The Smoke That Thunders

by Nathan Bassett

  The others agreed.

  Peter’s mind wandered off as he thought about it. He was sure such a tale must be simple folk lore and not to be taken seriously. He dare not say what he was thinking and told himself that if such fairytales encouraged a terrified people, they should be allowed to hold on to these fantastic accounts of miracles.

  After Peter and Chad introduced themselves, explaining how they happened to come to Rhodesia, there was a short Bible study. Peter paid little attention, as he was still thinking about the all the stories he had heard: stories of war, stories of death and grief, stories of terror all around – of terror next door.

  Then the group prayed. They prayed for those who had died, for those who had lost loved ones, and for those who were fighting an intractable war. Then they prayed for peace and for the ability not to hate.

  At the end of the prayers, a young pregnant woman, whose husband was serving in the Rhodesian army, spoke up for the first time. “I … I feel so very bad. I wrestle with this. Yesterday, I heard of that terrorist – the one who died falling into Victoria Falls trying to escape. I wanted to shout for joy. I wanted to praise God. I wanted to see more die. It is so hard not to hate – not to want revenge. It is so hard not to pray for them to die horrible deaths. Sometimes I do. I don’t want to be like that. I feel so bad that my heart rejoices when someone dies, no matter who they are.”

  That comment sparked a solemn discussion. Some said they wrestled with the same confusion and guilt. Others were adamant that praying for the death of terrorists and rejoicing at their demise was not only understandable, but also right and necessary. Emotions swelled, and the intensity began to cause both Peter and Chad to squirm.

  Richard had avoided getting involved in the discussion. Finally, he sighed loudly and carefully and hesitantly said, “Well, I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I just know I do not want my life destroyed by hatred. Sometimes I do pray that more die. Other times, I pray they will be saved. I am beginning to feel the only thing I can pray is that God’s will be done on Earth as it is in heaven, and I pray that His kingdom come. I will pray that. And I know I must pray that hatred and bitterness do not take over my heart, for that is something we should all fear.”

  All journeyed home with the barrels of their rifles resting on their dashboards, with fingers on the triggers.

  ***

  The next Sunday evening, Peter and Chad found themselves at a special service, a gathering of several churches in the area, including a few Zionist Christian churches which are strong African churches in both Rhodesia and South Africa. Neither wanted to go, but they could not turn down the invitation of their endearing hosts.

  A formidable Black man with a surprisingly soft and raspy voice served as the speaker for the evening. His face bore scars not easily hidden. His name was Joshua Mokoena, an elder in his village near the Mozambique border. He spoke English with obvious difficulty, but he spoke deliberately, taking care to stress each syllable uttered. “Terrorists, a band of six, enter our village. They did bring liquor and much food. And for our children ... they bring many toys. Many were taken by this kindness. Others feared them, knowing they were men not to be trusted. They stayed with us three days, spending much time with our children – too much time with our young people. They taught our young people many new songs about revolution.

  “After three days, they proudly announced, ‘We are members of the Zimbabwe African National Union, ZANU. We are here serving Robert Mugabe, our esteemed leader. We are inviting you to join with us, to give us support, to offer your money, your food, and your honored children to fight for our great leader and for our great country.’

  “We refuse and ask them to leave. The terrorists then took our leaders and their wives into center of the village. They beat the men and rape the women. Then … then they cut off the lips of three outspoken village elders. They fried these lips and made the wives eat their husbands’ flesh.” Joshua’s voice began to tremble. He stopped and stood silent. Then, with a more forceful, more confident voice, he continued, “We stood firm despite this torture. They left, forcing three of our young sons to join them. They promise to return and bring more sorrow if we continue to resist. This is the war we fight, my friends, but we are ready for them to return. When they come again, we will tell them again of God’s love, God’s forgiveness. We will talk again of the way of peace. This time, we will invite them to join us.”

  Joshua then introduced a young man, barely eighteen. He spoke in a timid, apologetic manner. He began by declaring, “I was a terrorist. I killed many innocent people. Last year, we entered a church and gathered three priests and four nuns. In their sanctuary, we made them kneel. We told them to pray to their God to save them. We beat them, one at a time, while each prayed. We used our bayonets to kill them, one at a time. Each prayed as they died. They prayed that God would show his love to us terrorists.”

  The young man paused and allowed tears to slide down his cheeks before he went on. “We went away rejoicing that we had fought bravely, that we had killed, that we had hurt the White oppressors and gave them more reason to fear. However, when I went to bed that night, only those prayers are in my head. They echoed in my head until I got on my knees and asked God to forgive me. I live now knowing that God can and will forgive. He can even forgive killers, even me. Now I ask for you to forgive me. I ask for you to pray for me, for our people, for our country.”

  Joshua stood and embraced his young brother. “We shall close with a hymn written by a White slave trader, a man who saw thousands die in his slave ships, a slave trader who repented and discovered that God did, indeed, forgive his atrocities. Let us sing ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  ***

  Peter and Chad discussed the meeting as they lay in their beds that night. They found it hard to believe such stories could be true.

  “Perhaps it is just propaganda meant to scare and unnerve people,” Peter said.

  Chad replied, “Yeah, or maybe that young terrorist was really just a storyteller, an actor, paid to stir up our emotions so they can fill their pockets. Maybe it’s not so different from those bullshit faith healings churches used to get people to dump their life savings in the offering plate.”

  Peter sat up and looked at Chad. “We shouldn’t be so cynical, you know, but I just can’t believe humans can be so … my God, so inhuman, so evil. How could they do such terrible things?”

  Chad muttered, “I know, but Peter, how can they think God so easily forgives such evil?”

  “I could never forgive those murderers,” Peter declared.

  “Hell no! And I will never believe in a God that overlooks such cruelty and still opens His arms to the monsters that participate in it. If that’s too cynical, then ... well, I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The Letters

  Despite the Bush War, day-to-day life continued with determined normality. Peter and Chad decided to ignore the unrelenting conversations of ambushes and attacks in remote areas of the country. With 100 Rhodesian dollars between them, they ventured out from West Nicolson to take the train to Bulawayo. After a few nights in this truly African city, they would take a train to the nation’s capital, Salisbury, before they found a way to Victoria Falls.

  Bulawayo’s main streets bustled with thousands of people walking determinedly. Peter remarked several times to Chad that he felt conspicuous in the sea of black faces and was too keenly aware of how White they both were. He remarked at one point, “We’re easy targets for any would-be terrorists who feel bold enough to make a statement in a large city.”

  Chad agreed. “True, but are you going to keep going on about it all day. Enough already!”

  Peter’s trepidation waned as he interacted with many friendly, accepting locals. At the end of the day, he remarked, “I love this place!”

  The first night at the youth hostel, as they ate cheese sandwiches and drank lemon squash, Peter carefully added up what had been spent that day. “The hoste
l is $1.50. Stamps, geez! Thirty-five cents! No more aerograms the next two days, okay? Our meals came to … $1.55. Oh, plus that ice cream after lunch, which was forty cents. Darn, there was the taxi. What was it? Shoot … seventy-five cents. The locker was five cents. Let’s see ... that’s $4.60. Just under budget, and that’s pretty good.”

  Chad sneered, irritated with Peter’s obsessive bookkeeping. He muttered, “Wonderful.” He had always spent his money without thinking, yet it had never run out. A budget, he assumed, was just for poor people. He started to say something sarcastic, but he caught himself and bit his tongue.

  Peter continued, “That leaves $96.40. We’ll be okay if we stick to the budget. We might even have a little left over for a few souvenirs if we’re careful. You know, if we hitchhike to Salisbury we’d save seven dollars.”

  “Hitchhike? Are you crazy? No way! What would my mom – your mom – say if they knew we were hitchhiking across terrorist-saturated Africa? Sometimes you’re cheapskate ways get quite ridiculous, Peter. Really.”

  “So we don’t tell our moms. What they do not know will not scare them to death. We’d save a lot of money if we go ahead and do hitchhike,” Peter said as he went back over his calculations.

  Chad snarled again. “No way, bru.”

  Peter said no more about it.

  ***

  The following night at the hostel, they befriended a scruffy sojourner who claimed to have hitchhiked all the way from Cairo and was on his way to Cape Town. He talked late into the night about being lost in the desert in Egypt, fending off lions in the wilds of Kenya, and running from hippos in Zambia. Learning of their plan to visit Victoria Falls, he raved about a cheap motel half a mile from the falls. He had also heard there was a daily bus going from Bulawayo.

  Early the next morning, the cocky wayfarer was gone, along with the three ten-dollar bills left in Chad’s trousers and Chad’s state-of-the-art Nikon F2A camera, which he had bought in New York the week before they had left for South Africa. Peter’s Kodak Instamatic X, with flip flash, would have to do. Both were relieved when they found their remaining fifty-eight Rhodesian dollars at the back of the locker stuffed in Peter’s dirty socks.

  Peter declared, “That’s just great! Now we have to hitchhike to Salisbury and back to Bulawayo.”

  Chad quickly refused. “I am not hitchhiking in this or any other country. Never have, never will.”

  “Is that right? Well, that was a goddamn stupid thing to do, leaving money in your pants. I’m not going run out of money and get stuck penniless in a foreign country. Why in the world would—”

  “Peter, shut the hell up for a change.”

  ***

  Chad sat with his legs crossed on the side of the road just outside the Bulawayo city limits. He refused to stick his thumb out and beg for a ride and insisted Peter do the honors. He was mortified when someone did stop. He swallowed his pride, smiled, and got in the back seat, thankful that his father would never have to know he had stooped to hitchhiking – and in a war-torn country halfway around the world, no less.

  ***

  In Salisbury, they found a travel agent and inquired about trips to Victoria Falls. The sly vagabond’s information was correct: The motel would cost only nine dollars for three nights, but the return bus from Bulawayo would cost a whopping eighteen. Peter cringed when he found out and argued with Chad about the expense. “We just can’t afford that. We’ll have to hitchhike up to the falls.”

  “You are crazy. Did you hear what he said? The bus goes with an armed escort – an ARMED escort – and you want to hitchhike. No way!”

  Peter whined, “You’re right. We shouldn’t go at all. It’s on the border. Too dangerous. Let’s just skip it. We don’t need to go.”

  Chad replied, “We’re going, alright, but I am not hitchhiking. No matter what the hell it costs, we are going to those falls, Peter. Just go in and book the goddamn bus.”

  “I suppose we’ll be okay if we eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches for the next several days. No, I don’t know about this, going up to the border.”

  “It’s fine. Give me the money. I’ll buy the tickets.” Chad went into the travel agency and paid the twenty-seven Rhodesian dollars. Peter waited on the crowded sidewalk and took several deep breaths in an attempt to curb a mixture of rage and anxiety surging in his belly.

  ***

  Peter had battled for three hours, throwing his arms, legs, and torso back and forth across the confines of his bed. It was now well past two a.m. He had commanded his thoughts to stop, at least slow down, but his mind hummed on and on, taking him back to South Africa: to Cindy and berating himself for leading her on; to Chad and altercations that had become more frequent and more intense; to the townships and the encounters he had had with a different South Africa. He cursed his brain for not shutting down. He finally gave up, knowing sleep was not going relieve him. He threw on a pair of jeans, grabbed a pen and an aerogram, and went to the commons area to clear his conscience and soothe his soul.

  Peter found Chad sitting in his boxer shorts working on his own aerogram. No doubt, he thought, to Sarah. He decided Chad’s presence in the commons was fate nudging him.

  Chad glanced up as Peter came through the door. His shocked expression immediately switched to a frown of disgust. He shook his head slightly and then looked back down to his paper and asked, “Can’t sleep?”

  “Nope. Writing Sarah?”

  “Yep. Gonna write Cindy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Peter sat down and flattened the flimsy blue sheet of paper. He looked at Chad, took a slow breath, and held it. He told himself to just open his mouth and see what came out. “I … a … you know … I know I’ve been an ass lately.”

  “Hadn’t noticed,” Chad replied without looking up.

  “Yeah, I have been an ass – an angry ass. I’ve been acting like a … a … I don’t know.”

  Chad looked up. Showing no emotion, he said, “A pompous, self-righteous son of a bitch?”

  “Has it been that bad? I didn’t think about it quite like that, but okay. I’ll agree with pompous and self-righteous, but son of a bitch? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? But anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Why have you been such a goddamn ass? You know who I am. I don’t care if you don’t like it, but don’t treat me like crap. Have the decency to tell me what you think, and quit making me feel like you’re so pristine and perfect and I’m so screwed up wrong.”

  Peter paused for a moment, searching for the right response, but nothing surfaced. He decided just to say what he was thinking. “But you’re wrong, Chad.”

  “Damn it! There you go again, you righteous, pompous fart! That’s all you are.” Chad laughed, but it became scornful and angry.

  “What?”

  “Okay. What am I so wrong about? Tell me! Sarah? Her dad? Not wanting to go off to the townships with you? Preferring Vandy to your townships? How the flying crap am I so wrong?”

  “You really don’t get it, Chad. You are freakin’ blind. You shouldn’t just sit there and accept apartheid like it’s ... like it's some great thing. People are dying, Chad! How can you just sit there and ignore it? And worse, you condone it – practice it even!”

  “I resent that! That is not true. Garbage. Bullshit.”

  “It’s not? Look how you let a Black man get out of your way when you walk down the sidewalk in Jo’berg, in Vandy. You give them that look, like ‘You’d better stay in your place, Kaffir.’ You defend the Whites like there’s nothing wrong with them treating Black human beings as if they are animals. You’re living in the White South Africa, pretending Black Africa doesn’t exist. You’ve been sucked into it because it suits you. Maybe I am self-righteous and pompous, but … well I can’t help it. It’s like we see a different world, a different Africa.”

  Chad took three deep breaths, but his emotions continued to intensify, and his voice got louder as he spoke. “I’m not out to change the world like yo
u are. Does that make you a better person? God! You don’t condemn Simon, George, Sarah, or Cindy, and they’re all living in the White Africa. They all accept the way things are, and you don’t say anything to them. So what is your problem with me? Tell me, Peter, and don’t just frigging say I should know better.”

  “But you should.”

  “Shut up! Flip! Maybe you don’t get it. You know I love South Africa, and yeah, I like the way it is. By golly, I like the life I’ve had there. I like White South Africa. And dear Peter, I am ecstatic you love Black Africa. Should things change? Yes. Sure. Is apartheid disgusting? Absolutely, but right now, it is what it is. I’m sure it will change, but don’t begrudge me enjoying the South Africa I know – the South Africa I love. Do us all a favor, Peter, and quit acting like you’re the damn great White hope, some American boy that’s going to save the whole freakin’ world.”

  Peter held his tongue, though harsh comebacks swirled inside his head. He knew there was no point in arguing, so he offered a truce. “Okay. I’ll work on it. You’re right. You’ve got your deal, your reasons, and I’ve got mine. I shouldn’t act like I have. Just tell me when I’m getting pompous.”

  “You’re being pompous now.”

  “What? How?” Peter said, tempering his frustration.

  “You don’t get it, do you? You said that to shut me up. You don’t mean it. You don’t really believe you shouldn’t act that way. You think you’re right and I’m a horrible, deluded, narrow-minded asshole.”

  Peter shook his head. He knew Chad was partly right and partly wrong. “No, Chad, you’re wrong about that. I don’t think you’re a horrible ass, but I know I’ve been one. I know I shouldn’t judge you. It’s just that the townships and Roger’s outreaches are important to me, and I don’t even know why. I really don’t. For some reason, I want it to be important to you too.”