The Smoke That Thunders

by Nathan Bassett

  They worked their way through the brush for twenty minutes before joining a group of six more freedom fighters in a small clearing. They sat in a circle on tree limbs, drinking, laughing, and talking in their native tongue. Three appeared to be young boys, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. All but one clutched well-used AK-47 rifles.

  The one without a rifle toyed with a bloodstained machete. The man wore jeans and a green t-shirt that looked new. A green and yellow bandana held down a fair-sized afro. As Peter and Chad approached, he looked up, removed a fat cigar from the side of his mouth, set it by his side and proudly said, “Well, well! Look what Sandiswe has found. What are your names?”

  “Chad, and this is—”

  The man interrupted and spoke slowly, deliberately. “Chad, shut your mouth. Your friend shall speak for himself.”

  “Peter. I’m Peter. We … we just wandered off. We just need some direction to get back to ...” Peter’s words faded as the man laughed. This triggered laughter from his companions.

  With an eerie grin, the man proclaimed, “Two lost Americans. What shall we do with two lost American boys?” He pulled a pistol out of its holster and pointed it back and forth, first at Chad, then at Peter. “You should not be here. You should die.” He stood up; with a slight limp he walked toward them, still pointing his weapon at one and then the other. “But I do not feel like killing two lost American boys today.”

  He turned and retreated to his perch. With a one-sided grin and eyes offering a faint twinkle, he said, “Sandiswe, move. We must show good hospitality to our surprise guests. Peter, Chad, sit there. My name is Kebolo Matemela. You may call me Kebo. Sandiswe, please get the boys some of our muchaiwa ... some beer for you lads.”

  The two sat down, avoiding eye contact and trying to remain emotionless. They held their thighs to hide their trembling hands. Chad silently pleaded to a God he had been happy to keep at a distance, trying to believe that now He could and would answer their cries to be spared.

  When Sandiswe returned with two tin mugs, Kebo grinned and said, “There you go. Muchaiwa, a good strong, homemade African beer for you. It is warm, but I am sure you will not mind.”

  Chad debated with himself as to whether he should offer a polite “No thanks” or just nod, smile, and take it. He felt a bored assassin was toying with him – a psychopath enjoying a diversion from the monotony of waiting the next assignment to murder. “Thank you. That’s fine. Thank you.” Chad decided he should play along. Perhaps, he thought, he will have his fun, and not change his mind about not wanting to kill Americans today.

  Peter took his beer with a nod and a very artificial smile.

  “So tell me why you two boys are here in Rhodesia. Is this your dream holiday? The adventure of a lifetime, yes? See our wonderful Rhodesia! Our wonderful Victoria Falls!” Kebo’s accent was refined, almost like that of an Englishman.

  They told him the tale of how they had come to South Africa and ended up in Rhodesia. Chad embellished the account of being kicked out of South Africa, emphasizing how impertinent and paranoid the South African government was. Kebo laughed, and his comrades joined in. The laughter was an uncomfortable sort, saturated with disdain and arrogance – a laughter that declared all others were fools.

  Quickly, Kebo’s jovial moment ceased. He took a slow, calculated breath, and with restrained wrath said, “South Africa – it is a great land. One day soon, it will be free from its oppressors. But first, Rhodesia. Then … yes, then South Africa. The war we rage here is even now extending to our neighbors. The impertinent South African imperialists are trembling in their carefully ironed khaki shorts. They will indeed do all they can to put out the fire that is sweeping across their land.” He threw his right fist up and shook it as he continued with a passionate declaration. “It will become a raging wildfire that will burn out of control, burn until the stench of apartheid and White rule linger only as a reminder of the arrogance of the colonists who thought they could have our land. That oppressive regime is wringing its bloodstained hands even now, knowing the inevitable will happen. They will fall. No matter how much bloodshed it takes, I tell you that they will fall! You can tell your White South African friends that their day is coming. For now, our concern is with my country, my Zimbabwe. Today we fight here, but tomorrow, the blood we let will be theirs – the oppressors in your South Africa.”

  Kebo stopped and nodded his head. His grin grew to a wide smile. He slapped his knee and said, “So what do they tell you about our war here? What do your South African friends, your Rhodesian friends say?” Kebo looked intently at the Americans with eyes demanding an answer.

  Chad and Peter exchanged a furtive glance. A trick question, Chad thought. He did not want to respond.

  The terrorist shook his head. “You do not want to tell me? Then I shall tell you. Your South African friends are scared. The writing is on the stained walls of their bogus government offices. The Rhodesians? They now live in fear for their livelihood, for their lives. Yes, they know our time is coming ever so quickly. They know we will rule. Hundreds of scared White families are leaving this country every week. Oh, they know!” Kebo paused and looked at Peter, then Chad. A wide smile grew as he pondered his own proclamation. Then he asked, “What else do they say? Tell me!” His penetrating dark eyes flickered. “They say we are barbarians, murderers, evil, even inhuman. Is that not true?” He waited for an answer.

  Peter finally spoke up, his voice so weak it trembled. “They do feel that. They do say that. Are you evil? How can it not be evil to kill innocent people, to torture and terrify your own people just because they don’t agree with you? It’s hard to argue that is not evil. It can’t be …” Peter stopped. His lips began to quiver. He glanced at Chad with an apologetic look. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Chad searched for words that would distract the murderer from Peter’s unfiltered rant. He opened his mouth to speak, but before words came out, Kebo burst into laughter – cruel, cynical laughter.

  Kebo looked at Peter through self-righteous, arrogant eyes. “My dear Peter. We are at war. Unfortunate things are going to happen in war, and I do not apologize for that. War is what it is. It has not been our choice to wage this war. Understand, my young friend, that this is not our doing. It is the Whites, the oppressors. They came and they conquered a world that was not theirs. They declared we were inferior and convinced us our lives counted for nothing.” He grabbed a rifle and held it high. “By the gun they oppressed us, humiliated us. They hoped to destroy us. Now, by the gun, we must break the yoke they have put us under. The White man must learn that he is only human and are not superior. I do not apologize for using the gun to retake what the gun took from us.”

  Kebo stood up and walked past his fellow soldiers, nodding at each one. He then stood behind Peter and Chad and put his hands on their shoulders. “You conquered. You oppressed. Too long we let you, but no longer.” He squeezed each shoulder tightly. “We will take what is our God-given right. We will fight with all our might against White ideology that dares to use our Blackness as a license to treat us as subservient beings. If it must be by force, then so be it.”

  “But you attack your own … your own people.” Peter felt Kebo’s grip relax.

  “What we do is to call all Blacks of southern Africa to believe in themselves, to dream for themselves, and to take what is theirs by right of birth in this continent. We call them to work with us. We show them how important this fight is. If you want to call that evil, I do not care. I call your White colonialists evil. I call your racist regimes evil. I will call forced rule by such oppressors, evil. Do not talk about the innocent. None are innocent if they perpetuate racist ideals, racist rule. They are not innocent if they perpetuate a society that insists on robbing us of our basic human dignity. Black or White, they are not innocent.”

  Chad turned around and looked Kebo in the eyes for the first time. “There are other ways than killing and torturing people.”

  “No other
way has worked, my naïve American friend. No other way has worked.”

  Chad looked away but said, “I … I don’t understand how anyone can kill another human being.”

  “You have never been oppressed, stripped of freedom, dignity, and worth. Never have your ancestors been herded into ships to become slaves, treated worse than the White man would dare treat the lowest animal. Killing is what we do because we have no choice. We kill because our freedom, our dignity, demands it.” He looked at Sandiswe and shook his empty tin mug; his soldier went to get more beer. “When we kill, we remind ourselves of that, and then we go home and think no more of it. You Americans were no different. You killed your oppressors; you rebelled against your king. You had your Revolutionary War, and now we are waging our own.”

  Sandiswe returned and replenished their mugs. “Enough of such talk. Tell me more about your American life. Someday I would very much like to go to your America.”

  With the second round of muchaiwa downed and questions about America answered, Kebo stood up and stated, “You are to leave now. Others are coming, and they will not be so merciful.” He ordered Sandiswe to take them to a path that would lead back to the Falls, telling him to take good care of his two American friends. Chad shuddered, fearing it was a veiled instruction to take care of them in a killer’s way.

  Kebo shook their hands as they got up to leave. Before releasing Peter’s hand, he leaned close to his ear and whispered, “If you want to live, if you do not want others around you to die … do not speak a word of what you saw here today.”

  Kebo would let them live. This terrorist would let them go back and share his Marxist philosophy and warnings to his White enemies – but not that day, not the next day, and not until they were far away from this place.

  CHAPTER 26

  Attack

  They collapsed on their beds simultaneously. Chad folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  Peter, with hands clasped behind his head, stared at the white ceiling, hardly blinking. “What should we do?” Peter asked, breaking the silence.

  Chad snapped, “What the hell do you mean? We do nothing. The bastard made it clear. We have no option. We can’t say a word.”

  Peter stammered, “But we should … should let somebody know, shouldn’t we? The police? People could die, Chad. People may die. I … I couldn’t live with that.”

  Chad shook his head quickly. “If we tell, we die, and others will die. I believe him. It would be pure stupidity to tell anyone, to breathe a word of it. There is no point. If we tell, people may die. If we do not tell, people may die. There’s no point, is there? What we do is say nothing.”

  “It just … you know, it doesn’t feel right to hide what we know, to not tell the police, the army, somebody.” Peter sat up. “I’ll tell the receptionist. He can deal with it.”

  “God, Peter! Do you hear yourself? Do you even know what you’re saying? You are not thinking straight. You can’t trust anyone you tell. Any one of them could be a terrorist working with them – hell, even the police, the army. No way are we saying a word. I don’t want to die in this place.”

  Peter nodded and lay back down. He whined, “Maybe we should leave tomorrow, get tomorrow’s bus, and get the hell out of here.”

  “No. I think we’re safer here. Kebo knows where we are. I trust him enough not to come here. He said he wouldn’t. He gave his word.”

  Peter got up from the bed and went to the lone window. He put his hands on the windowsill and stared out. In a whisper, he asked, “His word? You honestly trust a crazed murderer?”

  Chad sat up and spoke in a relaxed manner, “The guy said he wouldn’t kill us, and he didn’t. He could have done it easily, but he let us go. We stay here, chill out tomorrow, and leave the next day as planned. We’ve already paid for the next night. I tell you what, we will splurge tonight. We can get some T-bone steaks, the best steaks in the world, grill ’em up, and put those spuds on the grill too. It’ll be lekker, man.”

  Peter turned around and said, “Hey, you know what I’d die for right now? Tea. Seriously, some ice cold goddamn tea. I am so sick of hot tea. I’d die for some old-fashioned American iced tea. That corner shop might have some ice.”

  Chad laughed. “Yeah. You boil water for tea. I’ll go to the shop, get the meat, and find a bag of ice, which is probably impossible, you know. And I’ll get two candy bars ... no four. I think we deserve something after that drama. Never mind your damn budget. We’re going to celebrate being alive to spend it.”

  ***

  Peter poured lighter fluid and lit the pile of charcoal. He watched the flames burst into a large, round, angry balloon, then draw back and begin their unpredictable dance across the briquettes. He fixed his eyes on the fire dancing around the lumps of coal. He waited and watched for the mound of black squares to release their pent-up energy. With a dead stare, he waited until the dancing yellow flames died down, leaving the coals with an angry glow. He placed two large potatoes, wrapped in foil, onto the embers. Heat singed the hair on his knuckles, and that is when he felt it.

  A wave, a devastating tsunami, engulfed the whole of his soul and body. His heart pounded, causing his chest to tighten; he knew it was going to burst. He gasped, but he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. My God! I can’t breathe! His hands started trembling despite his determination to keep them still. His entire body screamed, You’re going to die! He went and lay on the bed, clutching each side of the mattress.

  A second wave began to threaten. It became a tidal wave of unfathomable and foreboding dread. His brain now declared, convincingly, that he would surely die. He fought against his brain’s call to surrender. He denied the reality of what was so real. I know what this is. It will pass. This is ridiculous, Peter! Just relax!

  Another wave of sensations hit, and Peter needed to scream. He was certain death would be a better alternative. The tremors gave way to shaking. Why now? He stared determinedly at the ceiling. Relax, breathe … relax. Breathe … slower… breathe. I am not dying … I know what this is. Breathe. Let it pass. Sweat poured from his neck and chest. The pain in his heart intensified. Damn! I can’t stand this. I need to go to the hospital. My God! There’s no hospital around here! No! Come on … relax, relax. Breathe. It will pass. Chad will be back soon. Damn it.

  He knew an hour had passed. His watch lied. It can’t have been only ten minutes. No, it can’t be! It’s been longer … God! Breathe. God! I don’t want Chad to see this. Relax …

  Three more minutes, and the waves became less overwhelming, the sensations less sadistic. He kept breathing, slow and deep. Two more minutes, and the waves became bearable. Finally, only the remnants of the attack lingered. He kept breathing slowly and deeply, demanding that his body and brain continue to relax.

  Then it was over. He did not die.

  He sat up on the bed and tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He nearly collapsed. He lay back down, angry and disgusted. I am pathetic. A wondrous piece of crap. He had prayed so hard that he had outgrown these merciless invasions on his body, mind, and soul. It’d been many months since his last attack, but this one was unnerving, the worst he had ever endured. It eroded his fragile confidence and left him with an unshakeable fear that it could, would, happen again – anywhere, anytime. He heard the door open and jumped off the bed.

  “Jesus! Are you okay? You look god-awful.”

  “I’m fine, fine. Just tired. That was pretty traumatic stuff today, you know. I’m just starting to feel a bit worn out, but I’m good. Let’s get the T-bones on.” He feigned resilience and went through the motions. Eventually, after a sixteen-ounce T-bone and a gallon of fresh iced tea, he felt nearly as strong as he had pretended to be.

  ***

  That night, the two Americans lay in their beds, too afraid to speak. They knew that talking about the events of the day might ignite the emotions both were desperately trying to push down. Verbalizing the disturbing experience would only intensify the fear, the terror, an
d the helplessness of what could have been a fatal encounter. They tossed and turned until three a.m.

  Chad got up to get a glass of water and started talking about Sarah – the one woman he helplessly and hopelessly loved, the one he was desperately trying to convince to love him. Peter then talked about Cindy – the woman he had determined not to love and was trying, ever so subtly, to prove to her that she did not love him as much as she thought. Chad could not believe what Peter had written as he talked about the letter that he had sent a few days before. Peter remained amazed that Chad had deluded himself, still believing he could save a dysfunctional family without destroying himself in the process.

  ***

  At sunrise, Peter, with uncharacteristic determination, blurted out, “We ought to leave today. I want to leave this morning.”

  “No. We decided we would stay until tomorrow. The room is already paid for, and I’m not going to waste it.”

  Peter approach Chad and leaned toward his face. “I think we should get out of here. Knowing terrorists are around … around here, it’s … it’s ridiculous to stay. It’s just too nerve wracking to hang around.”

  Chad leaned closer to Peter’s face. “Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Kebo told us we’d be safe.”

  Peter stepped back and went to butter his toast. “That’s nonsense. Utter nonsense. The further away we are, the better ... and the sooner the better.”

  They ate their toast and drank stale coffee, arguing with escalating intensity. Out of sheer frustration, Chad eventually said, “Flip a coin. Let it decide. Here, toss it … Heads we stay, tails we go.”

  Peter tossed the coin, and they watched it land on the floor and roll under the bed. Both knelt down and looked at the coin.

  “Tails,” Peter said, “The bus leaves at seven thirty. Get packed.” He threw Chad his rucksack

  CHAPTER 27

  Ambush

  The undersized bus idled impatiently as the two Americans arrived at the bus stop. They were the last ones to board. All eyes glanced their way as they showed the driver their tickets. It was seven twenty-nine a.m.