Heck, how am I supposed to be sure of that?
But I find myself nodding. Mkoma nods back and rummages through the box. I watch him as he pulls out the letter marked number ten. He pauses, looking at me for a while.
‘Endings are such beasts to tackle,’ he says, handing me the letter. ‘But tackling beasts is what makes us stronger, no?’
Mkoma is being all kinds of philosophical right now, and I don’t know what it means. But I nod because I want to get to the part where I start reading the letter.
‘But she wrote you your own letter,’ he says, pulling a folded note from his pocket before handing me the diary entry with Ambuya’s story.
There is a picture placed inside the folded letter. One of Ambuya standing next to some white dude. The same guy in the picture she has in her living room. I know it’s Ambuya, not only because of the scars, but because in this picture she’s much older. Only a little younger than she looks now.
‘She asked me to read it first to make sure it wouldn’t be too much for you.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s not an easy read, Tumi, I won’t lie to you. Here’s what I think: if you’re really going to read it, then maybe you should sit down, wait till you’re in the right mind for it. That is really the best advice I can give you.’
At that I swallow.
What the hell happens at the end?
64
It’s late now, and we’re back from the hospital after seeing Jabu. He was a bit drowsier today, but the doctor said it’s normal because of the medication they gave him for the pain. Said it means it’s working and he’s responding well. Man, I just can’t wait for him to get out of hospital.
My phone is ringing again, and I stare at the caller ID, trying to decide if I should pick up or not. I press the green button and bring it to my ear.
‘Tumi! You’ve had me really worried.’
‘Hi, Musa,’ I say a little warily, waiting for the judgement, for him to gloat.
‘Dude, what happened to you? You never came through. Are you good?’
‘I’m cool, bruh. Just some stuff happened at home and I couldn’t make it.’
‘Right. Well, the whole team was talking about how we wished you were here.’
I hesitate.
‘Did … did you get in?’
‘Yeah, man, we made it in the team relay. But it’s not the same without you, you know.’
‘Congratulations, Musa, I mean it.’
And I really do.
‘Tumi, bruh, are you really all right?’
‘Kind of,’ I say. ‘Listen, I have to go. Tell the team I said congrats! I’m really proud of all of y’all.’
After I hang up, I stare at my phone for a while. I really am proud. I’m not scamming them. I’m a little bummed I didn’t get to make it in, but the bigger part of me feels proud. The other part dreads going back to school and facing everyone. But I reckon I probably just need a minute to get over my disappointment and I’ll be good.
I slide my phone into my pocket, and as I do that, I feel Ambuya’s letter in there. I haven’t been able to read it since Mkoma gave it to me. I keep bringing it out, then sliding it away again.
Thing is, once I read it, that’s it, I can’t unread it, and that is making me quite nervous. It’s crazy because this morning the curiosity was gnawing at me, but now that I have the letter, I can’t seem to bring myself to look.
I listen to Noku playing in the lounge with Sir Lionel, and from the TV noise in the background, I think Mkoma must be watching something on Netflix.
I have time. I take a deep breath and pull the letter out again.
My dear Tumirai,
It has been hard for me to send this. I have not meant to ignore your messages, but I have been distressed about telling you what happened. Please forgive me for it, mzukuru. I am afraid this letter will be painful to read, even more, I imagine, than everything that you have heard so far. This part of my story still comes in my nightmares, and when I started sharing with you all the events of back then, I thought by the time I reached the end it would be easy to tell. But when I began to remember it, my nightmares began to revisit me. And you have gone through so much, mzukuru, I feared, and still fear even now, that I might be sending you pain.
So, my mzukuru, if you find that the pain is surging at you, please stop reading. Put the pages aside. You can come back to them when you are feeling stronger. But like I told your brother, I think you both ought to know this story. I have kept the scars hidden for too long, because it was too hard for me to share such pain even with your father and your uncle. I have asked your brother to give you the pages of my diary that were in his last letter, and I have told him to keep watch over you.
Write to me happy things, mzukuru, so I know you are well. Come back to visit your Ambuya soon, so I can fatten you with all the good food they don’t give you there in the city. You must never forget how much I love you.
With love always,
Your Ambuya
65
Ambuya’s story
I keep remembering it all. The day after the fire, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of how Matthew was going to leave and how I would never see him again. I had to stop him. I had to convince him not to go. And so I crept to the mission after Amai and Baba had gone to bed. I thought if anyone could help me talk to him, it would be Tawana. Perhaps together we could convince him not to leave home. Not to leave me.
But as I got close, I could see the lights flickering in the Edwardses’ house, which was a little way from the mission school’s football fields.
As I neared the thickets surrounding the football field, my body tensed.
Voices! And I knew one of them!
‘Move! Move!’ It was a voice I knew so well. Bullet.
‘Move, comrades!’ The voice yelled again.
I dropped into a crouching position so I could peep without being seen. Bullet stood with his back towards me, and three other comrades were with him, each holding a gun.
A group of seven or eight people were being marched from the opposite side of the field, and two men who seemed to have axes pushed the group to gather in the middle of the open space, forcing them down onto their knees. I strained to see better, and a hole formed in my stomach as the scene unfolding became clear.
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘We have the goods secured, Bullet. Comrade Bingo has them tied up in stacks in the back. We should go now.’
‘Go?’ Bullet scoffed, circling the group of missionaries. I crouched there, glued to the ground and afraid to move, despite the orders screaming in my head.
Run! Search for help! Go home!
‘Teacher, I thought we were getting along, all of us. But that was before you all went and picked a side.’ Bullet stood facing Teacher Edwards. ‘I saw you all at the estate yesterday, running around, undoing our progress. Now I’m still a little confused, teacher, because I thought you said you were neutral.’
‘We were only trying to help.’
‘You see, comrades,’ Bullet said, turning to his companions. ‘The thing with these people is that they will always help their own.’
I noticed how his eyes shone larger in the moonlight.
‘I heard you like to pray,’ Bullet said. ‘Perhaps you should give us a taste – don’t you think, boys?’
The other comrades burst into laughter, one of them hitting one of the missionaries with the butt of his weapon for no apparent reason.
‘Where is your God now, huh? Is he here with you, watching? Or has he fallen asleep because it is night-time?’
‘Patrick, I told you we should leave!’ It sounded like Nurse Brenda crying from somewhere among the group. ‘I said it, Patrick, but you never listen! I warned you!’
‘Shut up!’ another comrade screamed, and shoved her to the ground. It must have woken one of the babies because a sharp wailing filled the air.
‘Please let them go,’ Teacher Edwards pleaded, his voice shaking. ‘You can do to me as you
please, but please let the rest of them go. Let them take the children and go.’
Tears streamed down my face at the sound of his broken voice.
‘Oh, are you afraid, teacher? Why so frightened? If the Lord really is your shepherd, then dare I say you have nothing to be afraid of, no?’
He forced Teacher Edwards’s chin up with his bayonet.
‘Isn’t this what you teach our people, lying to them in your services?’
‘Comrade, please,’ Teacher Edwards implored.
‘Oh! The white man begs. You ignore our pleadings every day as we beg for our own lives, for our freedom – why should we listen to yours, huh?’
‘Comrade, I’m sure we can come to an understanding. Please, we have done nothing wrong.’ My heart stopped at the sound of Tawana’s voice.
‘Someone shut this one up!’ Bullet roared. My hand flew over my mouth to hold in the screams as soon as the gun went off.
Teacher Edwards began to pray, and like an uncoordinated song, the women broke into sobs and wails.
‘… that you would forgive them even as they do this …’ are the only words I can remember of it, and how Bullet kicked him in the mouth with his boot while he prayed on. I imagined blood flowing from his nose.
‘Oh yes, you better pray, my friend … because you surely need a miracle tonight!’
‘Please, comrades,’ Teacher Edwards cried from the ground where he lay, ‘I beg you to spare them. Do as you will to me, but please spare the others.’
His voice trembled in a way I had never heard from anyone.
‘So gallant, teacher. Offering up your life so others may live. Your queen would be so proud of you. In fact, I will write to her personally and tell her that the man she sent to steal the land from us, pretending to spread peace while killing my kind, died a hero. She’ll be pleased, don’t you think?’
The comrades all laughed.
‘You know what, I will humour you because you found me in a pleasant mood tonight. I will exchange the lives of your friends and family for yours. Aren’t I so generous? It is me you should thank, not some God you have never met,’ he said, stepping on the poor teacher and pushing his face into the ground.
‘Please stop! Please leave him alone.’ Nurse Edwards was harder to hear, her baby crying in earnest now.
‘Shut up,’ one of the comrades hissed.
‘You should make sure you take pleasure in destroying our bodies!’ Nurse Edwards screamed, louder now. ‘It is all you will ever destroy! You won’t touch our souls!’
When one of the other comrades who seemed to have lost his appetite for it all tried to talk Bullet into letting them go, I watched the bayonet thrust sharply at his head and his body crumple lifeless to the ground.
The rest is harder to write, but I still hear Nurse Edwards’s screams in my terrors at night, as the comrade nearest to her hacked at her neck with his machete. Teacher Edwards cried, a groggy painful cry from the depths of his soul. And the rest of the group broke out in screams that wake me up still today.
I remember how the child kept wailing until Bullet called to make the noise stop.
I should have turned away. I should have never seen it. The crunch of the newborn’s skull under the man’s boot.
After that it unrolled slowly, as if in slow motion. I know that an owl hooted, and a dog howled. Then havoc struck. Teacher Edwards got up, and one of the comrades pushed him to his knees. Behind him Nurse Brenda sobbed and one of the other missionaries broke into song. Perhaps to soften it all. Perhaps to distract them all. Or perhaps the horror made me hallucinate, because it was the same song that Amai used to sing.
I remember drawing in a long breath and holding it in at the raining of more blows, more punches, the screams of the other baby; more stomping, and the ringing of women’s terror and sorrow. Then there was just the pungent smell of blood … and the silence that swept over those grounds that had now become a grave. And all I could think was, God help us. All of them, gone!
66
I failed to write yesterday. I struggled to get out of bed at all.
Baba was worried and called the doctor. When he came by, he said that I am suffering from post-traumatic stress. But I feel as though I am in a hell that is boiling over. Perhaps post-traumatic stress is the kinder way to tell me that I am trapped here. That the war is now in my mind and might never leave.
But I keep telling myself that I must write it all down. I must not allow myself to forget. So, I will read this, again and again, lest I begin to forget. Because I cannot allow myself to. And there is more to tell of that night, more that I could not bring myself to write first time round.
I feel ashamed of how fast I ran, trying to escape when the smell of blood whipped my nostrils, and a wind arose, whistling strongly, and with it a sharp bow of lightning struck.
As I neared the trees close to the river, I saw that Matthew was there, standing under a tree talking to two men. For a brief moment, relief sank in when I realised he had not yet left, and I sprinted towards them, breathing heavily and shouting: ‘Matthew! They’re all gone, Matthew! All of them. They’re gone!’
I am weeping again now as I write this. The same way I did that night as Matthew came to greet me.
‘Thandie, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.’
There was concern in his eyes and his voice was low, as he quickly glanced behind him as though the danger behind him might hear.
‘You should go – get out of here.’
I peered over his shoulder, fearing that I would see the comrades there with bayonets. But something worse stood there in the shadows, lurking and waiting.
‘You need to run away from here,’ he repeated, shoving me a little.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ I hissed, even though my stomach turned.
Behind him, Bas Rogers and Phillip began walking towards us.
‘Matthew, I am not done talking to you!’ the bas shouted from a little distance behind Phillip. I didn’t see the gun in the bas’s hand until he raised it in our direction. Though when I reflect on it now, I find myself thinking that I should have run the moment I noticed it.
‘You say something happened at the mission?’ Phillip asked, close now. I held my breath, afraid of what he might do, but his voice was warmer than usual.
‘Thandiwe, the missionaries – you say something happened to them?’ he said again.
As soon as he said it, the images poured into my brain and I could see it all again.
‘Teacher Edwards, Tawana, the babies …’ A lump formed in my throat and I inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm down.
‘They’ve killed them all. The comrades, they killed them.’
I felt the weight of my body fold under me, but before I could fully collapse to the ground, both Phillip and Matthew had rushed to help me up. I looked at Phillip, afraid and confused, watching him as he helped steady me on my feet.
The bas, a little distance away, still stood with his handgun slightly elevated. And though I felt unease over it, at the time, it seemed to be almost insignificant.
‘You should go back home, Thandiwe. It’s not safe out here tonight,’ Phillip said. ‘I’ll go to the mission and see if anyone is still there, and then I’ll radio to some of the boys from the force to come and meet me there. Matthew, take the girl home.’
Matthew and I both stared at Phillip in surprise as he left us, hurrying in the direction of the mission school.
I had expected him to drag me by the throat and throw me in the cell himself. To accuse me of having been involved with whatever had gone on at the mission. But it is possible that he felt grateful to me for earlier when he had been in the thralls of death, lying there at Bullet’s mercy. That is the only way to explain it.
‘We should go,’ Matthew said, but I sensed an uneasiness in his voice.
‘Matthew!’ I squeaked, watching the bas cock the rifle in his hand and aim it at me.
Matthew and I both froze.
> ‘Didn’t I tell you, boy, to leave these bloody animals alone? You thought you could just sneak out of the house and take her with you? You thought you’d disgrace the family like that?’
My whole body trembled. Matthew mouthed something, but I couldn’t tell what. My heart began to hammer as he walked slowly towards the bas.
‘Uncle, put the gun down, please.’
‘After all I’ve bloody done for you, Matthew, this is how you repay me? This is how you repay the family?’ The bas’s eyes stayed on me. Matthew walked slowly towards his uncle with his hands half hoisted in the air, every step calculated.
‘Uncle, please, you don’t have to do this. She has done nothing wrong – let her go.’
‘Step back, Matthew.’
But neither of them would back down.
As soon as Matthew jumped at his uncle, trying to prevent him from shooting, I shut my eyes so tightly that I was sure my eyeballs would be squashed. I stood there, prepared for death.
Instead, a shot followed by a shrill scream pierced my ears and my hands flew to cover my mouth.
Matthew!
‘What have you done?’ I screamed at the bas, running to Matthew’s side.
The handgun thudded as it fell from the bas’s hands.
‘Matthew? Matthew, speak to me,’ I begged, my hands wet with blood.
Matthew groaned, trying to stay awake. ‘Love is ash …’ He struggled to form words.
‘Matthew, stay awake. Please!’ I pleaded, using my hands to try and stop the bleeding. He coughed and held my hand tightly and all I could do was cry. I could see him trying to smile, trying to ease my pain. But my heart hammered and I could see his body slightly shake from the shiver of my body.
‘Love is ash. The thing –’ he paused in coughs and I began to sob – ‘the thing that remains … when the fire is spent.’
I curse myself now that I didn’t know what to say to him. As though all the words I knew had vanished, leaving me with nothing. All I could think to do was to hum that same soothing song that Amai used to hum. The same song I had heard when the horror of the missionaries had begun to spill over.
The Colours That Blind Page 21
