“So you weren’t serious.” Sarah grabbed his shoulders. She pushed him down against the arm of the couch. “You’re going back to her, aren’t you? I hate her. What’s her name? No, don’t tell me. You said it … that you’ve always gone back to her. Isn’t that what you said? You’ll disappear and leave South Africa and me behind, and you’ll go back to her, your dear Natalie.”
Chad wrestled her to the floor and kissed her. “That was a different time, a different world, a world I don’t want to go back to. Just tell me you’ll marry me. Marry me, Sarah.”
Sarah sat up, looked out the front window, and said, “Will you come back?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know.”
Chad stood up abruptly and walked toward the kitchen. “I’m going to fix some tea. I guess you can give me your answer when you know.”
***
Peter and Cindy lay on their backs wrapped up in blankets. They gazed at the stars in the cool of a young winter’s night. Cindy took his hand and with it pointed to the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. “Mensa, Volans, Carina, Musca ...” She pointed slightly more to the north. “And there? Which one is that?”
Peter answered, “Crux, the Southern Cross, of course.” He looked at Cindy. The moonlight revealed a tear beginning to trickle down her left cheek. He leaned closer and kissed the tear.
She stated in a hushed, but determined tone, “We can’t throw them away. They are the future of Rhodesia, of Africa.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked with care. This was the first time Cindy had mentioned Rhodesia since the day she returned. He had encouraged her to speak about it three times in the past month, and each time she had put her hands on her ears and told him not to ask.
Now, she was ready to tell her story. They both sat up. She put her head on his shoulder and began, “It’s the kids, Peter. It’s the children that matter. Savannah, you’d love her, she’s so adorable. She has this cheeky, sly smirk and these bulging brown eyes that melt your heart. She’d just come to the orphanage with her brother, Benjamin – Benji. Their parents had been killed in their village near the Zambezi border. Killed because they refused to give the terrs a few chickens. Savannah, she just turned four, and her brother is nearly three. They were together crying in her bed. I went and lay down with them and sang to them. Half the night we sang children’s songs and lullabies like ‘VaChapungu’ … um, in English that’s ‘The Eagle Is Proud’ and ‘Maidei Don't Cry’ and ‘E-wu-u-wu-hwe-e’ that’s ‘Lovely Lullaby,’ the most sung lullaby in Rhodesia. We sang until we all fell asleep.
“It was about four o’clock, I guess, maybe closer to five. I heard them … those voices – cruel, hate-filled voices, giving orders, barking like rabid dogs, like soulless, crazed monsters. I lay in bed, listening. I didn’t know what to do. I should have done something. I should have screamed. I should have saved them.”
Cindy shook her head, pulled her legs up to her chest, and put her arms around her knees. “They started laughing, barking out commands. Then things became quiet. It was eerie – an ugly silence. I peeked out the window. About twenty meters from me, near the children’s playground, under the Jacaranda trees, I could see them, pointing rifles at each man’s head. Then I saw the women. They were taking turns with the women, ripping off their nighties. Those animals pulling down their trousers ... taking turns. Gloria, Samantha, and Lucy! Lucy was the same age as me, Peter – the same age! And Aunt Jenny. They raped them and left them naked. Demons defiling these saints. Saints caring for Africa’s children. Taking turns. Defiling them. Why, Peter? Why?”
Cindy stopped. Peter said, “You don’t need to talk about this. It’s okay.”
Cindy shook her head slightly and continued. “One walked up and down the row of women. He clapped as those men raped my … my … And then he looked over toward me. His eyes showed delight. He smiled and stuck a cigar in his mouth. I think he saw me. I don’t know. He just looked away and started clapping again. I thought he was going to come for me, Peter. Maybe he didn’t see me, but I will never forget that look, that man. He wore a green and yellow bandana on his head. He walked with a limp, barking out his orders in English, refined English. I thought he would come and get me. But he didn’t. He didn’t come. He should have. Why didn’t he?”
Peter’s arms began to tremble. “Cindy, that’s him! That’s Kebo. God! He looked at me and smiled at me with that same evil grin when he tossed me that bandana. I hate him! He still invades my dreams. I don’t want him to haunt you too. Kebo! His mercy is as cruel as his hatred. His benign acts of kindness are as bad as the evil he flaunts around as if he’s some kind of god. Oh, he saw you. That horrible grin said he chose to spare you. It’s his declaration that he has the power to kill or save. That’s what he does, he plays god. ”
They sat in silence for a few moments. There were no words to console one another. Cindy wiped the residue of her tears away and continued with her narrative. “The children started to stir. I kept telling them, ‘We’ll sleep late today. Go back to sleep.’ I told them, ‘Everything is fine.’ They started to ask, ‘What’s that noise?’ and I told them it was nothing. I didn’t want to frighten them.
“Then, Peter, there were faint voices. I stood beside the window. I could barely hear it, but they were praying quiet prayers. They prayed, ‘Forgive them, forgive them. Show them your love.’ Then there was a pop, like an obnoxious firecracker. Then another. The prayers got fainter. Then another pop and another pop … pop … pop … pop. After the twelfth pop, the last faint prayer ended. The animals laughed. They shouted with joy. Then they left.
“I took the children to the back of the building, to the kitchen, and I fixed breakfast for them. We stayed in the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ they kept asking. ‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘It will be fine.’ I didn’t know what to do. I lied to the children to protect them. I didn’t let them see anything. I did not want them to see it.
“I tried to call someone, but the phones weren’t working. They often don’t. All I could do was wait and keep making up excuses. I prayed someone would come. We waited. We waited forever. Then a delivery van came. He got help. I never looked, Peter. I never saw them. I couldn’t look at what they did to my friends, to my aunt.”
Peter and Cindy sat motionless, staring up as the stars of the southern world glistened over them.
Cindy said, “I came home, and those reporters and TV people were all there, like I was some kind of hero or something. I should be dead, Peter. I should have died like the rest of them. I should have been one of them. I was a coward. Peter, they were … they are such special people. Why should they have to die like that? Why did I have to live?”
“You saved the children, Cindy. You protected them. That’s why you lived. That’s what your friends, your aunt, would have wanted, what they would have expected.”
“I feel so guilty. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.” Cindy held out her hands, “Look, Peter. My hands keep trembling whenever I think about those terrorists, those monsters. I don’t want them to keep terrorizing me, in my dreams, in my thoughts. I am going to make myself pray for them – like my friends, like my aunt did.”
“I could never do that, Cindy. You don’t have to do that. I don’t even think it’s right. I don’t understand how your aunt or the others could do that.”
“Because they wouldn’t let evil have the last word.”
“I’m sorry, but I pray they will burn in hell a million times over. How can you even want to pray for them?”
She looked at him with a serious smile and shrugged her shoulders. She pressed her lips together and said, “Ubantu, Peter. Ubantu. Because I refuse to let them strip me of love, of hope – of my humanity. I will not let them make me a powerless victim. That is what they want. And, we must – and we can – -pray for them, Peter.”
Her simplistic philosophy fed an undefined guilt lurking beneath his pretense of being okay. He still dealt
with too many night terrors: vivid and nasty images that would come and threaten him. He did not understand how she could talk about hope and love.
Cindy wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. She put her head on Peter’s chest and said, “It’s the children, Peter. It’s the children we need to worry about. We can’t let them be victims. We can’t turn our backs on them, because then the terrs win. They need to know we will not give up on them. They are the future of Rhodesia, the future of Africa.”
Tears began to well up in Peter’s eyes.
Cindy took his head with her hands, leaned over, and kissed him on the lips. She then nestled his head on her breast.
Peter held back more tears. He was thinking that she was much nobler in her soul and spirit than he would ever be. She deserves much better than me, he thought. I was so sure she was not good enough for me, that she was not worthy of my love. Surely, I am not worthy of her love.
“Three weeks then?” Cindy asked gently in his ear.
Peter said, “I know. I’ll miss you.” The words sounded trite as they came out. He was searching for words more emotive, more declaratory – nothing came out.
“Don’t go back. Stay.”
“I need to get my degree. I promised my parents I would. I have to go back. Then next year, maybe I could come back and see … I don’t know. Cindy, God, I love you so much, but I just think … I feel I’m not … I don’t know … not good enough for you. You need, you deserve someone so much better than I can ever be for you. It’d be selfish to pretend I could …”
“What are you trying to say, Peter McKnight? Don’t you do that to me again. Don’t you dare!”
“No. God, I want you with all heart, but I know—”
“Shut up! Ag nee man! Don’t you know how much I need you, love you? Don’t do that to me. Why do you make it so complicated? You can go back to your Oklahoma and finish uni. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if I have to … or at least a year or two. It will be okay. We will make it work. Unless you’re going to tell me were just friends?”
“No, no, I want it to work, more than anything.”
***
A week later, Peter met Cindy as she finished work at Jackson’s. Peter noticed an odd expression on her face as she sat down in the booth and placed a plate with two pieces of pizzas in front of him. Peter tried to interpret the vague and slightly contorted smile; behind it seemed to be some hidden fear. “What’s up?” he asked with his anxiety rising.
“You won’t like it. I know you won’t, but …” Cindy paused, looked away, and took a sip of her drink. The rhythm and the accompanying softness of her words caused Peter’s chest to tighten and his stomach to turn over. It was the exact tone she, Debbie Graham, had used on the phone when she told him she was pregnant and getting married. He closed his eyes and braced himself.
She went on. “I’m going to go back to Rhodesia, only for a while. After you leave.”
With the blink of his eyelids, Peter’s anxiety switched to anger. His neck stiffened as she continued.
“They need help there, someone the children know and trust. The kids … they need someone who can share their loss, their fear. I need to go and help out for a while.”
Peter was beyond furious. It was the most ludicrous thing Peter had ever heard in his laborious twenty-two years. How could she entertain such a thought? How dare she risk her life again when there was no need to do so? Controlling his rage, he slowly said, “How could you do that to me? Yeah, maybe a passing thought, but surely you have sense enough to dismiss such stupidity.” His voice grew louder, and the words became terse. “No. You’re not serious! You’re not. I couldn’t … NO! You can’t do that. You could have died! You already cheated death once. It’s stupid to risk it again. No way, Cindy. You’re not going back to that place.”
“That’s what they want, Peter – for us to be afraid to live, afraid to do what we know is right. I want to go. I need to go. It will be okay. They’re improving the security, and it’s not likely to happen again.”
Peter’s rage and fear numbed him to the point where he could not open his mouth.
“I know you don’t like the idea. God, I know, Peter, but it is something I need to do for a while. It’s a way to bring some … I don’t know, closure, to help heal the nightmares. Most of all, Peter, it’s a way to help … help the children. I just need to be with them. I know you hate the idea. It is something I want to do. No, have to do. I’ll be okay. It will be okay.”
Peter nodded, stood up, and told Cindy he had to leave. They walked out together. Her decision was not mentioned the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 41
The Last Rally
“I’m not going, Peter. You know that.” Chad replied curtly to Peter’s invitation to go to a rally on Saturday at the Temba Township in Bophuthatswana, a Bantustan north of Pretoria. Sarah and Cindy were sitting with them at Jackson’s – in the same booth where the four had first met together a lifetime ago.
Cindy leaned forward and said, “Come on. Dumisani and Roger are going to speak. It would be great fun.”
Chad rolled his eyes and was about to change the subject when Peter jumped in, “This will be your last chance to experience Black South Africa. You owe it to yourself and to the country.”
“Oh sure, but no thanks.”
Sarah spoke, “Come with us, Chad. The four of us going together? That’d be lekkar.” She grabbed his chin and pulled him toward her. “I want you to come.”
Chad sighed, and then shook his head. “No! Please don’t drag me there. Once was enough. I got the idea the first time, and I really don’t want to spend a whole day doing that.”
Sarah pulled his face toward her, looked into his eyes, and said, “For me?”
Chad groaned and hit his head on the table as Peter said, “Okay, okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We will flip a coin. Heads, you go. Tails, you stay ... and Sarah stays with you. Deal, Sarah?”
With no hesitancy, she said, “Sure. Do it.”
Chad let out a prolonged moan and said, “Fine. Whatever. Just flip the damn coin.”
Peter tossed the coin. They all watched it as it nearly hit the ceiling, came down with a clank, bounced on the table three times, and teetered before falling to rest in front of Chad. Three people shouted, “Heads!”
***
A frenetic crowd more than 4,000 engulfed the four outsiders as they followed Dumisani and Roger to a crude wooden stage erected in the middle of the Temba Township soccer field. The event organizer escorted them to the far left side of the stage. Dumisani suggested the four stay near the side of the stage, assuring them they would have an excellent view of both the speakers and the crowd from that vantage point. Both he and Roger then went to take their places on the stage.
Chad stood with his arms folded, making sure he had a miserable look on his face so no one would approach him. Sarah stood beside him with her arms folded as well. Chad noticed an aura of trepidation etched on her face. He whispered, “What’s the matter? Does the little Afrikaner girl feel a bit out of place?”
Sarah nodded. Cindy and Peter mingled further into the crowd, which quickly enveloped them. The throng buzzed with growing excitement and anticipation.
Roger spoke first; Dumisani was next. Then three other church leaders from various townships followed. The crowds responded to each speaker with shouts, chants, and toyi-toyi, African protest dancing. With each successive speech, the passion of the crowd grew.
Chad noticed Peter dancing at the appropriate intervals He nudged Sarah and pointed. “How ridiculous does that White boy look trying to mimic those wild Africans?” Both laughed uncontrollably.
In their addresses, Roger and Dumisani lauded the growing protest across the country but called for restraint. Dumisani declared, “Civil unrest is not hatred condoned, and righteous protest is not a license for anarchy.” Only polite applause met his admonishment.
Following speakers spoke with increasing defiance,
with more anger. They demanded action, even revolt. They promised the end of apartheid if the youth continued to rise up and bring fear to the National Party. They promised there would be increasing anger from the government – an anger fed by the fear of what was coming, an anger that would result in intensified attempts to quell what could not and would not be stopped. “Be ready!” one speaker declared. “Be ready for increased hatred, for oppression to grow, and for the death toll to rise. And pray relentlessly for the day Nelson Mandela will be set free. Pray for Madiba’s freedom!” That call incited the crowd.
The intensifying anger of each successive speaker unsettled Chad. He felt the speakers were fueled by the power of the people’s emotions. The last speaker shocked Chad; fear mixed with anger began to churn in his inner being as the speaker declared, “We have no room for any Black who ignores our cause, who fails to respond to the call to revolution. We have no room for them! And for those Blacks who dare to collaborate with the racist government, those who dare to betray their people and their righteous struggle by collaborating with the police, let the wrath of our ancestors fall upon them!”
***
Sarah’s Beetle followed behind Roger and Dumisani’s car as they left the township. Three other cars, transporting the other speakers and their assistants, were ahead of Roger’s car.
As the cars began to gain speed, Peter said, “So, Chad, what did you think? Amazing, isn’t it?”
Chad replied carefully, repressing an increasing anger he himself did not fully understand. “You really don’t want to know, Peter. Let’s just not talk about it, okay?”
As Peter drew breath to speak, Cindy leaned toward him and whispered something into his ear. He did not speak. Suddenly, oscillating high-pitched sirens pierced their ears. Chad’s heart jumped, and he blurted out, “What the hell is this?”
Before he could say another word, ten police cars engulfed the five-car caravan, forcing them all to pull over. Police officers surrounded each vehicle like killer bees homing in on their supposed enemy, each armed with a gun, a large baton, and pepper spray. In a swift movement of coordinated brute force, the occupants of all five vehicles were pulled out and simultaneously slammed onto the pavement. A dozen well-armed men spewed out orders and demands in Afrikaans. Peter later described it as coordinated hate-filled chaos.
The Smoke That Thunders Page 31
