‘What are you telling me? Is she dead?’
‘No, but perhaps that would be better.’
The Sobona family rose with the sun and Dyson was soon the object of much interest by his younger cousins. After they had gone to school and his uncle to work, Dorcas suddenly announced, ‘Your brother, Jackson, he was also here.’
‘Jackson! When? Where is he now?’
She pulled up a chair and sat down at the chrome and laminated kitchen table. ‘Sit. We have things to talk about.’ His aunt looked so serious he knew that whatever Jackson was up to it certainly did not meet with her approval. ‘Jackson stayed here two weeks ago. He has now gone north, to Zambia.’
‘To join the freedom fighters.’ Dyson nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. It was all he talked about.’
Dorcas looked down at her hands. ‘He was not alone.’ She was cleaning a bit of dirt from under a fingernail, unwilling to meet his eyes. ‘He had a girl with him.’
Dyson grinned. ‘Trust my brother.’
She looked up quickly. ‘A white girl.’
He went cold. ‘Tessa?’
Dorcas nodded.
‘The fools! What were they thinking?’ Dyson gave a groan. ‘I’ll have to let Michael know.’
‘Michael?’
‘Tessa’s brother. He is a friend.’
‘I have sent a letter to my sister. Your friend will know soon enough.’ She shook her head and tutted disapprovingly. ‘Your brother went north alone. He did not take the girl with him. She is here.’
‘Where?’
‘Working for Mama Naledi.’
‘How can I find her? Who is Mama Naledi? You must take me there.’
‘Dyson.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Mama Naledi keeps a place where men go to be with women.’
‘A brothel!’ He was stunned. ‘Tessa’s here? In a brothel?’
His aunt nodded.
Dyson rose abruptly, his eyes glittering with anger. ‘Jackson left her at a brothel! Tessa King! The sister of my best friend!’
‘That is not all,’ Dorcas whispered. ‘The girl is pregnant.’
It was like a series of hammer blows inside his head. Dyson sucked in air, trying unsuccessfully to stay calm. Where would Jackson’s audacity end? Dyson felt no pity for Tessa. He’d had hardly any contact with her for years and, from what he knew of her, she’d probably brought this current situation on herself. But that Jackson could treat the daughter of his father’s employer this way, a woman whose kindness had been demonstrated in thousands of ways, showed just how cold his brother really was.
And Michael? Dyson knew of Michael’s problems with his sister. Presumably, in the last three years while Dyson had been in prison, Tessa hadn’t changed. But she was Michael’s blood relative. Michael was Dyson’s best friend and that made her Dyson’s sister too. Therefore, she was Jackson’s sister as well. Complicated by colour, Tessa was nonetheless considered to be part of the Mpande family. There wasn’t a Zulu alive who would leave his sister in a brothel. Except Jackson.
‘Take me to Mama Naledi,’ he said to his aunt. ‘We have to bring Tessa back here.’
‘She will not let her go. I have heard that the girl is popular.’
‘Jesus!’ Dyson closed his eyes. ‘Then I will go as a customer. I have to get her away from there.’
Jackson had given Tessa no opportunity to get away from him on that long walk to Bechuanaland. He avoided towns completely, perhaps aware that at the first chance she would give herself up and accuse Jackson of abducting her. He was under no illusions about who the authorities would believe.
Using a combination of her fear that he would abandon her, together with the desires she seemed unable to control, Tessa was easily managed. By day, she followed, silent and obedient, though her eyes were full of panic and resentment. Strangely, she did not appear to hate him. Jackson knew she was terrified of losing him, though he supposed that had more to do with her own selfish needs than any remaining illusions of love. At night, though she must have been bone weary, as soon as he reached for her she responded eagerly. Finished, he would roll away. Inevitably, her hand would creep around his waist as she snuggled into him. The proud young girl who had once seemed so sure of herself was, he had discovered, vulnerable and full of complexity. It gave him the power he sought.
She kept her misery to herself, never voicing it. She had been a fool, she knew that now. Lying in the open, staring up at the stars, Tessa had finally faced the reality of what she was. As Jackson slept next to her, she wept silent tears of self-pity and fear. It was not this boy she loved, it was his body and the things he did to her. The knowledge brought cold comfort. Carrying an illegitimate black child in her womb, living in the open like a wild animal, craving for a man who made no effort to conceal his contempt for her, breaking the laws of South Africa – none of that mattered as much as the word that kept spinning in her head. Nymphomaniac.
For the first time in her life Tessa felt deeply ashamed. Little did she suspect that worse was to come.
They skirted well to the north of Johannesburg, avoiding Rustenburg and swinging west into the harsh scrublands near Groot Marico. It was terrible country, desiccated, red dirt, littered with rocks, scorching air so dry it hurt to breathe. Tessa’s clothes, halfheartedly washed in streams along the way, were torn and falling apart. Her hair, normally washed and conditioned twice a week, did not take kindly to cold rivers and drying sun. It was dry and wildly curly. She was badly scratched on both legs. Her hands rough, the nails dirty and bitten to the quick.
The closer they came to the Bechuanaland border, the more isolated and desperate the land. Only a handful of hardy Afrikaners lived here. Even the African villages, which they relied on for labour, were few and far between.
They walked into one remote village just on dusk. Tessa looked around, aching for the sight of a white face, but, naturally, there were none. Curious children ran alongside them, women clucked their tongues and men stared at her boldly. Jackson spoke to the elders who agreed to provide them with a bed for the night. Tessa listened with horror. In return for a bed Jackson was offering her to the men of the village.
‘No, Jackson,’ she pleaded with him. ‘For the love of God. You can’t do this to me.’
He had smiled cruelly. ‘It is our way. Don’t tell me you won’t enjoy it. It’s all you think about.’
Apartheid and racial segregation meant little to the isolated groups in the Groot Marico. By the end of that long night, Tessa knew it would be impossible to sink any lower.
Cowed, desperate, and in terrible pain, knowing she was about to lose her only link with home, when they reached Gaberones her worst fears became reality. They went first to the home of a woman who Jackson said was his aunt. After a lengthy discussion and some resistance on the woman’s part, which Tessa was able to follow perfectly since they spoke in Zulu, she was taken to a curtained-off cubicle, given a pail of water and a cake of soap and told to wash. She could hear them talking in the next room. It was clear that Dorcas Sobona had been expecting them and she was making it abundantly obvious that she disapproved totally of Jackson’s actions and plans. However, it was equally apparent that, as close family, she was honour bound to assist her nephew in any way she could, despite any personal misgivings she might have had. As Tessa listened to the conversation, the misery of the past weeks fell away. She could not believe her ears as the full horror of Jackson’s intentions left her trembling with fear.
‘Please,’ she begged him, stumbling into the room. ‘Don’t do this. I’ll write to my mother, she’ll help me. Or let me come with you. I won’t be a nuisance, I promise. Please, Jackson, I’m begging you. Don’t . . .’ Her eyes grew wide with fear as he stepped up and grabbed her arm. ‘Nooooo!’ she screamed. ‘Help me, for God’s sake, don’t let him do this.’ Tessa’s pleading fell on deaf ears as the stony-faced woman turned away.
She pleaded with him as he propelled her through dusty streets. He kept a vice-like grip on her ar
m, not even bothering to answer. Jackson could hardly wait to be rid of her. He doubted she would last long at Mama Naledi’s, she simply did not have the mental or physical resilience of African women. That was good. Alive, she posed a threat to him. Dead, her lips could not accuse him or tell where he was going. The beauty of his plan was that he could not be held responsible for anything that may happen to her.
He was indifferent to Aunt Dorcas’ disapproval. As a male relative, he was entitled to her loyalty. It was perfect.
They reached the address his aunt had given him, a redbrick dwelling indistinguishable from those around it but for its larger size. Jackson rang the bell. The door was opened by a mountainous woman who wore a flowing caftan. ‘Yes?’ The woman’s eyes flicked to Tessa, then back to Jackson. Any surprise she might have felt was well concealed.
‘Are you Mama Naledi?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Jackson Mpande.’
She had shrewd eyes and they assessed the two before her, accurately deducing why they were there. Reaching out a pudgy hand she grasped Tessa’s free arm and literally pulled her into the house. Jackson followed and the door slammed shut behind them, swallowing up the terrified white girl.
‘Her name?’
‘Tessa.’
Mama Naledi shook her head. ‘From now on it’s . . .’ she studied Tessa’s face carefully, ‘. . . it’s Opal.’ She smiled slyly. ‘Anyone asking for Tessa will not find her here. You want her, ask for Opal.’
‘I have finished with her,’ Jackson said coldly.
A sob came from Tessa. Her legs were shaking so badly she could hardly stand.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Jackson told Mama Naledi curtly.
‘She won’t be for long.’ The woman was matter-of-fact. ‘She’s no use to me with a big belly.’
Jackson shrugged indifferently and turned to leave.
‘Jackson!’ It was wrung from her. Tessa lurched at him. ‘Don’t leave me, please.’
Mama Naledi was a good judge of human nature. She had to be, her business depended on willing girls and being able to quickly assess if a customer could prove difficult or violent. She could see that despite this girl’s fear and desperation there was pride and defiance just under the surface. Stepping between Tessa and Jackson with surprising agility considering her size, she delivered a ferocious smack across Tessa’s face. ‘This way,’ she snapped at Jackson.
Between them they dragged the wildly struggling girl into a room and locked the door. Tessa’s screams became heaving sobs. As a final gesture of his lack of regard for her, Jackson took the jewellery Tessa had stolen from her mother. Where she was heading, she wouldn’t need it.
After Jackson left, having extracted a disappointingly small payment from the deal, Mama Naledi considered how best to capitalise on a white whore. She could only use the girl for, at best, a few months. The authorities would be bound to hear of her and come to investigate. The brothel was tolerated provided she broke no other law.
‘First, we get rid of the baby,’ she decided. A prostitute with morning sickness could not give of her best and Mama Naledi, using her infallible instinct, had already sensed that Opal had passion to burn.
‘A week to recover then put her to work. Two months. If she’s as good as I think I’ll make a lot of money. If she’s still alive after that, who knows.’
Mentally calculating the profit from, conservatively, ten customers a day, and well satisfied with the total, Mama Naledi sent one of her girls to fetch the midwife. She had performed many abortions for the brothel and Mama Naledi knew she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
Dyson realised that he couldn’t just walk up to Mama Naledi’s and ask for Tessa. The woman would be cautious of strangers, protecting what was, for her, a valuable property. He needed a name, someone known to the brothel owner who might recommend that Dyson try the white girl. He also needed to act fast. Tessa had been taken to the brothel two weeks ago. Pampered all her life, having walked to Bechuanaland, pregnant and undoubtedly very frightened, she would be at a very low ebb. It took two days of drinking at a nearby bar before someone mentioned a white prostitute called Opal.
‘White?’ Dyson asked, his pulse quickening. ‘Are you sure?’
The man looked drunkenly wise. ‘As white as chicken meat.’
‘What’s she like?’ Dyson deliberately slurred his words.
‘My friend, she’s hot enough to burn your cock off.’
The man laughed at his own wit and Dyson joined in.
‘Try her. See for yourself. Tell Mama Naledi that Toffee the taxi driver sent you.’
Dyson bought the man a beer and, after some more crude exchanges, left the bar. He made his way unsteadily towards the brothel. It was not all put on. He had been drinking for most of the day.
Mama Naledi took one look at him and thought, ‘Good. The word is spreading.’ He had the same sheepish yet excited look as all the men who wanted to try the white girl.
‘Toffee the taxi driver said you have a white girl.’ Dyson fumbled in his pocket. ‘How much?’
The price was high, five times the normal rate. Dyson panicked that he didn’t have enough but just made it, counting out all his small change, the last of the money loaned to him by his aunt. ‘She’d better be worth it,’ he muttered.
‘Every cent.’ Mama Naledi stuffed the money, coins and all, between her more than ample breasts. ‘Twenty minutes only. This way.’ She led him through the house, stopped outside a closed door, produced a key and unlocked it. ‘Twenty minutes,’ she reminded him. ‘Then I’ll be back.’
Dyson stepped into the room, the door closing behind him. One dirty window, barred and shut, curtains hanging limp, admitting just enough light to make out a single bed. The only other furniture was a chest of drawers and two straight-backed chairs. Tessa sat on the bed, head bent. She did not look up. Dyson crossed the room and knelt in front of her. ‘Tessa,’ he whispered.
She raised her head reluctantly and he was shocked to see the lacklustre eyes hollow with fear and fatigue. ‘Dyson?’ He placed a hand gently over her mouth, fearful she would make a noise and alert Mama Naledi. Her skin was hot to the touch and clammy. She was burning up.
‘Ssshhh! I’m going to get you out of here.’ He had no idea how. The bars on the window were solid, welded to a metal frame. Overpowering Mama Naledi would not be too hard but she was bound to have a few strong men around in case of trouble.
‘She doesn’t lock the door when I’m with someone,’ Tessa whispered, her mind recovering from the initial surprise.
‘Can you stand?’
She nodded, rising with difficulty and obviously in great pain.
Slumped against him, he could feel her whole body shaking. She smelled unpleasant, of disease or something rotten.
They were halfway across the room when the door burst open.
Michael King had driven into Gaberones that same afternoon. Following directions given to him by Nandi, he found Dorcas Sobona’s house with no difficulty. Initially, she was reluctant to tell him anything but then, knowing of Dyson’s high regard for Michael and making her own assessment of the troubled man in front of her, she unburdened all the events of the past two weeks – Tessa, Jackson and Dyson. Michael listened with increasing rage over Jackson’s cold-blooded treatment of Tessa.
‘Dyson crossed the border illegally. He cannot go to the police. My husband wants no trouble and has forbidden me to report Tessa’s whereabouts. Each day Dyson goes to a bar near the brothel hoping for someone to tell him about a white girl. This way he can use their name as an introduction to Mama Naledi. He plans to rescue your sister.’
Glad as he was to hear that Dyson was alive, all Michael could think about was getting Tessa to safety. ‘Bugger that,’ he said roughly. ‘I’m going in myself.’
‘Then take this with you,’ Dorcas said, handing him a knobkerrie.
Michael gripped the smooth wood in one hand, hitting the other with the rounde
d knob at one end of the stick. It was perfectly balanced and satisfyingly heavy. He had practised traditional Zulu stick-fighting many times with Dyson when they were boys, and although the sticks they’d used had no weighted end there was little harm in having some extra insurance on this occasion. ‘Thank you.’
‘If you are successful bring her here. She will need rest.’
He was just plain lucky. Being a weekday afternoon, Mama Naledi had only one of her strong men on duty. She called him immediately when Michael forced his way into the house. He came at a run, crouched low, skinning knife held ready to use. Michael steadied himself and swung the knobkerrie. The blow was aimed to just miss the man’s head. Michael saw his attacker’s run falter but the figure of eight action was aimed for the man’s knife hand. It struck home, snapping the wrist with an audible crack.
‘Which room?’ Michael demanded.
Mama Naledi pointed, her face white with shock. Her bouncer was lying on the floor, clutching his broken wrist and groaning.
Michael sprinted down the passage and flung open the door. Dyson and Tessa were halfway across the room. In two strides Michael reached them and swept up his sister. She was alarmingly light. ‘Let’s go.’
Dyson took the knobkerrie from Michael. ‘Follow me but don’t get too close. ‘The lounge was deserted. Mama Naledi and her bouncer had vanished. ‘Come on,’ Dyson yelled urgently. ‘Before anybody else gets here.’
‘Michael,’ Tessa murmured. ‘I don’t believe it’s you.’
‘Later, Tess. We can talk later.’
‘I’m sick, Michael.’
Dorcas Sobona clucked and tutted with horror and sympathy over Tessa’s condition then set about mixing and boiling traditional herbal remedies to draw the sickness out.
Michael and Dyson spent most of the next two days sitting together catching up. Dyson already knew of his father’s treatment during interrogation since most of it had taken place just a few cells away from where he was being held. He told Michael of his shame that he had been responsible and of the frustration and anger, but also the pride that not once did his father cry out or utter any sound to give his tormentors satisfaction.
People of Heaven Page 29
