A scream pierced the night.
Eben paused, looked down at the man at his feet, up at the stars, back at Clay. For a moment, Clay thought he might turn back. But then he pivoted, whipped the tarp aside with the barrel of his weapon and disappeared into the bunker.
3
Won’t Get Out of Here Alive
Clay followed Eben in.
What he saw would stay with him until the day he died, would be among the last images shuddering through his by then tortured brain.
Blinding light, after the darkness of the African night. Eben silhouetted against burning kerosene, his shoulders broad, his R4 levelled at the hip. The overpowering smell of men – close, hot – of breath and sweat and killing having been done and more to come. The unmistakable musk of semen. The naked sweating backs of a dozen UNITA fighters, the din of raised voices, a rhumba baseline of grunted chants, and above it a single, high-pitched wail. And all along the walls of the bunker, stacks of what looked like logs, some pale, long and curved, others straighter, dark, knotted. Cases, too – wooden ammunition crates. Muslin sacks about the size of apples scattered atop a small table. Eben standing there, unmoving, the men cheering now, backs turned, still unaware of their presence.
Clay grabbed one of the sacks, stood next to Eben.
‘Let’s ontrek, bru,’ whispered Clay. ‘Before they see us.’
Eben said nothing.
Chanting now, the men roaring in a chugging rhythm, hoarse, the higher pitched accompaniment just a murmur now.
‘What the fok are they doing?’ whispered Clay.
And then the crescendo, a roar, bottles tipped to mouths, heads thrown back. The crowd swayed, parted, and the UNITA Colonel was there, facing them, still wearing his sunglasses, hiking up his trousers, his dick swinging wet and dripping in the yellow light. He stopped dead, staring at them.
Behind him, a woman. She’d been laid on her back across a table. She was naked, her legs spread wide, ankles tied to the table legs, arms stretched above her head, wrists bound. Her vulva glistened. Semen dribbled from its dilated centre. Blood oozed from her anus. Another man, trousers at his knees, stepped towards her, penis erect, teenage hard. Her chest heaved with sobs.
Clay’s stomach turned.
‘Jesus Moeder van God,’ muttered Eben.
The Colonel, recovering now, buttoned his trousers, cinched up his belt, and opened his arms wide. ‘Amigos,’ he said. ‘My South African friends. Welcome.’ He smiled, revealing two rows of strong, ivory teeth. By now all the UNITA men were facing them, big eyed, hyper alert. All except the man who’d now taken position between the woman’s legs and had begun thrusting.
The Colonel grabbed a bottle from one of his men and offered it to Clay and Eben. ‘Join us,’ he said.
Clay could see the veins in Eben’s neck filling, hardening.
The Colonel snapped his fingers, motioned to one of his men. A bare-chested soldier held out a palm of white tablets. His pectorals and abdominal muscles were like rope, coiled, defined, slick with sweat.
‘Take,’ said the Colonel. ‘Good shit.’
‘What the fok is going on here?’ said Clay.
‘The spoils of war,’ said the Colonel, smiling big. A few of his men laughed. ‘You want?’
Clay raised his rifle. ‘No I fucking do not want. Let her go, you animal, or I’ll put a bullet in your head.’
No one moved. Silence, except for the woman’s sobs, her assailant’s grunts.
One of the UNITA men reached for an AK47 leaning against the cut sand wall. Eben trained his rifle on the soldier, shook his head. The man dropped his hand to his side.
‘There is no need for this,’ soothed the Colonel. ‘We are friends here, allies.’ He thrust out the bottle again. ‘Please. Have a drink.’
‘Tell him to stop,’ said Clay. ‘Untie her.’
The Colonel stood unmoving. His men, too. Confusion in their faces. Euphoria there, too. Lust. Chances were, none of them spoke Afrikaans. The man kept fucking, oblivious.
‘You heard me’ said Clay. ‘Pare,’ he shouted in Portuguese. Stop.
The man doing the raping turned back to face them, adjusted his angle by grabbing the woman’s hips, flashed a gap-toothed grin, upped his pace.
‘Be reasonable,’ said the Colonel. ‘Two of you. Seventeen of us. Many more in the next bunker. Many.’
Clay gave him his best fuck-you smile. ‘Wrong, asshole. You’re surrounded by three platoons of parabats. Kill us, you’re dead. Every last one of you.’
‘So this is what we came here to protect?’ said Eben, clearly struggling to control the tremor in his voice. ‘What Kruger died for? A bunch of drugged-up rapists.’ He flicked his R4 to auto, steadied it on his hip.
‘Let her go and we can all walk away,’ said Clay.
The Colonel dropped the bottle to his side, looked left and right. ‘Then we have a dilemma, my friends. This woman is an MPLA traitor. A traitor. A political officer attached to the FAPLA battalion that’s out there trying to kill us. She is our prisoner.’
Eben’s R4 was up now, sighted at the Colonel’s head. The woman shrieked as her assailant pounded harder.
‘I don’t care what she is,’ shouted Eben. ‘Make him stop now, or I swear you’re dead.’
The Colonel said something over his shoulder. The man kept fucking.
Eben took a step forward. At that range the bullet would take the Colonel’s head off. But if he was scared, he didn’t show it; he just stood staring right back at Eben.
‘Stop,’ yelled Eben.
‘He will stop,’ said the Colonel.
Just then the man groaned, spasmed, stood a moment on unsteady legs, then staggered back with his trousers around his ankles.
‘Diere,’ muttered Eben. Animals.
Clay could feel the situation hovering on the boundary between states, that thinnest of lines separating liquid from vapour, right from wrong, life from death. He needed to break the cycle. Keeping his right hand on the pistol grip of his R4, finger on the trigger, he hefted the muslin sack he was holding in his left palm. It felt like a bag of marbles. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
The Colonel removed his sunglasses. ‘That is none of your concern.’ He slid his glasses into his breast pocket. ‘Put it down and leave and I will not report any of this to your Liutenant.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Clay. ‘He will be very interested.’
The Colonel had moved his hand slowly across his chest. It now rested on the still-holstered grip of his pistol.
‘Try,’ hissed Eben, ‘and I swear to God you’re dead.’
The Colonel moved his hand away.
Using his teeth, Clay untied the drawstring on the bag and poured half the contents onto the sand floor. A scatter of clear, grey stones.
‘Kak,’ breathed Eben.
‘What?’
‘Diamonds,’ said Eben.
That involuntary kick deep inside. Wealth. The power to shape your life, to get what you wanted, when you wanted it. It felt a lot like lust. Clay hefted what remained in the bag, a small fortune there in his palm.
The Colonel stood stiff, saying nothing, his men too.
Clay scanned the bunker. Stacks of hardwood logs – ebony, mahogany – worth thousands of dollars on international markets. And closer to the entrance, the tapered arcs, a lustrous cream, with bloodied roots. Elephant tusks, hundreds of them.
The Colonel eyed the uncut diamonds winking in the sand. ‘Perhaps there is a way out of this impasse,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ said Clay.
‘You and your friend. Take that bag and go. That will be the end of it. No one will ever know.’
Clay considered it. He couldn’t help it. What was this handful of rocks worth? A million dollars; two? Jesus. He swallowed.
‘Two young men, still with so much to live for,’ the Colonel said. ‘You will never have to work again.’
Eben glanced over at Clay, a deep frown creasing his forehead. ‘Ke
ep it,’ he said. And then to Clay: ‘Give it to him, bru.’
Clay weighed the bag in his hands, tried to estimate again the mass, the worth. He closed his eyes, slid the bag into his jacket pocket. ‘I tell you what,’ said Clay, shifting his feet in the sand. ‘Untie the woman, let us take her into custody. In return we won’t mention this little hoard of yours to our Liutenant.’
‘And we won’t shoot you,’ said Eben.
The Colonel’s thyroid eyes bugged out, whiteless.
‘I’m sure you can see the tactical situation, now, Colonel,’ said Eben. ‘We can take all of this, if we wish. Kill you all, blame it on FAPLA. It seems to me that, logically, you have little choice.’
The UNITA men shifted, murmuring amongst themselves. The woman was crying now, a pitiful whimper that threaded the room with guilt. The sound sent Clay’s heartrate higher. Anger catalysed in his brain, pulled at its chains.
‘Ridiculous,’ said the Colonel.
‘Really?’ said Clay. ‘Seems a good deal to me. We get the woman, you get to keep all of this.’
‘You won’t get out of here alive,’ said the Colonel, his voice shaking now.
‘Neither will you,’ said Clay, starting to depress the trigger. ‘Any of you.’
He was absolutely prepared to do it. Had seen enough death and violence over the past nine months to do just about anything. Was still able to sleep at night.
Fuck it.
Commissioner Barbour: Would you say that at this point you were, ah, you were desensitised to it – to the violence?
Witness: I think we all were, yes. I didn’t think about it then. But I’ve since come to realise that it had already started to change me, fundamentally.
Commissioner Lacy: Yes, we understand. It is important that you share your personal impressions of that time with this commission. You say the experience changed you. Can you tell us how?
Witness: All I could think about for a long time was that baby elephant. It bothered me a lot more than any of the other stuff. You lose your faith. In the government, in people, in God. I still think about it. It’s hard to talk about.
Commissioner Lacy: But that is why you are here, is it not?
Witness: I suppose so, ma’am.
Commissioner Lacy: Was rape widespread?
Witness: Not in our unit, ma’am. I never witnessed anything like that from our troops.
Commissioner Lacy: But from our allies at the time, UNITA?
Witness: From what I know, yes, it was. On both sides.
Commissioner Lacy: Would you say that rape was used systematically – as a weapon of war?
Witness: It’s not really like that, ma’am. I mean, both sides, FAPLA and UNITA, were using female soldiers. So I guess the distinction goes away. They’re just combatants, like anyone else. They’re trying to kill you. You’re trying to kill them. So when they’re taken prisoner, it’s just another violence that you do. I mean, there’s no difference. It just spills over, becomes part of the whole thing.
Commissioner Lacy: I’m not sure I understand.
Witness: There are no rules, no boundaries, for anything.
Commissioner Lacy: And yet, you tried.
Witness: I’m still trying, ma’am.
4
Damaged Neurochemistry
And of course, you never know at the time. Decisions you make, with insufficient information, on a whim, in the cauldron of a moment, pivot the course of your life entire. Equilibria that have existed for months or years shatter, and new states are entered, where perhaps, like water, conventions are upended, and exceptions to the rule become the norm, the solid less dense than the liquid, and because of it, life is possible, or for some, impossible. The laws of thermodynamics require that it be so. And so, rather than married with a beautiful wife and three lovely children, living quietly in some happy suburb, you end up alone in a hotel room on the coast of Mozambique, a decade and a half later, with the barrel of a gun in your mouth, staring out at the desert of your life, wondering where it all went wrong. And in your pain, you realise that it all started right there, with that one choice.
No one moved. The Colonel staring down the muzzle of Clay’s R4. The air close and hot, potent. The woman splayed and whimpering, begging in Portuguese, por favor, me matar, me matar. Please, just kill me. A dozen men rooted to the ground, eyes flicking back and forth, their weapons scattered about the room. Eben talking to himself in a low whisper, a habit of the last few months: ‘Come on you bastards, fucking animals, come on, just try it.’ Some kind of mantra, a liturgy of hate, his R4 on full auto, at the hip, ready to cut down as many of them as he could in whatever time he’d have. Clay realising that Eben would do it – had the bossies, some of the troop said: bush dementia. Just the fact that they were here, now, proved it true.
Clay could see the Colonel shaking – with rage or fear or both, he couldn’t know. He was staring right at Clay now, deciding.
‘I’ll take the right,’ Eben said in English, breaking out of his trance, voice neutral.
Clay watched the Colonel registering these words, not understanding them.
‘You take left. Don’t hit the woman.’
‘There’s too many, Eben.’
‘Inside out. Do it. My signal.’
Clay flicked his R4 to auto, heart rate critical. Shit.
The Colonel’s eyes widened. He’d seen Clay’s thumb flick the lever, knew what was about to happen.
‘Give us the woman, and we go,’ said Clay in Afrikaans. And then louder, in Portuguese: ‘A mulher, e nós vamos. Last chance.’
‘He’s not going to do it,’ said Eben in English. ‘He can’t lose face. We have to hit first.’ That’s what they’d been taught, Crowbar pummelling it into their heads day after blood-soaked day. Hit first, hit hard. ‘Ready?’
Clay flooded his lungs, exhaled. ‘Start filling out the DD1,’ he said. The SADF’s punishment charge form. ‘That or the death certificates.’
‘On three.’
Clay nodded. How did it come to this?
‘One.’ Um. Een.
The Colonel tensed. Held his breath. Why now, here?
‘Two.’ Eben’s voice steady now, veteran. Dois. Twee.
Clay tightened his finger on the trigger, a void opening up inside him. No reason for any of it.
The Colonel opened his mouth.
Eben hung on it.
‘Que a mulher ir,’ the Colonel shouted. And then in Afrikaans: ‘Let the woman go.’
No one moved.
‘Do it,’ the Colonel shouted.
Clay felt something flood back into him.
Two men moved towards the woman, started untying her.
‘You will regret this,’ said the Colonel in Afrikaans, staring at Clay as if to peel back his scalp. ‘Believe me. You will.’
Clay said nothing, vaguely aware of some sort of life being restored somewhere within. He kept his sight on the Colonel’s forehead, where it had been for the last – what had it been? Seconds? Minutes? Half an eternity.
They had the woman up now, supported under each arm. Her hair hung over her face like a veil. Rope cuts bloomed on her wrists and ankles. Semen slicked down her dark thighs.
‘Bring her,’ said the Colonel.
The two men dragged her across the sand. She was limp, lifeless.
The Colonel straightened, pulled down the hem of his uniform jacket. ‘I formally remand this prisoner into your custody.’
The men threw her to the ground at Clay’s feet. She lay in a heap, unmoving.
Eben hissed between his teeth.
‘You have what you wanted,’ said the Colonel, gaze fixed on Clay’s jacket pocket. ‘Now return what is mine.’
Clay reached into his pocket, closed his fist around the bag of raw diamonds. Looking back, he wasn’t sure what had motivated him. It may have been avarice or greed; revenge perhaps – a need to inflict hurt. Whatever the reason, Clay withdrew his hand, left the diamonds where they were.
&nb
sp; The Colonel’s eyes bulged. ‘Give it to me,’ he hissed.
Clay raised his rifle. ‘Consider it payment for services rendered,’ he said.
The Colonel took a step forwards but Eben checked him with a jerk of his R4.
‘That is my property,’ shouted Mbdele. ‘Mine.’
‘Cover me, said Clay,’ slinging his R4, kneeling beside the woman.
‘Your Liutenant will hear about this,’ screamed the Colonel, his whole body shaking.
‘Your best friend,’ said Eben, smiling big.
Clay lifted the woman, cradling her in his arms like a bride.
Eben indicated the entrance with his head, his R4 still trained on the men. ‘Get her out, back to our lines. I’ll stay here until you’re clear. Go.’
‘We go together.’
‘No way, bru. You carrying her? Too slow. We’d be easy targets. Get her out and back, I’ll follow.’
Then Clay realised: Eben was going to do them. He could feel it, see it in his friend’s eyes. Take out as many of them as he could.
‘Don’t do it, Eben. It’s not worth it.’
Eben stood, whispering to himself again, gibbering like some drugged-up township preacher.
‘Race war, broer,’ said Eben. ‘Not my doing. Been put here, bru.’
‘They’ll kill you. You can’t get them all.’
‘Go. Now.’ Eben was shouting now. ‘Go, damn it. There’s no other way.’
The Colonel and the other UNITA men stood motionless, as if sensing the tottering pile of stones on which their future was built, their fate if the thing tipped the wrong way.
‘I’m not moving, bru. Not until you promise me. Walk away. No shots fired.’
Eben stood muttering to himself, finger twitching on the R4’s trigger, shaking his head to the cadence of some opaque philosophy playing in his mind. ‘Go. Get her out of here.’
‘We go together.’
Reconciliation for the Dead Page 4