Truth be told, Bhekithemba felt the privilege of being so singled out by The Man Himself. It was not lost on him that his connection to The Man Himself accorded him respect among his peers and helped him garner a reputation. If he had felt any guilt over being so cherry picked, he was able to do away with it by convincing himself that he was the man that his country needed at this particular moment. As a young man, it embarrassed him to admit he had been so colonised that he had not once considered joining the liberation struggle because, like his grandfather and father before him, he had so loved being a British subject. But he was sober enough now to reflect on that period of his life objectively. His country had not needed him then. Perhaps he would have been killed, and what good would that have been for the country? His country needed him now. He could write the kind of stories that would help build the new nation. He would be the one to change his country from a racist, divided country into a multiracial, unified country.
The Man Himself told Bhekithemba that because the country was still young and working out its differences, and because civil wars often had repercussions, conflict was inevitable. However, the country had an image to portray and protect, and Western countries were waiting for it to fail. It was Bhekithemba’s job to ensure that the West did not receive any ammunition with which to destroy the country’s image. Bhekithemba understood why the West should not be given reason to discredit or malign the country, but he also believed that the country should be given a chance to examine itself, because that was the only way it could understand itself fully, make necessary changes and create an equal society. That was the real revolution as far as Bhekithemba was concerned – the creation of an equal, discrimination-free, all-inclusive society. To this end he wrote award-winning articles on a woman’s right to wear trousers, on the dignity of the disabled, on the plight of farmworkers, on the history of the Coloured people, on the rich cultural heritage of the Khoisan, on why women deserved equal pay, on the importance of commercial farming to the national economy. Often The Man Himself would call Bhekithemba and praise him on an article he had written, always making sure to quote a particular paragraph, turn of phrase or scintillating sentence. Bhekithemba always felt honoured and humbled by such attention and strove to write and do even better. As a reporter he prided himself on his objectivity, his ability to present all sides of the story, and his providing his fellow citizens with information that helped them better understand their country and each other. His articles often led to very engaged exchanges of ideas and opinions in the ‘Letter to the Editor’ section.
The Man Himself informed Bhekithemba that he was thinking of shaking things up at one of the local, state-run newspapers, which still had too many white journalists and therefore did not reflect the independence of the majority. Would Bhekithemba Nyathi like to be the new head of investigative reporting? Bhekithemba had just turned twenty-five and felt old enough for such a responsibility. He took the promotion.
When someone from a car assembly plant called him to tell him that state ministers were illegally reselling cars that they had received for free as part of their payment packages (one had resold as many as eleven cars), Bhekithemba thought it a good story to highlight corruption and make people think about why they elected officials and what kind of character an elected official should have. He could already see the conversation that would play out in the ‘Letter to the Editor’ section. He wrote the piece, but it was not printed. He spoke to the editor-in-chief, who told him that from now on he could only report on things that The Man Himself told him to. The editor-in-chief laughed at the confusion on Bhekithemba’s face. ‘Ay, you’re green,’ he said. ‘The Man Himself also has illegally resold several cars, and you actually thought we would be able to run the story? The time will come for such a story. Trust me. But for now this is our free press.’
Bhekithemba called The Man Himself and was told he was out of the office. He did so five times before he realised that The Man Himself was deliberately avoiding him. He went to work the following day awaiting the call from The Man Himself that would let him know what he could write on. The call never came. He reported to work for almost three months, receiving a pay cheque every fortnight, but The Man Himself did not call.
Bhekithemba sat at his desk with nothing to do and watched as his colleagues bustled about. He noticed things – the wear and tear of the furniture, the cobwebs in the corners, the grey grime creeping up the windows, the smell of boiled cabbage that wafted up from the company cafeteria and remained trapped in the building – for the first time. He knew every chip and chink in the furniture, how many cobwebs there were, what progress the grey grime had made, and where the boiled cabbage smelled strongest and where it was overcome by the smell of sun-baked urine that rose up from the alley behind the building. He realised how much he had compromised himself through his association with The Man Himself. His colleagues would not talk to him, would not look him in the eye; he felt certain that they laughed at him behind his back for thinking that he had curried the favour of The Man Himself. He thought of seeking employment at another newspaper, but all newspapers were state-run and he was now wise enough to know that it would be a futile exercise. Perhaps if he had not received a pay cheque every two weeks he would have felt better, but he did, and he knew that the pay cheque for the services not rendered was The Man Himself’s way of communicating something: power.
That was when he heard the rumour. People in a particular region of the country were systematically being disappeared by the state. Bhekithemba refused to believe it, even when the rumours became more specific. It was a particular ethnic group, in this particular region of the country, which was systematically being disappeared by the state. Bhekithemba was steadfast in his refusal to believe the rumours. And then news arrived that his cousin – someone he remembered playing with as a boy, someone who, unlike Bhekithemba, had decided to cross the Zambezi River to become a freedom fighter – had been disappeared. He knew that the story of his cousin’s disappearance would be for ever uninvestigated, unwritten and unsolved. Something stung his eyes and filled his lungs with bitterness. He blinked his eyes, swallowed hard, and decided to ignore it.
By the time The Man Himself called Bhekithemba and gave him a direct assignment, he had learned his lesson well.
The Man Himself told him that there was a crazy man on the Beauford Farm and Estate who believed he was capable of flight and was cultivating a race of angels – followers who believed that they too were capable of flight. The man was building a giant pair of silver wings so that he could fly the woman he loved to Nashville, Tennessee. The man’s followers touched the wings, prayed to the wings, kept watch over the wings, made offerings to the wings – all in hopes of one day having wings of their own. The Man Himself said that this would be the perfect story with which to amuse the masses during a difficult time. For Bhekithemba, the story of the crazy man and his cult was obviously one worth telling, not because it was amusing but because it was about the audacity to believe. He could already see the ‘Letter to the Editor’ section abuzz with excitement. This was how he was going to redeem his fall from grace.
There was only one problem: Bhekithemba did not believe in love, at least not in romantic love. He understood the love one had for one’s parents and for one’s country – but that sort of love was born of respect and gratitude. It was a sort of giving back. There was a reason for that kind of love. It was only natural to love the things that had given you life, a sense of place, a feeling of belonging, a connection to things beyond yourself. You could not exist without these things and so of course you loved them. It was a selfish love: a love of self-preservation. Selfish love was understandable … reasonable. But romantic love had no reason. Bhekithemba had read somewhere that it was merely an invention, something that could preoccupy people, a yearning that could never be fulfilled, something that would make one’s life a quest rather than a series of unrelated, mostly boring events. And so Bhekithemba did not quite believe that
this man building a giant pair of silver wings was doing it for love – love of a woman. Bhekithemba suspected that there was another reason, more interesting, more real, more reasonable, and that in itself was story enough for him.
Intrigued, Bhekithemba made his way to the Beauford Farm and Estate. He drove up a dusty road surrounded by a sea of sunflowers.
Out of the sunflowers came a flash of colourful light that made Bhekithemba bring his car to an abrupt stop. In the middle of nowhere, anything was possible. He waited for the dust to settle before making his next move.
The dust cleared and there was a girl standing in front of the car, left arm akimbo, a teddy bear dangling from her right hand and a rag doll firmly secured on her back. Her face was knotted in a frown that was more curious than unfriendly. She was mere inches in front of the car. Bhekithemba saw her mouth move, but could not hear her. He switched off the engine and rolled down his window.
‘Who you coming to take away?’ she asked, deliberately not coming any closer. What an odd question. ‘Who you coming to take away?’ she repeated, still standing her ground.
‘No one,’ he said, flashing his most charming smile. She looked unconvinced. ‘Is this the place, Beauford Farm and Estate, where the man is building an aeroplane?’ he asked. Her frown became unfriendly. ‘I’m a reporter. I would like to do a story on this man.’
‘Why a story?’ she asked.
How was he supposed to respond to that? Why a story? What else but a story? All he did was look for stories. It had never occurred to him to do anything else, to look for something else. ‘Well, I think the story is of interest. I think people will be … inspired by the story.’
‘Why inspired?’ she asked.
Another question that he could not respond to. Did she even understand what it meant to be inspired? She was probably asking questions simply to ask questions, the way most children did.
‘Who are you looking to inspire?’ she asked.
Or maybe not, maybe she understood the conversation that they were having better than he did. ‘A lot of people. Many people don’t believe that we can fly. Many people need to believe that we can fly.’ He waited for her next question, but none came. Instead, just as quickly as she had appeared, as a flash from the sunflowers, she disappeared as a flash back into the sunflowers. Bhekithemba sat in his car, not sure what to do next. A moment later he was not quite sure if a girl had really been standing in front of his car. He had been driving for hours and his mind had probably played a trick on him. She had been such a bright and … spritely thing. There had definitely been something otherworldly about her. Bhekithemba laughed at himself. What was he thinking? He was a man of reason. Of course the girl did exist …
Should he carry on up the dirt road, or should he turn around? As he was trying to decide, he saw them – a group of people coming down the dusty road, led by the girl. She did exist. Bhekithemba got out of the car, not quite sure if he was being welcomed or not.
‘He says he is not here to take anyone away,’ the girl announced, before he could say anything. ‘He says he’s here to tell the story of the man building the wings,’ she continued with authority. ‘He says the story will inspire people. He says people don’t believe that we are capable of flight,’ she said and waited for whatever would happen next.
An impossibly tall man came forward. ‘I believe I am the man you are looking for,’ he said humbly. Bhekithemba doubted it. The man was painfully white.
‘He is my father,’ the girl said, her chest puffing out with unmistakable pride. She looked at the painfully white man with reverence; all those who looked at the man looked at him with reverence. Soon, Bhekithemba understood the source of their pride. Just looking at the man, Bhekithemba could tell that there was something different about him, something beyond the colour of his skin. He possessed that certain something that Bhekithemba had witnessed in the dreadlocked man: power. But not just any power. Power of a special kind. The power to move, inspire and unite people. Charisma.
The man told Bhekithemba how he had come up with his theory of flight on September 3, 1978, as he watched elephants swim across the Zambezi River. What had made the first elephant cross was that it could see the other bank of the river – the elephant would not have swum into the ocean, of this the man was certain. What made the other elephants follow was the successful passage of the first. The man wanted people to know that they were capable of flight, and at first he had erroneously thought that they would realise this if he taught them how to build aeroplanes. After watching the elephants, he understood that what was needed was merely his own belief in flight. If people saw him build a giant pair of silver wings, then they too would believe that they could fly.
JESTINA
As Jestina watched people she had known all her life move through the yellowish-grey of the compound like automatons, she no longer recognised them. Something within them had changed, something fundamental. The residents of the Beauford Farm and Estate compound seemed to have expended every human emotion possible and were now simply exhausted. She could not help but wonder if the scene playing out in front of her was due to the fact that the journalist, Bhekithemba Nyathi, had written the story of Golide Gumede and his race of angels who believed they were capable of flight.
Mr Vundile, her adult-literacy teacher, passed her by without seeing her. He carried his wife on his back. His wife’s yellow and white dress was stained with a garish red. From the angle of her neck, Jestina knew that Mr Vundile’s wife, Mrs Vundile, was dead. She knew this because she had seen the heads of dead birds, killed by the compound boys’ slingshots, hang at that angle. She herself had wrung the necks of countless chickens, so she knew intimately the angle of the neck that marked death.
Mr Vundile was not the only one carrying a dead person. Other residents were doing so too. Most helped each other carry a body. They all passed her by without seeing her. They all had a faraway look in their eyes that paradoxically seemed to be turned inward, as though they were searching for something deep within themselves – anything in the depths of their souls that would let them know what they had done to deserve this.
‘This’ was having to bury family members, friends and neighbours who, that very morning, had still been full of love, laughter, anger, greed, jealousy, resentment … something … anything but the emptiness, the nothingness that made a body offer no resistance at all to being carried and thrown into a disused well. Whatever it was that they had felt, be it love or hatred, it had not warned them that they would be feeling it for the very last time, had not urged them to savour the moment, to hold on a little longer to the feeling.
Jestina watched in stupefaction as people she had known all her life helped each other pick up the body of a person she had known all her life and carry it to the disused well at the edge of the compound. Then she noticed the silence. No one was crying. No one was screaming. No one gnashed their teeth. No one stomped their feet and tore out their hair. No one ripped off their clothes. These would all have been socially acceptable forms of grieving. But no one was doing what was socially accepted. When had they learned to do this, to bury their dead in absolute silence? Could an entire community learn a lesson so quickly and so completely?
There was a body that no one picked up. It was charred to brittleness, beyond recognition. The hands seemed gripped by the desire to seize something. The legs were twisted in a permanent dance of pain. The mouth gaped open, revealing crooked teeth. Jestina thought that in life this person must have had a crooked smile. She wondered if he had walked a crooked mile. She was filled with an overwhelming sadness because she could not recognise him. She had probably greeted him with a ‘Salibonani’ many times. He had been part of the fabric of her life … of all their lives, and here he lay, reduced to nothing. They had carried fourteen bodies down the well to be buried underneath the water, Jestina had counted; the crooked man’s body was to be the fifteenth. Everyone hesitated. The crooked man seemed ready to disintegrate and no one wa
nted to be the one to reduce him to further nothingness. Without saying anything, the surviving residents of the compound left the burnt remains alone and walked away.
They went to their respective homes, homes that were now broken – perhaps irreparably and irrevocably.
Having no other choice, Jestina went home too.
She entered the house through the kitchen and heard someone trying not to breathe. She turned to find Genie, terrified and trembling in the corner.
At some point Genie must have decided to run to Marcus’ grandparents’ house. She must have found them sitting at the table in their kitchen-cum-dining room the way Jestina had left them: opposite each other with a proper tea laid out between them – good china, scones, biscuits and sandwiches. The only thing odd about the scene was that both Mr and Mrs Hadebe were slumped over, their heads resting on the table, which was so unlike them since they were always upright and true. They were also holding hands, which was also so unlike them, since they vehemently believed that displays of affection were unchristian. Jestina wondered if it was the fact that the Hadebes were slumped over so carelessly or the fact that they were holding hands so openly that let Genie know that they were dead. Mr and Mrs Hadebe made the final death toll seventeen.
‘Poison … rat poison in the tea,’ Jestina said in explanation as she went over to sit next to Genie. ‘They made me do it,’ Jestina whispered. ‘They made me put it in while the Hadebes watched. Then they forced them to drink the tea. And then they just left. Left them to die. And me to witness it.’
The Theory of Flight Page 6