by Julia North
Karlos tilts his head in my direction and I feel his eyes wash over me like a lazy river. I keep my eyes focused on the rich green leaves as the patches of sky merge with them into a turquoise haze. I freeze my mouth in a half-smile while warmth spreads across my stomach. I’m glad I did the full makeover this morning. I know I look and smell good. I smile more broadly as a comfortable cushion of silence nuzzles down between us. I feel like I’ve known him for ages rather than barely a week. Who’d have thought I’d meet a kindred spirit in a place like this, and who’d have thought in a million years it would be an Afrikaner? He’s right; I also want time to slow down. Five more weeks is not very long.
Karlos pushes himself up and leans over towards me. ‘So, Liss, tell me about your family. I want to know everything about you.’ He smiles as he stresses the ‘everything’ and let’s his eyes streak down my body. ‘Are your parents still alive?’
‘My Mom is.’
Chapter 10
My body vibrates as Dad’s Hilux bumps over the potholes along the long Transkei road. It’s a part of the country I’ve never visited before and I’m so glad I talked him into letting me come along. I look out the window at the vast, undulating hills dotted with grazing cattle, goats and Xhosa huts which stretch out on either side. A young boy is driving a herd of reluctant cattle in front. I watch as he hits one of the rebel cows with his nimble switch. Funny to think Mandela was once a herd boy here just like him.
The copper sun is beginning to fall and cast crimson shadows over the far horizon. It’s such a beautiful area and I should feel at peace looking out at it, yet I still can’t shake off the tension of Flagstaff as we’d just driven through. The crowd packing the dirt pavements outside the stores in the town’s main street had visibly stiffened at the sight of our white faces, turning on us with eyes full of bitterness and hatred. To them we are despised whites; how could they possibly know we are on their side?
‘Much further?’
Dad squints ahead and gives a small shrug of his shoulders as we near the signpost for Lusikisiki. ‘Fifteen to go.’
‘I think this should be the last drop you do.’
Dad keeps his eyes fixed on the long, pot-holed road while the air thickens between us. He shakes his head.
‘Dad … please.’
He turns. ‘I shouldn’t have let you come.’ His voice is low and I see his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
‘It’s just that things are getting so much worse.’
‘More reason to help.’ Dad keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
I sink back against the bench seat and mutter. ‘You can help in other ways.’
‘Enough, Melissa.’ The harshness of his tone cuts through me. I stare out at the rolling green hills as they blur past. A cow rears up from the roadside slope, its flank glistening and its nostrils flared. It lurches towards us.
‘Damn!’ Dad swerves violently to the side, flinging me into my taut seatbelt. The cow darts skittishly to the side of us with a loud baying.
‘Bloody cows.’
We look at each other and laugh. I switch on the radio. The deep harmony of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Paul Simon singing Graceland blares out. The irony of our ungracious land doesn’t escape me, but the rhythm soothes my nerves.
A Mazda 323 screeches past and just misses a bus coming towards us on the opposite side. Dad slows and rattles over the dirt verge, sending small stones shooting out and splattering against the back window.
‘Bloody fool.’
We come around the bend and straight into chaos about two hundred yards ahead. A crowd are blocking the road. They have their backs to us and are shouting and jostling around something or somebody in front of them. The Mazda 323 and two Hiace taxis are parked on the side.
‘Shit, what’s happened?’
Dad hits the brakes, slowing the Hilux down to a crawl. ‘I don’t know.’ He pulls over onto the verge about a hundred yards from the mass of people. ‘Stay here,’ he says.
‘Shouldn’t we turn back?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘I need to get the papers to Lusikisiki tonight.’ He gets out and takes a few steps towards the crowd. I squint at the crowd through the windscreen. It looks like it’s adult men. Most of them are holding sticks or knobkerries high in the air and stamping and shouting abuse around whatever’s in the front of them.
Their angry shouts fill the air. I swallow. This can’t be just an accident. I get out and join Dad in front of the Hi-lux.
Dad frowns at me. ‘I told you to stay put.’
I touch his arm. ‘I think you should get back in.’
Dad grips the car keys and stares at the crowd with narrow eyes, but says nothing. Suddenly the crowd lets out a roar. I step backwards against the bonnet. Rolling plumes of black smoke and crackling flames have shot up. The men hoist their sticks high into the air as the billowing smoke rolls skyward. ‘Bhuhba, bhuhba!’ they shout. Their murderous roar fills the air as the smoke thickens and swirls upward in black mounds, darkening the sky and filling the air with the acrid stench of molten rubber and petrol. Bright fiery flames rise up, and the smoke reels towards us.
‘Shit … it’s a necklacing … move!’ Dad pushes me hard towards the door of the Hi-lux before running around to the driver’s side. ‘Hurry!’ he shouts.
A scream of raw pain cracks through the noise of the chanting crowd. I clamber into the cab and retch. ‘Oh God, how can people do this to someone? How can they?’
Dad shakes his head from side to side. ‘He must be an informant … we’re trying to stop this … God … we have to stop it.’
Dad and I sit frozen, staring through the windscreen with horror at the chanting crowd as they lift their knees high in a toyi-toying dance. My head is light. Nothing feels real. A gap reveals a flash of the writhing, burning body screaming from the flames of its melting tyre necklace in the centre of the circle. ‘Bhuhba, bhuhba; BHUHBA, BHUBA,’ they chant as they dance around him. Their cry grows louder and louder, shrill laughter mingling with the war cry, while others point their knobkerries at the burning, screaming figure and lift their knees in toyi-toying victory.
‘Aieeuuuu … aieeuuu, nceda … NECEDA … AIEEEEEEEE …’ the scream of pain and plea for help from the burning man grows. I put my hands against my ears to shut out its raw agony, but it’s no good. It continues to tear into my soul despite the closed doors of the Hi-lux. I bend forward in the cab and clutch at myself and retch again.
When I look up one of the men has turned his head and is looking straight at us. He stops dancing and points: ‘Nomlongo!’ he shouts, ‘Nomlongo.’ The circle of men turn around. They fix us with hate eyes and hoist their sticks and knobkerries into the air. One man whistles his knobkerrie through the air with its dull, hard ball pointed directly at us; the others follow suit. Their shrill warning screeches in my ears.
‘Nomlongo,’ the man shouts again, ‘Ukubalala nomlongo.’
The crowd roars and begins stomping forward towards us. ‘Bhuhba … bhuhba,’ they shout, pointing their waving knobkerries directly at us, ‘BHUHBA … BHUHBA.’ The cry grows in intensity. They march closer in an ox-horn formation like a horde of warring Zulu impis.
‘Shit!’ says Dad. ‘Shit …’ He shoves the key into the ignition and turns it with trembling fingers. The ‘BHUHBA’ cry grows closer. It rings in my ears as I sit, wide-eyed and frozen, staring through the windscreen at the advancing horn of men. The white hatred of their eyes is clearly visible.
‘Oh God … oh God!’ I can’t breathe. My heart pounds against my chest. ‘Jesus, help us … please …’
The Hi-lux’s engine splutters to life. I draw in a shaky breath as Dad screeches it around in a squealing U-turn. A shower of gravel pummels the side as he puts his foot down flat and heads back with smoking tyres towards Flagstaff.
I turn and look out of the rear window. The men are running after us, their faces frozen in grotesque screams of hate as they point and shake their sticks and knobkerrie
s into the air and shout their curses. ‘Ukubalala nomlongo, ukubalala nomlongo.’
I swallow and turn back to look at the long winding road stretching out in front of us. The hot air of the cab is pressing in around me. My whole body is tingling and my head spins. I feel like I’ve left my body. This can’t be happening, surely it can’t be happening? Dad’s face is pale. His jaw-line jerks up and down as he glances frequently into the rear-view mirror. He keeps his foot flat as we catapult along the potholed road. I squeeze my eyes tight and pray silently. ‘Please, don’t let them come after us, please.’
I look back. The Mazda 323 is gaining on us. Two men are hanging out of the passenger windows. Dad looks back at the rear-view mirror and keeps his foot down. A loud explosion shatters our rear window. My ears fill with a loud ringing, and Dad’s body jolts forward onto the steering wheel. I stare at him as a bright fountain of blood gushes out of the back of his shattered head like a broken water spout. The Hi-lux shudders back and forth across the road as his foot slides off the accelerator. Dad’s breath rattles out of him as the car judders onto the dirt verge before collapsing on its side with a crash.
‘Dad, oh God … Dad!’ I scream, as I’m flung against the crumpling side.
Chapter 11
Dad’s funeral is the first one I’ve ever been to even though I’m twenty-three. I stare down at his pale face tucked above the white lace collar of his burial gown. I’m numb as wax; worms have eaten my soul and I can’t feel any more. I can’t believe he’s gone, but there he is. There’s the irrefutable evidence. My beautiful Dad is murdered and for some reason fate decreed I would be merely bruised, lying frozen in that wreck until the police came. Why? Why was it Dad’s time and not mine? Why did he have to die like that?
My breath comes out in short, sharp, shallow gasps. He’ll never hold me, speak to me, and be with me again … he was so wise, so full of love. ‘Why God? Why him? All he was trying to do was help people … help this country. Why didn’t you protect him, Jesus, why?’
But Jesus doesn’t answer.
Nat takes my arm. Elsa puts hers around Mom and so does Aunty Yvonne. We move away from the coffin and sit down heavily on the front pew.
‘Agh, this is the saddest day ever,’ says Aunty Yvonne. She takes out a white hanky and dabs it across both her eyes. Her black hair matches the black mood of her suit. ‘You must all be strong. That’s what Jon would have wanted. You must mourn, but stay strong.’ Aunty Yvonne puts her fat arm around Mom’s taut shoulders and gives them a pat. Mom remains still, staring forward, her eyes never leaving Dad’s mahogany coffin. Her pain seeps towards me and joins forces with mine.
The robed priest paces solemnly up to the pulpit. He clears his throat. ‘We have come this morning to honour and celebrate the life of Jon Kenneth Windsor. Loving husband of Maria and father of Elsa, Natalie and Melissa …’
My ears shut out his voice. I can’t listen to this. I can’t listen to someone shouting at me that my Dad is dead.
I see myself again, crumpled, dazed and bruised in the broken cab; Dad’s heavy, lifeless body dangling down onto me, his hot blood pumping, pumping onto my cheek, dribbling down my neck and arm, and sucking out my soul along its way. Why did I survive? I was there for hours and hours until the police cut me out. So many hours that Dad had grown cold. I shouldn’t have survived. I wish they had just left me there until I’d joined him.
The priest finishes and Thabo moves with slow steps to the front. His eyes are red and swollen. He stands silently looking at the coffin, bows and then turns to face us.
‘Jon was a man who cared for all South Africans,’ he says. His hand clenches and he swallows back the tears. ‘He was our brother and our comrade. A man who was prepared to put his own life on the line to help his fellow man to gain equality and freedom. Many of you are unaware of how much he helped the ANC in its fight. You had to be. But now that he is gone I will not stand in fear, but rather proclaim his role and his goodness. It is such an irony that Jon had to die is this way; my spirit reaches out to you all. I am so sorry … so sorry.’
Thabo lowers his head and silence fills the chapel. He keeps his head down for a full minute. He clears his throat. ‘Death is so common in our country but to lose someone like Jon blows my soul apart. There will never be another like him and I will miss him every day. It was an honour to be his friend.’ Thabo bows his head again as his words echo around the chapel.
I’m too numb to cry. If I give in now, I’ll never stop. Mom leans forward, her head with its neat blonde bun held in both her hands and her black-clad humped back trembling. Aunty Yvonne’s arm tightens around her shoulders. ‘Sterkte, Maria,’ she whispers, ‘Sterkte.’
Elsa watches Thabo with narrow eyes full of intensity. My stomach lurches. Please don’t let her start getting involved. Just now they’d kill her, too. If she’d been there to smell the burning rubber and blood, she’d think differently. Hate just breeds hate; why can’t we see that? I glance at the back, half-expecting to see the police. Thabo’s publicly declared Dad a comrade; they’re sure to hear about it and start watching us. They could even storm in right now and arrest Thabo, it wouldn’t surprise me.
A low moan rises up from deep inside me. I hold my head between damp hands as the chapel begins to spin. I swallow and stare down at the carpet. I draw in a long, shaky breath. What did blowing apart Dad’s life achieve? He was helping them, for fuck’s sake. He was on their side. Are they so blinded by hate that they can’t even realise it?
What a country! So much violence and pain: white against black, black against black, it’s all human against human at the end of the day, and what for? So families all over this country are devastated by loss that etches deep ravines into their souls forever. How can we ever stop hurtling towards destruction under this façade of a ‘state of emergency’? Oh God, how could they have murdered my Dad?
The palms of my hands grow sticky. The organ starts and we stand to sing The Lord is my Shepherd.
I stiffen and hope the chapel won’t start to spin again. I must stay strong and be dignified. ‘Please help me,’ I pray. And as we begin to sing about the green pastures and still waters, I think my prayer is answered for a deep womb of peace suddenly surrounds me and numbs the pain. I draw in a deep breath and shudder as salt tears of pain, sorrow and guilt all flow out in one cathartic rush.
Chapter 12
The house oppresses me. Every room hurts. The dark pain is everywhere, eating into my soul. Even Aunty Yvonne senses it. Her face is pale and puffy, her eyes red-rimmed and sunken. I want to run away, far, far from everything. Where’s Dad’s smell? Why isn’t his aftershave lingering in the air? Why aren’t his clothes sprawled on the chair in the bedroom? How do you refill a shell when the yolk’s been ripped out?
I look out at the fragile blossoms of the frangipani trees. Dad planted them. He loved that delicate fragrance which now reaches up to me but gives little comfort. I shut my mind against the horror of his loss. ‘Nomlungu‘ had been the surprised cry of the Transkei policeman as the crumpled metal gave way and they yanked my still conscious body from the wreckage. They’d left me lying there, covered in Dad’s dried blood, on that hard soil verge while they pulled out his limp and broken body. I shut my eyes against the memory of the cheap, black plastic covering. It was my Dad lying under that flapping plastic and I’d never again be able to speak to him, hold his hand, laugh with him or tell him that I loved him. A cry shudders up from deep inside and floods through.
I look over at the place near the front door where his shoes always sat. It’s bare now. Aunty Yvonne must’ve hidden them. Probably just as well. I felt like I’d been stabbed when I saw them. Strange how seeing someone’s shoes when they’ve gone can hurt so much.
‘Maybe you should all come to the Karoo for a bit,’ says Aunty Yvonne, ‘or see a counsellor after what you’ve been through, Lissa.’
I shake my head. ‘We’re too busy … I can’t leave the lab.’
Aunty
Yvonne clears her throat as the silence thickens. ‘I’m so sorry for your experience, my girl. I’m so sorry.’
I force back my tears and swallow. ‘I’ll be okay, Yvonne. I’ll see someone if I have to.’
‘Good girl.’ Aunty Yvonne gives my waist a squeeze. ‘I’ll talk to your Mom, maybe she can come.’
I nod. ‘Good idea.’
‘Let me open another bottle of Chardonnay. Can I top you up?’
‘Please.’
Aunty Yvonne brings me back another full glass, and I gulp it down, letting out a shaky breath as it courses through my veins. The edges of my pain begin to blur.
The sun’s streaming in my bedroom when I wake. My head’s pounding and my mouth is foul. Shit, I’m still fully dressed. I shouldn’t have stayed up so late with Yvonne. I can’t even remember how many bottles we drank. I roll out of bed and pad through the silent house into the kitchen. The walls spin. I need water. I get a glass, turn on the tap and glug down a pint with a trembling hand. I clench my hand around the glass as Aunty Yvonne comes in, but the trembling persists. I hope she doesn’t think I’m a drunk.
Aunty Yvonne puts her arm around me and gives my waist a squeeze. ‘I’ve spoken to your Mom and she’s agreed to come back with me for two weeks.’ Her voice is measured but with a higher pitch than normal. She’s slurring slightly. ‘We might go on to Cape Town for a week or so after and then she can fly back to Durban from there.’
I turn with raised eyebrows. ‘Good work. I didn’t think she’d go.’
‘Agh, I’ve good persuasive powers when I need them.’
‘I’ve got such lovely memories of that childhood holiday.’
‘Ja, the space is good for your soul,’ says Yvonne. ‘I wish you could come too, Melissa. I really do.’