The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  “Too slow, Adriaan.” Benjamin spun Berg around like a rag doll, grasping the man’s throat. He felt Berg’s struggle become faint disappointingly soon.

  Shouting. Two bruisers were running toward them. One of the men grabbed the back of Benjamin’s jacket. Benjamin released his grip. Berg’s body flopped to the ground. Benjamin swung around, punching the man hard enough that he let go and fell down.

  “You want in on this?” Benjamin took a step toward the second man.

  “No, friend.” The man held both hands up in front of his face. “You just go, see?”

  Benjamin looked back at Berg trying to push himself off the ground. Adriaan Berg was a vengeful man. Benjamin knew he’d have to make sure Berg realized that he didn’t make idle threats.

  On his way through the parking lot, Benjamin saw Gerda’s bewildered face in the passenger side of a gold Mercedes. The lock clicked as he approached the car. “I’d like to talk to you, Gerda.” He bent down, his hand resting on the glass. “How about you open up?”

  Gerda shook her head. “My husband said …” She tried to contain a squirming Alet.

  “Gerda!” Benjamin put his hands on the roof of the car, rocking it. “You’re not listening. I said, open up!” He slammed his body against the car for effect. Gerda screamed. Alet sat dumbfounded for a moment before emitting her own wails. There was a commotion at the zoo gate. Berg and the bruisers had been joined by more men. Benjamin brought his fist down. The glass in front of Gerda cracked, fracturing the image of her face, her features diminished to small pieces that didn’t add up to a whole. Benjamin looked down at his bleeding hand, the image of flames springing forth from his body flashing before his eyes. Purified by fire, chosen to do God’s work. More yelling, a mob of voices building to an unbearable cacophony. Berg and the others weaved their way through the lot, their united bravado building to a frenzied pitch.

  “Pay attention, Gerda.” Benjamin said. “You make sure your husband backs off or you won’t see me coming next time. Not till it’s too late for Alet.” He turned and ran until the footsteps behind him faded away and Johannesburg enveloped him in its darkening fold.

  Jacob

  A small white coffin drifted on the sea of bodies, anchored on both sides by two men. Women sang a plaintive hymn, underscored by the harmonies of deep male voices, their feet kicking up dust as they walked past small round houses with thatched roofs, cattle and goats grazing on the sides of the road.

  “Only a baby,” a woman said next to Jakob. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “What could a baby do?”

  A tall boy put his arms around her shoulders. “They are dogs, Ma,” he said. “One day they will pay.”

  Policemen watched the procession, rifles in hand, staying close to their yellow vans. Jakob averted his eyes when he recognized one of the policemen, hoping he’d blend in, just another black face in the mass, praying that today wouldn’t be a repetition of past events. Funerals were the only legal way of gathering afforded to black people now, the only way for the ANC and PAC to rally their followers. Things got out of hand on more than one occasion, escalating into riots, lives lost in the process. In Langa, seventeen people were killed at a funeral that Jakob attended. The police said the funeral-goers had petrol bombs and bricks. The media echoed their story, but he saw the truth.

  The procession bottlenecked into a small graveyard outside the township. A young man in a white shirt smiled knowingly at Jakob from the other side of the open grave. Jakob turned his attention to the minister, Hadebe, an ANC man known to the police, an instigator in the community. Jakob had met with him earlier, claiming to be from the training camps, looking for young recruits, throwing around a few names he remembered from his own training days to boost his credibility. Reverend Hadebe eagerly took the bait. Since Archbishop Desmond Tutu had received the Nobel Peace Prize, religious men across the country were getting involved in the struggle, pushing others to sacrifice themselves as they kept the pulpits warm with rhetoric.

  A restlessness welled in the funeral-goers after Hadebe’s graveside speech about the struggle, the need to fight for freedom from white oppression. Hadebe raised his fist above his head. Sporadic fists followed his example, their number growing until “Amandla” sounded in united voices. Jakob held his arm in the air, feeling hollow as he uttered the word, forcing enthusiasm for the sake of the unfolding play.

  “No more speeches or singing. You are done here!” One of the white policemen had planted himself on the edge of the graveyard, megaphone in one hand, rifle in the other. The ones behind him mirrored his stance. “Disperse immediately and go to your homes.”

  Jakob hoped that Hadebe had it in him to keep the people under control. The gathering dispersed amid whispered sentiments that Jakob had heard in every desperate little town. Poor, oppressed all their lives, they clung to the leaders who promised them freedom through blood. Jakob had been there, in Jabulani, Soweto, when Zinzi Mandela read her father’s response to P. W. Botha’s offer of freedom, if Mandela renounced violence.

  “Let Botha renounce violence.” Zinzi’s hand shook as she read from the paper, fueled by rage. “Let him say that he will dismantle apartheid. Your freedom and mine cannot be separated. I will return.”

  The message raged through churches and beer halls across the country. Jakob had seen a renewed hope, but he didn’t share their optimism. Violence would bring more violence, and the government had bigger guns.

  “Jim! You will eat with us.” Hadebe put his hand on Jakob’s back, steering him through the river of people.

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  A group of youths glared at the policemen as they walked by, talking rapidly among themselves. Their leader, a tall boy, bent down to pick up a rock. Jakob loosened himself from Hadebe’s grip and clamped his hand over the tall boy’s.

  “Let go of me.” Dark eyes filled with hatred looked up at him. “They killed my sister. Now they stand there and laugh at us.”

  “A rock against a rifle?” Jakob shook his head. “You not so clever, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend.” The youth tugged to get loose from Jakob’s grip.

  Jakob looked at the other young men. “Is right.” He let go of the youth and motioned toward the police. “Go ahead. Maybe we sing tomorrow at your funeral.”

  The boy looked at him, close to tears. “What do you know, huh? You’re not even from here.”

  “I know there’s better ways to hit those crunchies.” He tapped his index finger to his forehead for emphasis. “But you gotta use the stuff up here, bra. You check?”

  The boy didn’t answer, a mistrustful look on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Jakob saw a raised rifle.

  “Disperse. Go to your own homes.” The tinny megaphone voice commanded. “I give you five minutes.”

  Jakob lowered his voice, talking fast, his eyes locked on the boy as he recited what Kalo had told him to say. “I come from Botswana. MK. You think I crash funerals for fun?” Jakob put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, aware that it was trembling. “The people need men like you to fight for them, make a real difference. You come to the Reverend’s house later. You’ll see, we’ll make this right. You dying today will do nothing.” The boy hesitated for a moment. Then his fingers slackened and the rock dropped to the ground. Jakob smiled. “Now go home and be with your mother.”

  Hadebe had his arm around Jakob again as soon as he turned around. “You’re a good man, Jim. A man of the people.” He lifted his palm in a solemn greeting to the group of young men, a look of understanding passing between them.

  They left that same night. The tall youth was one of the six that signed up to go to the training camps. A hum of energy filled the combi as they piled inside, each with their meager belongings in a plastic grocery bag.

  Hadebe shook Jakob’s hand with an exaggerated motion. “You look after them, good man. Make them warriors.”

  Jakob nodded, bile rising in his stomach as he pulled away from
the curb. He could stop, tell them there was a mistake, someone else would come for them later. But that was the problem. Someone else would come. Kalo usually ran things, but Jakob was trusted now, enough to operate by himself. If he showed up empty-handed, that trust would disappear and he’d be as good as dead. Behind him, nervous chatter filled the gaps between upbeat songs on the local radio station. Ten kilometers outside town, a car began to flash its headlights furiously behind them.

  “Why are we stopping?” One of the youths leaned over the seat. Bewildered faces reflected in the rearview mirror.

  “It’s a comrade. Don’t worry.” Jakob pulled over. He knew the signal, but he was still surprised when it was Kalo that knocked on the window next to him.

  “All good, Jim?”

  Jakob nodded.

  Kalo looked over his shoulder at the passengers. “So many fine young men. Comrades, welcome.” The youths seemed to relax as Kalo opened the combi door and reached over to shake each of their hands, asking their names and thanking them for joining the cause with a sincerity that sent a chill through Jakob. Only he seemed to pick up on the subtle mocking in Kalo’s voice.

  “Botswana is far still. I have refreshments. You,” Kalo motioned to the tall youth. “Help me get it from my car.”

  Two of the other young men got out as well. They returned with a case of beer, some cigarettes and a bottle of cane. A burst of excitement followed. Jakob doubted that they had ever had this much free liquor at their disposal. He watched as they tore into the case, opening cans, lighting cigarettes, no doubt feeling like they were adults.

  “We treat our men right.” Kalo’s broad grin spread to the faces in front of him. He caught Jakob’s eye. “Be there in an hour,” he said under his breath. He walked away, the car’s headlights flashing again before he drove off.

  Jakob watched the young men behind him pouring beer into their mouths, with the gluttony of those who grew up with little and weren’t sure if their luck would last. It was over already. There was nothing he could do. Before, he could blame Kalo or Berg, claim that he didn’t know what they were up to, but this was his doing. He felt an overwhelming panic take hold of him, the white line wavering in front of his eyes. A horn blared, the sound elongating as Jakob jerked the wheel to get the combi back to the left side of the road, adrenaline flooding his system as he narrowly missed the oncoming truck. Nobody moved in the seats behind him.

  “I was wrong about you, Jim.” Kalo crushed a cigarette under his shoe as Jakob stepped out of the combi. Darkness shrouded the open veld around them. “You’re no sissy girl.” He walked over and slid the back door open, the smell of spilled liquor and cigarette smoke pungent. The six young men lay motionless in the back.

  Jakob looked away. “What now?”

  “We’re going to necklace them. Like they did in KwaNobuhle.”

  Jakob looked back at Kalo, disconcerted at the man’s gleeful demeanor. He let his eyes trail over the bodies in front of him. “They aren’t dead?”

  “Sedated.” Kalo held his hands up. “It would be good if people thought MK killed them, no? Who but the Commies necklace their own people?” He grabbed the ankles of one of the bodies. “There’s tires and petrol in the boot.”

  Kalo lined the boys up, each with an old tire forced around his shoulders. He emptied the petrol over their heads. As he struck a match, Jakob emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground.

  “A small price for the good life, I say.” Kalo laughed, his body a totem of mockery. “Reward money will keep us in drink and fine women for a long time.” He wiped his mouth and reached for a beer from the case in the back of the combi. “This will settle your stomach.” Kalo opened the can and held it out to Jakob, his eyes steely.

  Fear gripped Jakob. If he tried to run, would he get far enough that Kalo couldn’t gun him down? He had done all they asked for, sold himself to them, tried to forget that he was ever anyone else. Why was he now being punished? In that insane moment he believed that Kalo had made a pact with the Devil to read souls, that he could see the weakness when Jakob allowed himself to think.

  Kalo’s body suddenly jerked with laughter. “For a brown man, you look very white, bra.” He patted Jakob on the back. “Relax, Jim. I joke.” He emptied the can on the ground. “We’ll go into town. I know a nice place.”

  Jakob nodded, forcing a laugh in step with Kalo’s, the image of his mother flashing before him, her hand warm on his skin.

  Tessa

  “Don’t push us too far.” President P. W. Botha had said, addressing the National Party’s Congress in Durban. “We have never given in to outside demands and we are not going to do so now.” After the coverage of the speech, the global condemnation, Thatcher was still on their side, but it looked like even Reagan would have to yield to an American anti-apartheid act. The rand plummeted, the stock exchange shut down for a week, and sanctions loomed. In the Cape, police had openly beaten black men and women with sjamboks as the people peacefully marched for Mandela’s release.

  Tessa sighed, her eyes skimming the article. The bus stopped to pick up passengers. Tessa briefly made eye contact as a woman sat down next to her. She tried to focus on the newspaper article, but her attention wandered to the translucent skin of the woman’s hands, clutching the seat in front of her. Blue-green veins formed lumps amid dark liver spots, the yellow nails thick and uncared for, a slight tremor visible each time she let go of the seat to touch a tissue to her nose. Tessa forced herself to look up at the woman’s face. Folds of paper-thin skin zigzagged over hollow cheekbones and sunken eyes.

  A sense of dread suddenly took hold of Tessa. In a few months’ time it would be her eighty-fifth birthday. It was happening to her too now, the thing that she had watched everyone else succumb to. The mirror held a strange fascination for her these days, the possibility of her mortality becoming a certainty. She counted fine lines, the rose-like roundness of her face fading. It was harder to keep her figure slender. Her joints had a faint ache in the mornings when she got out of bed. Sometimes she even welcomed it, the promise that her life would eventually end.

  The walls of the bus suddenly seemed to close in on Tessa, and she got off at the next stop. She walked the last two kilometers to Triomf, her heels chafing, the raw sting of a blister growing stronger with every step she took. The government housing took on a look of uniform neglect in the distance, rusted cars in the yard and kitsch adornments on the porches. A male voice barged from a house as she turned onto Toby Street, a woman’s voice joining in a shrill retort. Triomf was where poor whites had settled into government housing, masters now where Sophiatown once stood. Tessa unlocked the front door of her house and slid inside, her breath coming easier once she’d bolted the lock and put the safety chain on. The house remained silent, Jeff still not home. He came home late more often now, smelling of booze, turning into a middle-aged man in front of her eyes. He had found work at some sort of export business, he said. Tessa asked about it in the beginning, but dropped the subject after too many vague answers and ill-conceived lies.

  The day Tessa had heard of Flippie’s death, she had left everything in Kimberley and moved back to Johannesburg. She was frantic to find Jacob. Jeff had followed her, like a lost dog. Tessa’s obsession with Jacob wedged itself between them by degrees. She cared for nothing else. She had met some of Flippie’s acquaintances at the funeral, asked around after Jacob as best she could, attending secret ANC meetings, pledging her support. But whites weren’t trusted, no matter what the bylaws stated. A darkness began to seep into Tessa’s soul as the months dragged on, devouring the hope she clung to by degrees as every lead turned into a dead end. Some mornings she couldn’t see her way through the day, so she stayed in bed, staring at the stucco ceiling for hours. Those days were becoming more frequent. She could no longer keep the thought away that Jacob had also permanently disappeared, the last of her family gone.

  The argument between the man and woman next door grew louder. A young child’s
cries joined in the cacophony. Tessa lay down on the bed and wrapped her pillow around her head. When she opened her eyes, blue lights bounced off the walls. Tessa got up and slowly parted the curtains, careful not to be seen. There were two police cars parked in the street. A man with greasy blond hair and wearing a dirty T-shirt sat on the stoep. Two policemen pulled him to his feet. He rammed into one of them, sending him down the steps. The other one grabbed him and punched him in the face. The first policeman ran back up the steps, grabbed the man’s head, and bashed it into the wall of the house until blood streamed out of his nose.

  “Pig! You leave him alone.” It was the woman, her long permed hair teased into a bushy mess, her bra visible under the falling straps of her tank top. The policeman shielded his face to ward off the blows as she attacked him. Two more men struggled to get handcuffs on her as she screamed and cursed. The pair was escorted to the police van. The woman tried to bite one of her captors, who slapped her in the face.

  The van took off, followed by the patrol cars, and the residents of Triomf closed their curtains again. Tessa became aware of a whimpering noise near her window. She tried to block it out, but it persisted. She tried to convince herself that it was only her imagination, but as she unlocked the door and took a tentative step outside, the whimpers intensified.

  “Hallo?” Tessa scanned the dark yard at the spot where there was a break in the fence between the two houses. Tessa advanced toward the fence. The noise seemed to come from a clump of bushes just on the other side. “Who’s there?” Getting onto her knees, she parted the foliage to find a toddler, a girl, judging by the dirty dress she was wearing. The child’s hair was jaggedly cut, close to her head, crusted with food. Tessa reached out. The child tried to get away but stumbled, unsteady on her legs.

  “It’s okay.”

  The child made another attempt at standing up. Tessa reached out again and grabbed her before she could fall again. The girl reeked of urine and feces. Tessa turned her head away as she carried the toddler to her house. She put the girl down on the kitchen table. The child let out a wail as Tessa switched the light on.