered either; floating instead between the two elements as the tree’s maternal canopy of leaves held up the sky.
I pulled my lunch from my bag and dropped the tinfoil-wrapped peanut butter sandwiches to Morrie who was sitting one branch below me. “Hand over the cheese blintzes.” We often swapped food, and since I’d become especially partial to the Jewish crepes, the whole Julie-ism conversion wasn’t looking that bad after all.
“Why have you got your food already?” Morrie asked.
Hum If You Don't Know the Words Page 28