The Smoke That Thunders

by Nathan Bassett

  “Oh, six … no, make it seven ... no, seven thirty”

  “Great.”

  Chad noticed Johan glowering at him as Sarah got up and took his hand. He felt the glare burning on the back of his fragile neck as they walked through the gate to the front of the house.

  “That went pretty fine,” Sarah said with a lilt in her voice.

  Chad countered, “You think? It’s hard to tell. I know your dad likes me, but I think he hates me just as much.”

  “You may be right, but don’t worry about it.”

  Chad painstakingly cycled home, guided by the streetlights of Vanderbijlpark. Emotions were exploding deep in his belly. This is it! Nothing can stop us now. Not even Johan. Yeah, nothing! His confidence in their now unfettered love was unshakeable.

  ***

  Peter started walking back to Simon’s home. His mind was encumbered by three intruding and disturbing thoughts: I need, and I want Cindy’s friendship; I would have loved her if I could have and still cannot fathom why I couldn’t; and why did the one I love in Norwood, Kentucky, so heartlessly betray me?

  ***

  At eleven p.m., Chad and Simon decided they should look for their friend. By twelve, they were exhausted and tired of searching the entire city for him. By one a.m., agitation displaced the remnants of their fading sympathy. It was well past one a.m. when they found Peter on the outskirts of Vanderbijlpark. They simply ordered him to get in the car without asking any questions. As Peter shut the car door, he told them he had been looking for a Motel 6.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Debate

  Peter determined that the mire of thickening depression would not suck him into another abyss. He made himself call Richard’s church.

  “Peter? Peter! We have been praying so very much for you and Chad. My goodness, it is good to hear from you. Is all well with dear Chad? You two gave us quite a scare!” Dumisani answered.

  Peter took a slow breath, letting the Zulu’s affirming tone fill his soul. “Chad’s doing great – back to his old insufferable self. I was wondering if the church was up to anything. Going to the townships anytime soon? I’ve missed that.”

  “Yes, indeed. This week we shall be attending a rally in Sharpeville. Indeed, Roger and I are proud to be speakers for this event. It is to be quite an event. If you are interested, you should surely join us.”

  “Sure! That would be cool. Great. Thanks.”

  “Sharpeville is very close to you. We would be pleased to pick you up early on Saturday. Do you think Miss Cindy may be joining you?”

  “No. Just me this time.”

  “Very sad. And dear Chad, do you think you may talk him into joining us?”

  “Slim to no chance, but I’ll ask. He’ll give in one of these days.”

  “Perhaps. We shall see you then, Peter.”

  ***

  Only because he had said he would, Peter asked Chad to join him on Saturday for the rally; he refused, as expected. “A rally? You’ve got to be joking. They will lynch a little White boy like you, particularly if they find out you’re from the South. They’ll pull you apart and quarter you for the sake of all their ancestors you Southerners killed and abused.”

  “I’m not from the South, thank you ... and it will be perfectly safe. And, by the way, I don’t appreciate your attempt at humor.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  Peter rolled his eyes.

  Chad continued, “I am worried. Really, I don’t think those places are safe for you, but it’s your choice. I understand that. It’s fine if that’s what you want, but ... well, you already know I’m not interested.” Chad’s tone became uncharacteristically reflective. “It’s like … I don’t know … like you want to be Black. No, wait ... maybe it’s that you want to … to be the White guy making amends for all the atrocities of hundreds of years ago. Or are you ashamed to be White or something?”

  Peter could not discern if Chad’s question was sincere or cutting; he responded in a guarded manner. “Don’t worry about analyzing it, because I don’t really know. There’s just something about being in the midst of the real Africa – not the Africa the Whites hide in. It’s such a privilege to be allowed a peek into their world. And it is their world. It can never be mine – I know that, Chad – but it is such an honor, a real honor, to go and have a glimpse, just a meager glimpse, into what it means to be African.” Peter paused, and his tone changed. “I refuse to be the average White, self-absorbed, xenophobic American.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m a racist? There you go again. We’re just all racist, eh? Flip! That’s a crock of shit. Oh, we Caucasians, we are just all evil. Is that how you see it? I’ve never been a racist, xenophobe, or whatever you’re going on about. Geez Peter, you are back to your goddamn condescending self. Speak for your own unrefined Southern ass.”

  Peter shook his head, and he felt his face start to burn. “You are a bloody racist, every bit as I am. Tell me you don’t see yourself as entitled. You turn a blind eye to the bloody injustice all around you. But that’s okay. I know, because we can’t change it. We can’t change a goddamn thing, so let’s just enjoy it. You just love this White South Africa.”

  “That doesn’t make me racist. It is what it is. And yeah, I enjoy it. Yeah, apartheid is wrong and disgusting, but I’m not here to change the world. I’m not a racist just because I’m not out to change things here, because I’m happy working with White people, because I enjoy this country as-is.”

  When Simon arrived home, Chad immediately drew him into the conversation. “Simon, am I a racist? Do you think I’m a racist?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, Chad.” Simon immediately sat down with a slight grin on his round face, ready to enjoy the debate. He leaned back in his chair and continued, “But perhaps that depends on how one defines racism.”

  Chad replied, “It’s hatred of people of a different race. It’s people out to destroy those who are different.”

  Peter said, “No, it’s intolerance. No, wait ... more than that, it’s thinking we are better than those different from us.”

  Chad replied, “Peter says all Whites are racist just because they happen to be White. Are you? Are you a racist, Simon? You evil English South African.”

  Simon’s grin grew into a smile. He sat forward and prepared to join in the spirited exchange.

  Peter gave Chad a demeaning glance and then looked at Simon. “Well? Are you?”

  “Hmm ... by your definition, I think not. Do I live in a racist country? I do not believe so. Is the government inherently racist? Perhaps. Indeed, its policies are racist. Apartheid is racist, of course, but Peter, I’m sure that does not make all White South Africans racist.”

  Peter’s Southern drawl became slightly more noticeable. “Don’t you expect an African to move aside as you meet him on the sidewalk? Don’t you expect him … demand him to defer to you? Tell me you don’t give him that look of expectation, that look that says you will move aside. And why? Simply because he is Black and you are White.”

  “The answer is no. The Bantu will move aside because he knows the consequences if he does not. Those behind him would attack him, police could get involved, and he would likely go to jail. That is not right, but that is our society at the moment. It does not make me a racist, Peter. I would gladly defer to anyone coming my way. However, in such a case, it would only cause trouble for me and for him.”

  Peter rebutted, talking more quickly, “Sure it would, because you would be labeled a Kaffir lover. You’d be ostracized by your own. Admit it, Simon. Down in your gut you assume you are superior, worth more than the Blacks, the Indians, the Coloreds. That’s been instilled in the depths of your Caucasian soul since the day you were born. Oh, you may smile at a Black man. Hell, you may even nod to him and soothe your tainted conscience. But deep down is that smugness, that arrogance that whispers, ‘I’m better. I’m more human.’ It comes across in every word you speak to a Black – not that you ever have proper conversations with th
em. Maybe you don’t want to admit that, but the reality is you can’t help it. You are a White South African. The thing is, I can’t help it either because I’m a White American. That arrogance is in my soul too. The difference is I don’t want to be that way. There are very few White South Africans who recognize that arrogance and precious few who abhor their built-in arrogance. Tell me I’m I wrong.”

  “You are full of shit is what you are.” Chad answered. “Bullshit scooped up from a thousand Oklahoma pastures.”

  Simon suppressed a subtle chuckle. “No. Peter is certainly right. I pray every day I may be one of the few.”

  Peter looked down and stared at the strips of the zebra pelt on the floor. With a somber tone, he said, “We have our own version of apartheid in America. My parents never say a negative thing about Blacks, never. But I grew up feeling I was better than ‘those Coloreds,’ as my grandma used to say. ‘Those Coloreds,’” he repeated in an exaggerated Southern drawl. “They lived on the eastside, that’s where they belonged. We knew it and they knew it. I’d feel uncomfortable when they’d come to restaurant on our side of town – or, heaven forbid, to our church. They lived in a different world, and that was fine, that was right.” Peter paused and looked up and out the window. “Prejudice … it’s not understanding, not wanting to understand someone different. It’s not caring about the world they live in. Isn’t that the basis of racism? It’s being absorbed in the color of your own skin.” Peter looked toward Themba as she entered the living room with a steaming a pot of tea.

  Themba’s always-patient smile and accepting eyes greeted the trio. “Milk and one sugar for Chad, milk and two sugars for Simon, and, of course, only milk for Peter. Here you are.”

  Peter watched her slip back to the kitchen to continue her dinner preparations. He said, “The goddamn tragic and unforgivable reality is that the White people forced proud, wonderful people into worlds they didn’t ask to be a part of. Whites taking Africans across the ocean in slave ships. Nation after nation conquered and colonized by greedy and ruthless Europeans. It was the same with the Indians in America. Whites and Europeans took the blessings God bestowed and abused them. What would the world look like if our White ancestors had shared those blessings instead of grabbing more and more and more? Shame on them and shame on us.”

  Chad stood up and shook his finger at Peter. “Shame on us? Freakin’ hell! It wasn’t our doing. Screw you, Peter. We weren’t even there.”

  “Oh, but you’re here now, my friend. We’re here now.” With that, Peter took his cup of tea and retreated to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 33

  Rally

  The swelling crowd simmered with anticipation as Peter, Roger, and Dumisani arrived early Saturday morning at Sharpeville. As it was already an uncomfortably warm and humid day, Peter’s shirt was soaked through by the time the three made their way to the makeshift stage set up in the modest football stadium.

  “Sawubona, Ninjani?” someone greeted Peter.

  He replied, contorting his tongue the best he could to mimic the Zulu pronunciation, “Sawubona, ngisaphila. Ninjani?”

  Another greeted him, “Kunjani?”

  He replied, “Ndiphilile enkkosi. Kunjani?”

  That was the extent of his Xhosa and KwaZulu, yet hundreds came and greeted Peter, all with infectious smiles magnified by the glaring sun.

  Peter looked around. He noticed the immensity of the gathering, which far exceeded the 500 Roger had anticipated. He felt his stomach turn, and his lungs labored to draw in enough oxygen. He thought there must be at least 5,000 souls engulfing him, mostly young adults and schoolchildren. He closed his eyes and took several prolonged, deep breaths. Then he began to hear the chatter of the masses – a human orchestra buzzing – like instruments being tuned: a discordant cacophony that would soon morph into something beautiful and meaningful. He opened his eyes and looked at the sea of black faces, and his anxiety immediately disappeared. The symphony was beginning – a symphony that promised to reach deep into the soul of this crowd and fulfill a long suppressed anticipation. Rolling crescendos of excited chatter turned to chants, and then songs began to rise and subside. This was their moment, their time.

  Peter surveyed this scene as an honored spectator. He was an outsider, a White man peering through a window, observing an exciting and wonderful proclamation of a nation, a people. “This is Africa!”

  A tinge of sadness crept into his heart. Cindy would love this, and how they would love her – the strange redheaded White woman who loved her Africa. She should be here. He fought against tears that were begging to fall. He wasn’t sure if these were tears honoring the emotion of the moment or tears grieving the absence of his friend. Or were they tears grieving lost love? He willed the tears away.

  The African chants and spontaneous songs continued to come in hypnotic waves, rousing the spirits within and the spirits without. A bishop from the Zionist church approached the podium. He wore a yellow and green robe, which a persistent warm breeze inflated like a balloon. The crowd hushed as he raised his arms. “We have anticipated this day – the day we would come together and join in proclamation of our hope, our determination. We have been anticipating this day, this time, for a hundred years. Our ancestors anticipated this moment, and now they look down and beseech us, ‘Do not give up! This is your time.’”

  In overpowering unison, the throng shouted its grand proclamation, “This is our time! This is our time! This is our time!”

  He raised his arms again, and silence fell. As he announced those who were to speak, each name stirred applause, and each succeeding name commanded more enthusiasm. Then he prayed, uttering rousing prayers inviting God to speak, to move, to guide. He shouted “Amen!” and then said, “I invite you to sing with us a hymn, a hymn born out of the great struggle against slavery in the time of America’s fight for abolition.” His voice boomed forth the stirring lyrics:

  “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord...

  He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, swift sword...

  His truth is marching on!

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea...

  As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free...

  While God is marching on.

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  While God is marching on!”

  Roger spoke first. “What joy it is to be here – what an honor, a privilege, to share in this gathering, to witness this historical time in our nation.”

  The crowd erupted, and chants rose and fell for several moments.

  He continued, “Many Whites, many White churches stand with you against the evils of apartheid. They are appalled by the tragic mistakes of a misguided and blind National Party.”

  Cheers, then chants, welled up again.

  “This is your fight, but do not fight it alone! You have the support of many White brothers and sisters demanding an end to cruel apartheid! We stand with you. We stand with you in our prayers and with our support. Many Whites look forward with you to the end of the abomination that is apartheid and to the end of majority rule!”

  The crowd responded to his declaration of hope and solidarity with chanting and dancing.

  Next, Dumisani stepped up to the podium. He spoke with less inhibition than Peter had seen in him before. His emotions were unleashed. “Progress has been too long in coming, but now it rolls forward, becoming stronger and stronger. It is already unstoppable. Change is coming. It is inevitable. Be patient, be strong. Be faithful to who you are. Who are we?”

  “We are Africa! We are Africa!” the crowd erupted.

  Dumisani raised one arm and continued with a more cautious tone. “We do not protest out of hatred. We do not protest out of bitterness. Our protest must be fueled by a holy anger and a confident pride – a confiden
t, assured pride that we are Africa. Keep your hearts righteous and pure. There is to be no room for hatred. Justice is what we fight for, and evil we will destroy. But I implore you not to let evil take root in your hearts and turn you into oppressors. This, my brothers, we must not do. God forbids evil to prevail! Trust in Him, and fight the good fight!”

  Three more speakers followed, each giving an emboldened call to believe and to act. They praised and called for total support of the ANC, the African National Conference. With each succeeding speaker, the crowd grew louder, more enthusiastic, and more incensed. The chanting and dancing seemed to intensify with each word uttered from the podium.

  The last speaker moved fragilely to the podium. He walked with a cane, bent over, exerting obvious effort with each step. He put his hands on either side of the podium and forced his trembling frame to straighten. He pulled a slip of paper out of a pocket hidden in his brightly colored vestment. Despite a trembling resonance in his voice, every word he spoke exuded pride, dignity, and wisdom. “I have here a letter, smuggled out from Robben Island prison a few months after Soweto. It is from our leader, Madiba, Nelson Mandela.”

  The crowd exploded. The tribal chieftain raised a wobbling arm, and the crowd fell quiet.

  “Madiba writes this to us, his brothers in this struggle...

  … The rattle of gunfire and the rumbling of Hippo armored vehicles since June 1976 have once again torn the veil [hiding the abomination of apartheid] … The toll of death and injured already surpasses that of all past massacres carried out by this regime… [The] verdict is loud and clear: Apartheid has failed …

  We face an enemy that is deep rooted, an enemy entrenched and determined not to yield. Our march to freedom is long and difficult, but both within and beyond our borders, the prospects of victory grow bright ... Amandla ngawethu! Matla ke a Rona! i

  The chants began in English: “Power to the people! Victory is certain!” The dancing grew more enthusiastic until it became frenetic.