by Deon Meyer
I just stood there, as I wasn’t allowed to speak.
‘Just so you know. Information not to be shared. Dismissed.’
That night the message came: there would be a big announcement the next morning in the Forum at nine o’clock. The whole of Amanzi was to attend.
Chapter 96
April: II
Déjà vu is that strong feeling that we have seen or experienced something before. We get the word directly from the French. In that language it literally means ‘seen already’.
Pa gave me that language lesson when I was thirteen, but I remembered it on 3 April in the Year of the Lion, in the Amanzi Forum. Because the feeling of déjà vu was overwhelming.
Pastor Nkosi Sebego stood on the back of the old Tata truck, with a microphone in his big fist. Pa stood beside him, dwarfed as always. The pastor looked presidential and powerful, he exuded authority and self-assurance; my father looked beaten and defeated. I felt the angry shame that Pa could do this to himself and me.
Just about the entire population of Amanzi was crowded into the Forum. The old parking lot was almost full. People stood shoulder to shoulder in Gansie Street, and on the pavements and in the front gardens of the houses across the street. They stood dammed up east and west; not everyone could see, but thanks to the public address system everyone would be able to hear. There were nearly six thousand people, as the West Coasters were there, and our whole community – the river farmers, the Petrusvillers, the people who were re-establishing Hopetown, and the Spotters and most of Sarge X’s guards.
Pastor Nkosi made the announcement. It was a repetition of the speech he had given to the Cabinet, I would later find out. He said he was going to lead his people to the Promised Land in New Jerusalem. He was a natural and brilliant orator who was at his best when the crowd and the business and the stakes were high. Now he didn’t read the speech, he performed it, his voice was a drama that ebbed and flowed over the houses and buildings, resounding off the hills, and eventually echoing away over the waters of the dam.
After the main part of the speech everyone cheered him, even those who weren’t following him, because it was that kind of speech, impassioned and inflammatory.
Then the pastor said the exodus would begin the following week.
‘And’ – his body talked with him, arms and hands that gestured and directed – ‘I want to tell those who won’t join us, that you must think very carefully. Do you want to be part of a community of truth and justice and fairness, or do you want to remain with liars and cheats? Oh, I hear you gasp, but how can Nkosi say that? How dare he? I wonder, would you still gasp if you knew the truth? Do you want to hear the truth?’
A few hundred voices shouted, ‘Yes!’
‘Do you want to hear the truth?’
‘Yes!’ More and louder.
Nkosi’s voice thundered over the crowd: ‘Do you want to hear the truth?’
Thousands answered with ‘yes’.
‘Then I shall reveal the truth, and the truth shall set you free. So, let me ask you, did my Mighty Warrior Party people and I work side by side with everyone in Amanzi to build this place?’
‘Yes!’
‘Did our blood and our sweat and our tears stain the soil of Amanzi, just like everybody else’s?’
‘Yes!’
‘Is it fair that we ask for our share of what we have built? Just our share, nothing more, nothing less, just our share. Is that fair?’
‘Yes!’
‘Our proportional share. If 10 per cent of the people follow me to New Jerusalem, we only want 10 per cent. Is that fair?’
‘Yes!’
‘Of course it is fair. But this man,’ and he pointed at my father, ‘this man and his cronies are denying us that. They are hiding guns and ammunition. They are hiding our own weapons from us, weapons they know we will need to defend our land, our beliefs, our way of life. Our liberty! Why, my brothers and sisters? Why are they hiding them? Why are they denying us our liberty? Why are they refusing what is rightfully ours? What is their agenda? Do they want to throw us to the wolves? Do they want to see us suffer? Or do they want to attack us? Dominate us? Rule us?’
Deathly, shocked silence.
‘I have asked them to give us our share, and do you know what they say? They say I am a spy!’
Cries of disbelief. My feeling of déjà vu continued, my respect for the political savvy of the pastor grew as well. And my disappointment in my father, who was snookered, left holding the short straw yet again.
‘Can you believe that? Me? A spy? But there’s more. This man and his cronies have lied to you. Last August, this man and his cronies knew that we would be attacked. They knew of the death and devastation that was to come. They knew! And they chose to hide that from you. They chose to lie to you about the reasons for enlarging our defence force. If you don’t believe me, ask them for the record of that meeting. And if they don’t want to give it to you, come and ask me, because I have kept a copy in a safe place. The truth, my brothers and sisters, is that they knew the attack was coming. And still they allowed hundreds of us to die. They knew, and they did not protect us. They knew, and they sent half of our Special Ops Teams on a wild-goose chase, while the Enemy was at our door. And they knew! Ask yourself, do you want to stay with people like this? Do you want to stay in a republic built on lies and deceit? Or do you want to be part of the truth?’
Pastor Nkosi Sebego spread his arms wide, as a question, as a man waiting to be crucified for his honesty, for his struggle against the forces of evil. The crowd cheered him, they screamed their encouragement and frustration and indignation.
The pastor stepped back. He indicated, flamboyantly and theatrically, that he was passing the microphone to my father. Pa took a step forward. The crowd jeered him. Pa waited, head bowed, for minutes, until Nkosi lifted his hands to show the crowd to be quiet.
Pa took a step forward, up to the microphone, and he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Yes, I have lied to you.’
There was a chorus of blame, but not as vociferous or extensive as Nkosi would have liked.
‘I lied to you in the interest of good order and military security.’ Pa’s voice was calm and reasoned. ‘At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. And today I still believe that. Yes, we suspected an attack was coming. We did not know when, or where, or how. That is the truth. We did everything in our power to protect you. We made mistakes, and we lost too many people. All that is true. But we did our best, and we did it in your interest. Those of you who choose to stay in Amanzi will have the opportunity to elect a new President, because I am resigning as from today. Our honourable Minister of Technology Cairistine Canary will be Caretaker President until then. But before I go, I want to make it very clear: as your democratically elected leaders, we did not hide or refuse any weapons to Pastor Nkosi and his people. We never did, and we never will. Thank you.’
The crowd was a restless beast, conversations and lamentation and arguments flurried through it like gusts of wind, the people sensing they were pawns in a larger chess game, and no one really knew if there was going to be a winner.
I felt pride well up in me. Pa had used the pastor’s own strategy against him: nearly three years ago Nkosi had used the resignation-move to improve his position on the board of power. Now Pa had done the same.
While I stood there in the crowd, I suspected that my father was politically much more astute than I had given him credit for. That he thought in the long term, not for minor, immediate victory. He had his own talent for theatre. Had he deliberately shrunk in on himself as he stood beside the pastor? Did he want Nkosi to physically – and with that preacher voice – overshadow him, so that Pa would look like the victim, and Nkosi the bully?
Was Pa talking to me, in those moments, when he looked straight at me? Was he saying, yes, I lied to you about Beryl, but it was in your best interests?
I felt someone’s gaze on me. When I looked around, it was Domingo. The unspoken meani
ng was: do you understand now about the weapons?
I nodded.
Birdy had climbed up on to the Tata. Pa adjusted the microphone so that it was in front of her mouth. Birdy said, ‘My fellow Amanzians, it is with great reluctance that I take over the presidency, and I will ensure a speedy election for those who choose to stay. That is a promise. But first, to ensure the fairest possible division of resources between us and New Jerusalem, we need to know who will be leaving us. Those of you who plan to join Pastor Nkosi must please sign the list at the old post office. You can do so right now.’
Domingo drove his Jeep and we ran behind in two separate teams, Team Alpha and Team Bravo, back to base. Past the old post office where a long line of people was queuing up to sign the Leavers list. I wondered how that made Pa feel? After all that he had done for these people.
We are like the dogs, Domingo said back then. And I believe he was right. Look at how the dogs turned on each other after the Fever, when the food ran out, when they just had to survive. No loyalty to the broader species.
We are animals, Nico. Social animals. Domesticated, social animals.
I was running behind the Jeep of the man whose philosophy that was, and I wondered what he was thinking about behind that steering wheel, behind those dark glasses. Because I had drawn my own conclusions. If Pa said that none of the democratically elected leaders had refused weapons to Nkosi and his Mighty Warrior Party, then it meant that Domingo had.
For the very first time I wondered whether my father and Domingo were conspiring. I thought back to each time that Domingo had manipulated or forced a standpoint or decision. Was it possible that he and Pa had planned and managed it that way? Since I had walked in on my father and Beryl, I realised how little I actually knew about him.
All those thoughts ran through my mind on the way back to base.
Domingo ordered us to fall in on the parade ground. He got out of the Jeep. His hip had not fully recovered, he still walked with a slight limp. He faced us, legs planted wide, and said, ‘I’m going over to Luckhoff. I will only be back tomorrow morning. ’Cause why, it gives you time to pack your stuff, if you feel moved to join the good pastor. He’s going to need good men in his army, and you are the best of the best. I’m leaving for the night so you don’t feel any pressure from me. If you join him, I say, no hard feelings. You believe what you believe, and I respect that. If you do that, then I say thank you for your service, thanks for your loyalty, thanks for your bravery, so long and good luck.’
He looked at us intently, turned and walked back to the Jeep.
He halted.
‘Those of you who stay: the Cabinet has asked us to ride shotgun for the Great Trek to Gariep. And that’s what we will do. To the very best of our ability.’
Chapter 97
April: III
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
As recorded by Sofia Bergman. The Amanzi History Project, continued – in memory of Willem Storm.
No, I didn’t want to be President. I never aspired to that, I never dreamed. I mean, I will always serve. But President? It’s just not for me. But when Willem came to me and said, Birdy, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. And I said, But Willem, how will it look, in those history books you write: President Canary. I ask you. Our descendants will just laugh.
It was a hundred and fifty-six kilometres from Amanzi’s main gate to New Jerusalem.
We drove it back and forth, up to eight times a day. The route ran via Colesberg; times without number we saw the spot where we had our first skirmish with the KTM, and by the fortieth or fiftieth time it was just a flyover in the dry, hot summer and you were bored and no longer alert to possible attacks, because there was nothing and nobody on the road – except of course the 2,300 people following Pastor Nkosi to the old Gariep Dam. Forty-six per cent of Amanzi’s people. They walked, rode horses and donkeys and travelled on wagons and in trucks, pick-ups and cars. Along with 46 per cent of our tractors and collection of agricultural implements, 46 per cent of our irrigation equipment, vehicles, radios, 46 per cent of our diesel, our seed, our processed, tinned, milled and bottled food supply.
Forty-six per cent of everything. Except the weapons.
They received 80 per cent of the weapons and ammunition that were stored in the shed in the reserve. But Domingo said that was less than 20 per cent of our total supply. The remainder were still secure, only he and I knew they were on Sicily.
New Jerusalem got 0 per cent of the Special Ops people. The Spotters didn’t lose a single member. This irritated Nkosi beyond measure, and sent him back to the negotiating table to ask Birdy and the Cabinet for ‘instructors’ to train his own army. ‘But not Domingo. I don’t want that heathen near New Jerusalem.’
Before long the pastor was the only one referring to the new settlement as ‘New Jerusalem’. In the local lingo everyone spoke of ‘NJ’ – or En-Jay.
Domingo seconded Sergeants Taljaard and Masinga for three months to train NJ’s soldiers.
Birdy Canary spent three weeks in NJ to help with the renovation, diversion and adaptation of the hydro-electric power station.
I found it interesting in that first week to spot the geographic and strategic differences between the two dams and towns. Gariep/New Jerusalem was larger. The dam was larger, and there were more houses and infrastructure in the town. There was a feeling of space, of a community with room to breathe. But at Gariep/New Jerusalem only about a third of the town was situated on a hill and defensible. The rest of the houses and an old holiday resort (more luxurious than Amanzi’s) were exposed to attacks.
And oddly enough, there was less arable irrigation land in the immediate NJ area.
I noted all that and gained new respect for my father’s early choices. And I felt an increasing pressure to forgive him for his sin with Beryl, and make peace with him. Later I would wonder if I had some sort of premonition, if the universe was hinting to me that our time together was running out.
Chapter 98
The last day with my father
The first Sunday in May was the first weekend that we weren’t on escort duty to NJ.
At eleven in the morning I went up to the Orphanage. I stopped in the sitting room, I never wanted to go to my father’s room again. Beryl was the one who came in at that moment, as chance would have it, sent by fate. I saw her stiffen, a shadow cross her face, one of guilt, or discomfort and shame.
‘Beryl, it’s okay,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said. ‘I’ll call your father.’ And she hurried down the passage, and I thought I saw her hand brush her cheek.
Okkie came running in. Okkie had an early warning radar that told him Nico had arrived before anyone else. He squealed with delight and threw himself into my arms, saying my name. I picked him up and he began babbling about horses, how he was going to learn to ride, Pappa said this afternoon he could learn to ride, because now all the En-Jayers were gone and there was enough time and horses, that’s what Pappa said, are you going to ride with me, Nico? You can ride, we can ride together, but bring your gun, Nico, where is your gun today? Can I touch your gun today, please, Nico, just one time?
A stream of happiness and words, his arm around my neck in total love and trust.
Pa appeared in the passage. Again, he was smaller than I remembered.
‘You’ve grown some more,’ he said to fill the silence. ‘Are you ever going to stop?’ But he halted a few steps away, hesitant body language, uncertainty reflected in his eyes.
‘It’s okay, Pa,’ I said.
Pa came to me and hugged me, with Okkie between us. I was more than a head taller than Pa. I was broader and stronger, and I suddenly recalled that night in front of the House of Light, when I was a kid, after shooting the two Jeep men, when I discovered that I would have to protect my father for the rest of his life. And that feeling, that desire to protect him, overwhe
lmed me as I held my father tight.
It was the last time in my life that I embraced my father.
It was the moment I return to when regret threatens to consume me because I didn’t give him more time and love, more attention and respect. I want to crucify myself because I didn’t tell him that day ‘I love you, Pa’.
At least I did hold him for a while. I experienced a lucidum intervallum, after my stubbornness, my lunacy, my anger because he had an affair with Beryl.
Lucidum intervallum. It’s Latin. A legal term. It means – according to Willem Storm, my father the jurist and lover of words – ‘a moment of psychological normality’, a brief moment when a mentally disturbed person regains his sanity, so that he can engage in a contract and speak for himself. And be responsible for his actions.
For the rest of my life I will be grateful for my lucidum intervallum.
We walked back to the stables, Okkie pulling us both by the hands; we were hopelessly too slow for him.
I asked how things were.
Pa was going to say it was fine now that I was here, now that he and Beryl were forgiven. I could read it in his expression. But he didn’t say that in front of Okkie. He said he was enjoying not having an official position for a change. He was considering not standing in the next election on 1 June. ‘To just farm for a term. I want to see if I can get potatoes going. There’s new farm land we’re going to develop, irrigation, beside the canal on the other side of Luckhoff. And now that our population has halved . . . There’s less pressure on everything. And everyone.’
‘Maybe you should just take a holiday, Pa,’ I said.
He laughed. He said that might be a very good idea.