by Linda Tucker
We’ve climbed in my car. Xhosa insists on driving me. He’s a responsible driver, so I don’t care, but I get the impression he’s worried I wouldn’t arrive there on my own.
With the vehicle stationary at a traffic light for the moment, Xhosa starts reading my thoughts, as he tends to do, particularly in moments of crisis.
“Not that I’m worried ’bout your driving,” he explains, “although your mind’s somewhere else right now, admittedly, not on the road. No, I’m worried ’bout this moneylending dude.”
“Why exactly?” I ask, exhaling slowly. My whole body aches.
“Just need to be with you to read the small print. That’s all.”
The light turns green. As we pass by the rows of jacaranda trees on Mandela Drive, I prepare myself for the implications of the moneylender’s deal. The advantage of this emergency measure was that the outstanding funds would be available—instantly. In the lead-up to the expiration of my option, this seemed the only solution. The arrangement on offer was a short-term loan—three months—which would give us an all-important extension of our fundraising efforts. But the catch was the sky-high interest rate, calculated on a daily rather than annual basis. And the land itself would be held as collateral by the lender.
I recall Xhosa’s concerned and quizzical look when he first handed me the moneylender’s faxed contract three weeks ago. The paperwork was not complicated, but as soon as I read it, I felt myself breaking out into a cold sweat. I wouldn’t have given it a second glance at the time. But now there’s nowhere else to turn.
As the car glides through the crowded Johannesburg streets, my mind keeps flashing back to the seemingly endless preparations that culminated in this grim and fateful day. To no avail. Perhaps these desperate measures will save the day. I am clinging to hope of a positive outcome.
“There’s got to be a way out of this!” I say, in a concerted effort to muster my most enthusiastic voice, but bleakness creeps in. The thought of Marah’s heartland being reappropriated by the hunting fraternity is too dismal to contemplate.
“I know what you’re thinking, boss,” Xhosa observes. “But no, you are not going to lose the land, and no, I don’t see you giving up. I see you fighting to the bitter end, tooth and nail, rather than handing it over.”
Normally, I’d think Xhosa’s poetic observation of me a particularly astute character sketch. But what makes it uncomfortable is that those losses are a looming reality. Is this really the bitter end?
WE FINALLY ARRIVE at the monumental Fort Knox–like entrance, with two large eagles, in concrete, balanced on a giant block at either side. An armed guard in uniform comes out and, on telecom instructions, presses the remote to open the wrought-iron grill gates.
Xhosa is shaking his head grimly. “Dunno why we’re doing this, boss. D’you know how many friends of mine have been shredded by these scheisters? Out of desperation. They think they’re getting a loan—my mother’s aunt needed urgent medical care to save my cousin’s life—but the interest rate’s so high she’s chained to repayments for the rest of her life. Slavery. These people are money lords, turning gold into guilt.”
“Okay, okay!” I snap, trying not to hear him. “I really need to focus now.”
We are standing on the front porch of the overly ornate, neoclassic fortress. The garden around us is barren, apart from rolling emerald lawns as groomed as bowling greens, interspersed with giant coconut palms and monumental concrete sculptures. Another armed guard with earphones lurking behind one of these statues talks into the mouthpiece.
We are exactly on time. Xhosa hammers the brass knocker on the colossal entrance doors. A rottweiler snarls viciously at us, but he’s attached to a chain rattling on an eight-meter running wire. The poor animal can only charge back and forth in a fury of aggression. A moment later, the man we’ve come to see opens the door and steps out onto his porch, barefoot with sunburned, hairy legs and a contract in hand. He is heavily built, with a giant beer belly spilling over his short shorts.
“Sign there, and there,” he gestures. “Need to get back to the rugby.”
I put down my briefcase on the slablike marbled porch floor in order to take the document and scrutinize it.
The man is underdressed, but I can’t help noticing the multiple gold rings on the fat fingers that hold out the contract. Xhosa has been eager to check the fine print, but there doesn’t appear to be anything of the kind. The deal is more crass and even more simple-minded than I imagined. The pro forma version faxed to me three weeks ago gave me intimations of trouble, but this is worse. I hand the document over to Xhosa. One clause catches my attention, a stipulation above and beyond the conditions already stipulated (about the land being held): “the lions will also be held as collateral.”
Xhosa immediately picks up my briefcase and we make a speedy exit.
The idea of pledging my feline family as commodities sickens me to the core, let alone the gut-wrenching possibility of losing them altogether.
“Shylock!” Xhosa pronounces as we climb back into the car.
“Totally sickening experience,” I respond. “My God, X—what a closely averted disaster!”
We exit into the Johannesburg streets again.
“Why do these guys look like they’re out of the same box?” Xhosa asks. “For a moment there, boss, I thought it was that canned-hunting operator again—you know, the dude you rescued Marah from.”
“Don’t I know,” I mumble gloomily. He’s right. The moneylenders and the canned hunters are one of a kind. If money’s your God, no wonder you reckon you’re beyond morality.
We are racing past the jacaranda on Mandela Drive again in reverse as we head down the row of high-rise office blocks, toward the zoo.
I would endure every hardship, climb every mountain, face every onslaught of opposition. I would gladly give up everything I possessed for my lions, but I will not risk trading them for anything in the world.
Back at the office and frazzled after our abortive moneylending excursion, I try to resist despair. This morning was, fundamentally, a primary shamanic teaching. Maria once spoke of the lesson, an exercise of faith and trust in the universe. In my prayers to the universe, I had placed only one proviso, that the funds be unconditional. This in turn required that I trust that the unconditional resources needed for the lions would be provided, utterly and completely according to universal law, not man-made law. I realize now that breaking my own pledge and principles—by considering a mercenary moneylender and his unreasonable terms—could have brought about the most dreaded of consequences.
Without other options, I begin sorting the backlog of emails. One of the lawyers on my advisory council wrote to me ten days ago. The email reads, “According to South African law, when an option expires, the seller is required to give the other party fourteen days’ notice before laying claim to the deposit money.” Why didn’t I see this before? I have two more weeks. I stare at the computer screen in astonishment.
Doubt creeps in immediately. I’ve already had five months. What will change in two more weeks? This much I know: the real challenge is going to be containing and transcending my rising self-doubt. Xhosa is loitering, waiting for me to give him instruction. I sit upright in my seat, actively reinstating Maria Khosa’s example of the positive vision of a successful outcome.
“The money can arrive now, this minute, X,” I announce, snapping my fingers. “If our goals are aligned with universal law.”
“I believe you, boss.”
With the moneylending episode behind me, here I am, once again, putting on a positive front. But this time, it is different.
ONE DAY BEFORE EXPIRATION of the grace period. December 13, 2004. Thirteen days after the abortive expedition to the moneylender and, for all intents and purposes, nothing has changed. I’ve stepped up all efforts, focused from morning to evening—and often through the night. Yet I remain dismally short of the target. It is beyond nerve-wracking; it is simply abominable.
&nbs
p; Here, in my claustrophobic, closet-like apartment, cramped and bleak, I am in survival mode, stepping out of my business suit. I prepare myself a quick meal, which I eat standing over the counter. I note that I’m “still standing,” true, but I am fatigued to the bone.
I take another aspirin and collapse onto my futon on the floor. I look into the eyes of Aslan, King of kings, staring down into my little boxlike space. Holding that image of timeless infinity in mind, I try to settle down under the duvet for the night. Even in the dark, my eyes burn. The tears are building up, and the pressure in my head is nearly intolerable. I rephrase a silent prayer, asking for resolution, fortitude, and lionheartedness. I was granted two weeks’ grace, yet am no closer to clinching the property deal. I can feel Aslan’s face bearing down at me, but I dare not look up. Not only have I failed to rescue Aslan, but I’ve failed my beloved Marah too. Maria Khosa should never have handed her mantle of Keeper of the White Lions to me. I feel a total failure.
I shut down everything and wrap myself tightly in the duvet, with the overhead fan turned off, but I’m unable to sleep. All my internal processors are whirring. There is no respite. I can’t even toss and turn; I am trying to come to terms with the fact that this past fortnight was, in reality, just an excruciating deferment of the inevitable.
The clock is still ticking in my kitchenette. I drag myself out of bed to remove the batteries.
The hours churn by, a totally sleepless night.
Through the half-opened chinks of the blinds, dawn is trying to break. I might as well have spent the past two weeks in bed. I feel totally unprepared to face the world. I finally get myself up, but it takes ages to get dressed. I stare at my disheveled image in the mirror, drawing my hair back tightly.
I am snarled up in the traffic. I was already late, so the rush-hour jam will set me back another hour or two. When I eventually arrive at the office, I open the door to find Xhosa in work mode as usual. Ever the bright spark, he emerges with a tray of tea. It seems to me he is trying to keep the inevitable at bay, but it’s pointless putting on a brave face. I have to prepare myself for the reality that the period of reprieve is well and truly at an end. Marah’s kingdom is lost. Despite everything—my life savings, my prayers, my wishful thinking, Maria Khosa’s training, Xhosa’s dedication, my colleagues’ and my own very best efforts—everything is lost.
“D’you perhaps need to sit down, Linda?” he asks, putting the clattering tray on the corner of my congested desk and drawing my chair out gallantly.
I seat myself in silence.
“Good,” he says. “I thought you’d be interested in reviewing what our legal advisors have to say this morning.”
“I know what they have to say,” I conclude. “In closing an option, South African law requires that the seller must send a registered letter of termination, stating that the option will be legally annulled after seven calendar days.”
“Correct,” he responds. “So, strictly speaking, we still have seven days.”
“Sure. Understood. But what good is a stay of execution?”
Without replying, Xhosa stacks new contact details in a pile in my in-tray. Then he departs and busies himself with carrying my files and briefcase in from the car. His idea, as always, is that I should be free to dedicate the whole day—another entire day—to ensuring not a single paper remains unturned.
I stare at my sweet-faced assistant across the battleship of my desk. The obstacles have been too great. I simply cannot begin again! I’d be shuffling papers around an overcrowded deck while the boat sank, with Xhosa piling up notes in my in-tray and jam-packing the desk with tea trays.
Exasperatingly, I hear Xhosa whistling a tune.
This cannot be the end of the story. There has to be another way. But I am at a standstill. A lull before the storm. It’s pointless hoisting my sail.
The doorbell rings. My first line of defense, Harold’s housekeeper, speaks through the intercom to announce that the sheriff of the court is at Harold’s front door. The dreaded letter has arrived. Frozen, I instruct that the official be let in. I wait, my whole head ringing, until eventually an officious knocking starts up on the door of our garden office. I open it. The official asked me for my name and passes the registered letter over. I sign for it. Closing the door, I turn to find Xhosa staring at the document in my hand. For once my loyal assistant is utterly silent, unsmiling, and expressionless. I gave him a faint smile of resignation. I can tell he’s trying to summon a state of Zen calm. But there’s no easy remedy for lost time.
I throw the document down on the entrance table without a word.
Xhosa stares at me, cracks of concern now creasing his sweet face.
“What, X? What are you thinking? I have no life vest—believe me,” I blurt out. “What’s the point of clutching onto faith? The boat’s already sailed. Nothing short of a miracle can save us now.”
“The great one wouldn’t have given you more time if you’d already found the answer,” Xhosa concludes. “There’s a miracle on the horizon—I can smell it.”
“Excuse me,” I say curtly.
My cell phone’s ringing again. I see from the missed calls screen that it rang earlier, coinciding with the moment the doorbell sounded with the special delivery. The incoming caller is Mireille.
“I can’t stand the agony any longer,” I hear her announce, without introduction. “What’s the status?”
“Bleak, I’m afraid dearest Godmum, utterly bleak and pointless.”
“Well then, I have a solution.”
I stand motionless, phone in hand.
“You have … a solution?” In front of me, Xhosa bursts into an impromptu rap song. There’s ringing in my ears, so I can’t be sure I was hearing her correctly. “Can you say that … again, Mum?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes. There’s just one last instruction I need to issue in order to make this a reality. I have the solution—and I’m serious.”
How is it that at this precise moment—what the proverbs call the darkest hour just before the dawn—that dynamics can suddenly turn head over heels?
Xhosa is hammering out his unrehearsed lyrics, beating his hands on his desk like a drum: “As da hourglass drains da sand, Mireille da Miracle shines da light, breaking da murky darkness God-forgotten world winged sunlight overhead she dives out of blue yonder to save da day …”
I feel dizzy. Almost under my breath, I ask Mireille again, “Are we really saved? Sorry, but it’s hard to believe!”
For some reason, I never for a moment imagined my fairy godmother would be the one to save the day all over again. She saved Marah and cubs; wasn’t that enough?
“I’d be prepared to mortgage my house to secure Marah’s land—if that’s what it takes,” she responds.
I cry, “I can’t possibly let you do it, Godmum!”
Her magnanimous gesture has taken me entirely by surprise, like a joker in the pack of cards I’d been playing so strategically. Although I’m overjoyed beyond belief, paradoxically I feel I have to save her from her own rash decision.
“Well, you may be the Keeper of the White Lions, young lady,” she replies, sweeping my concerns aside. “But to the Tsonga people in the Timbavati region I’m known as Kokwane Tangala—Grandmother of the White Lions. So I too have responsibilities and duties to take care of. Tut, tut—let me get on with them.”
I drop the phone, stunned. Xhosa and I do a little jig around Harold’s garden: up the garden path, around the koi pond, under the shady oak glade, up the stone steps, onto the veranda! We are in fits of exultant giggles by the time we’ve finished. This must be the miracle Xhosa envisioned on the horizon. Out of nowhere, Mireille provided the zoo with the ransom money for Marah and her cubs, at a time of dire need. Now she’d do it again. The most important guiding light in my project. She is truly a godsend. I simply adore this formidable matriarch, with her lovable, almost naive, enthusiasm. It is as if we’ve been mother and daughter, always and forever.
Of
course, it had to be Mireille. The miracle. Why didn’t I think of it before?
CHAPTER 16
Suspense in Sante Fe
WITH A HEAD BRIMMING FULL OF EXCITEMENT, I set off early to beat the morning traffic, all the while reviewing in my mind the exhilaration of Mireille’s unexpected rescue. December 14, 2004. I didn’t sleep at all. What a truly wonderful surprise. To use one of Mireille’s favorite sayings, “full steam ahead.”
Yesterday afternoon, I brought the Corelight organization up to speed with the latest developments. The directors, Brad Laughlin and Leslie Temple-Thurston, were delighted the all-important property acquisition is on track. Having already pledged significant funds to this cause, they’ve been working around the clock on solutions to cover the shortfall. The organization is faith-based, founded on the premise of the flow of limitless light and resource from the Source. Corelight generates significant funds for worthy causes working in harmony with Nature. I know I have a lot to learn from them. Having kept in close contact with me over the period of my intensive fundraising over the past few months, and after making a considerable nostrings-attached contribution, they came to the rescue again in these final moments, after hearing that Mireille’s majority donation required an emergency top-up to clinch the deal. Last night, they confirmed they’ve raised a further amount to contribute immediately, which, combined with Mireille’s majority contribution, will just meet the target. And they were wiring the funds through as we spoke.
Riding the crest of a wave, I’m just ahead of the bumper-to-bumper traffic, buoyed up with irrepressible delight. I’m actually singing an aria to myself, “Ave Maria,” at the top of my lungs! Mireille’s intervention is truly unconditional. There is no nasty small print; there are no strings attached. She’s testimony that this kind of selfless giving actually exists. I’ll never forget her hallmark maxim: “I simply give, and don’t count the cost.” Those were her words on that first landmark occasion when she provided the ransom money for Marah. And she added, “Believe me, I know the reward for this kind of giving is much greater than anything I could ever imagine!” In fact, I did believe her, because I’d witnessed the overwhelming joy and exuberance she experienced in saving Marah—by merely providing the funds for her freedom—and the profound meaning such selfless action had given her life ever since.
