Sacrificed

by Chanette Paul

  Caz sat up in bed. “What do you mean, a mental coma?”

  “Since you and your daughter left, she’s been like the living dead. It’s thanks to Lieve that she has emerged from her cocoon. The irony is Ammie wants to see Lilah again.”

  Caz wasn't surprised that Ammie wanted to see her granddaughter yet she apparently had no interest in seeing her daughter. What did surprise Caz was that she felt hurt by it.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear she hasn’t been well and I’m glad she’s improving. Things have been crazy here. My cellphones were stolen and I lost your number. But be that as it may. You’ll have to contact Lilah herself to find out whether she wants to see Ammie again.” It was Lilah’s choice. At least it would give her a chance to find out more about her own roots. If anything came from it, she would be glad for Lilah’s sake. There was no reason why Lilah should miss out on a relationship with her new-found grandmother just because Ammie wished that her daughter didn’t exist.

  “Seeing that your LinkedIn page is no longer operational, I left a private message on her Facebook fan page, but I haven’t had an answer yet. I don’t want to contact her on Twitter; it’s too public. Could you give me a contact number or email address for her?”

  “I’ll send them both. I have your number now. Please remember it’s confidential. I’m only doing it for Ammie’s sake.” She realized that she had neglected to update her LinkedIn details when she had changed her email address.

  “I do know the meaning of the word discretion.” There was a brief silence. “De Brabander tells me Njiwa tried to shoot you.”

  The sudden fury that took hold of her caught her by surprise. “Yes, but unfortunately for you and Ammie, he missed. Goodnight, Luc DeReu.” She ended the call. He knew she had nearly died, yet he went on about the fact that she hadn’t asked about Ammie. How was that for empathy and compassion?

  Luc

  Damme

  Luc stared at the phone in his hand. His heart had nearly stopped when De Brabander told him what Caz had gone through. He’d called because he was worried. Because he wanted to tell her ... Well, he couldn’t quite remember what he had wanted to tell her, but it certainly hadn’t been his plan to lash out at her. Until he heard that sexy voice say Caz Colijn? The epitome of innocence. As if he hadn’t been to hell and back because of her. And then the sarcasm: This is quite a surprise. It had been the last straw.

  Luc paced his living room floor, cellphone in hand. He couldn’t leave it like that.

  He didn’t care what she thought of him, he simply had to tell her he had been upset about Ammie, but understood her side of the story better now. After all, she had been engaged in a life-and-death struggle of her own.

  He wanted to suggest she come to Belgium, where she’d be safe. She could stay in his houseboat. He’d get the police in Zandbergen to keep an eye on her. Matari was in prison and, if he had an ounce of sense, Njiwa wouldn’t return to Belgium.

  But more than anything he wanted to tell her he’d like to get to know her better. That she had awakened something in him that he could not for the life of him lay to rest again.

  Verdorie, Luc DeReu, are you a man or a mouse? Just call, in heaven’s name, and see what comes out of your mouth.

  Caz

  Overberg

  Caz silenced the phone when it rang again. She didn’t have the strength to be bullied any further. She sent Lilah’s contact details and added a message: Please leave me alone now.

  He obeyed. Why it should reduce her to tears again she didn’t know. She had turned into a real crybaby.

  Maybe because she knew he was right. She could have made an effort to find out how Ammie was doing. She knew the old lady had been upset. Yet something had stopped her.

  She didn’t want to care about Ammie Pauwels. She didn’t want to feel the slightest twinge of emotion for the woman. More than anything, she didn’t want to admit there was a part of her that understood why Ammie Pauwels had rejected her newborn baby. If she admitted that, she would also have to admit why she understood.

  Her baby’s skin color had been an intense disappointment to Ammie. She had known that the child could be either black or brown or white. In the end the baby wasn’t the right color.

  Her newborn baby’s skin color had been a huge shock to Caz.

  If she had been in a hospital, if other people had been present, she might have thought she had lost track of time and that sometime during her labor the baby had been switched—however slim the possibility.

  But she and Magdel had been the only two people in the room at a time before fathers were welcomed into the intimate circle of childbirth. At Liefenleed, anyway.

  Caz remembered that last powerful push. The sense of being ripped apart. The pain. The enormous relief.

  She had lain back for a moment to catch her breath, her eyes closed, when Magdel’s shriek pierced the silence. The next moment the baby was thrust into her arms. Arms that automatically closed around the wet, slippery bundle of limbs.

  When she looked down she thought for an instant that Magdel had played a trick on her. That she had handed her one of the babies born in the workers’ cottages. Then she realized it was impossible.

  While she was struggling to breathe, she realized that the baby had to breathe too. Pure instinct made her insert her finger into the black baby’s mouth and rake out the mucus, before giving her a pat on the back. She heard the first breath being drawn, and wondered why she had helped this child to breathe.

  But when she heard the cry of life and the small mouth began to move, when the tiny fists opened and closed, the eyelids lifted and the eyes gazed sightlessly at her ... In that magical moment she realized she had given birth to a living being. One who had come out of her body. A child created out of love.

  Nothing else mattered any more. Not Magdel’s sobs outside the door. Not Andries’s loud bellow: “What the fuck do you mean black?” Not Hentie’s unearthly cry.

  When Andries pushed open the door, she shielded the baby with her arms and body. “Go away! Get out!” she screamed, rocking her baby, holding her tight, covering the little ears as best she could.

  “What the fuck ...”

  She had looked Andries in the eye. “Get. Out. Of. Here.”

  For the first time since she had known him, he had obeyed a woman. He left, closing the door behind him.

  There was another first that night. The little mouth had searched for her nipple and found it. When her baby began to suck, Caz had felt for the first time that she truly belonged. To her child.

  Caz drew a deep breath. She felt sorry for Ammie. For missing out on that experience. Whatever her reasons had been.

  Was there a difference between pity, understanding and forgiveness? Caz wondered. Of course there was, but they were separated by a hair’s breadth. She couldn’t say she had forgiven Ammie or that she ever would, but she thought she could understand that moment of revulsion before love took over. Ammie had never reached that second phase. Maybe because of the Caesarean section, the hysterectomy. Maybe she had simply not been prepared to give it a chance.

  But it was thanks to Ammie that Lilah was there. Whether Lilah was related to César or to Elijah, Ammie was the common denominator. Ammie’s amniotic fluid had also been Lilah’s beginning.

  Ammie might not have been a mother’s arse, but she was the womb that had borne the fruit. The harvest was Caz and Lilah, and Lilah’s future children. White, brown or black.

  And fuck Lilah’s Aubrey if he didn’t want a white child. She and Lilah came from a family tree where they had to make peace with shades. Like the yesterday-today-and-tomorrow outside her window had to make peace with its fading flowers.

  Caz groped around for her glasses when the phone pinged. Lilah?

  Didn’t mean to fight with you. Worried to death about you. Can we start over? I would like to get to know yo
u, Caz Colijn. Without all the complications that have come along. Not as Ammie’s daughter. Just as Caz.

  Luc DeReu. Caz just had to close her eyes to see him.

  Another message came through. How do you do? My name is Luc DeReu.

  She leaned on her elbow and switched on the reading lamp.

  The soft light fell on the purple polymer figurine on her bedside table. A fat pregnant mermaid with huge boobs regarded her with beady eyes.

  Beautiful her clumsy creation was not, but she was going to be a hit in Antwerp. Soon.

  Caz looked down at the cellphone. She hesitated a moment before she replied.

  Pleased to meet you, Luc DeReu. My name is Caz Colijn.

  She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, winked at the mermaid and pressed the send button.

  A moment later there was a smiley. Then another message: May I phone you tomorrow, Caz Colijn?

  You may. Goodnight, Luc, she replied.

  Sleep tight, Caz.

  He was over there and she was here. How could it work? Still. At this moment she wouldn’t change the sweet warmth that settled inside her for the world.

  Caz switched off the light and pulled the covers up to her ears.

  The darkness was comprehensive, the silence nuanced by crickets rubbing their hind legs together in search of a mate, frogs chorusing out the same longing, an owl calling woefully.

  A soft breeze breathed through the wild olive tree, rustled the leaves of the today-yesterday-and-tomorrow dispersing the fragrant smell of it’s tricolored flowers.

  In its smells and sounds, the texture of the air, Caz could sense Africa around her.

  Africa, with her distinctive heartbeat and ever present heartache. Her own rhymes and reasons. Her own mysterious life-force.

  Africa, the dancing shadow of times primordial and all that followed.

  European intervention had swayed the dancers, warped the tune, but not the dance itself.

  Africa was still dancing to her own rhythm. A rhythm Caz felt pulsing inside her. For better and for worse.

  Foreign words

  The definitions below are rather simplistic and should be considered a mere indication of how the words are used in Sacrificed. Words from African languages are mostly from Swahili or Lingala.

  Almasi: Diamonds

  Cité indigène: Residential quarters of the indigenous people (township).

  Daktari: (Western) doctor

  Dewhitenization: Extermination of white/Western population groups.

  Donnu harp: Small harp made by the Mangbethu people.

  Évolué: Literally “developed person.” A French word from the colonial era denoting an African or Asian person who has been Europeanized.

  Fisi: Hyenas

  Iboga: The bark and root of a shrub (Tabernanthe iboga), which have a hallucinatory effect when chewed. Sometimes used to communicate with the dead.

  Kimisionari: Missionary

  Liefenleed: Name of the farm. It means the sweet and bitter of life.

  (Ba)Luba: The largest ethnic group in the DRC.

  Macaques: Monkeys—derogatory term for indigenous people.

  Mganguzi: Witch doctor

  Motetela: Deity of the Mongo population group, which includes the Batetela. Motetela means “he at whom one may not laugh.”

  Msichana: Girl/daughter

  Mvet: Traditional musical instrument.

  N’Gongo Leteta (Gongo): Congolese leader and tribal chief in the nineteenth century.

  Nganga: Spiritual healer who also communicates with the dead.

  Nkísi: Spirits or objects inhabited by spirits, often ancestral spirits.

  Nkísi nkondi: Objects inhabited by spirits that have been activated—often by hammering nails into the objects.

  Nkoko: Grandfather (form of address)

  Noko: Maternal uncle (form of address)

  ReAfrikanization: Return to African values and eradication of the effect of colonisation and Western influences.

  Scarification: Decoration of the body by deliberately damaging the skin and using the scars to create patterns in the skin.

  Shweshwe dress: A dress made of a printed dyed cotton fabric widely used for traditional Sotho (South Africa & Lesotho) clothing

  Tai: Vultures

  Tata: Father (form of address)

  Tetela: Ethnic group in the DRC.

  Tsotsi: A black urban criminal.

  Yeshua: Hebrew spelling of Jesus/God, preferred by some religious groups.

  Flemish/Dutch:

  Blandijn: A building complex at Ghent University.

  Boekentoren: The tower forming part of the Blandijn, housing about three million books.

  Gentse neuzen: Purple raspberry-flavored sweets, traditionally made in Ghent, firm on the outside with a soft centre.

  Geus/Geuzen: Protestant/Protestants

  Koffie verkeerd: Coffee containing more milk than coffee.

  Kriek/kriek beer: Beer made of sour cherries.

  Verdikkeme/Verdorie/Potverdorie: More or less the equivalent of bloody hell/damn/shucks.

  Waterzooi: A Belgian chicken or fish stew with a rich sauce of vegetables and cream.

  Witloof: A leafy vegetable resembling chicory that is grown in the dark. A typically Belgian dish.

  Afrikaans:

  Alikreukel: Large sea snail belonging to the class Gastropoda.

  Backvelder: An unsophisticated country person, living in a remote part of South Africa.

  Braai: To grill or roast meat over open coals; barbecue.

  Galjoen: Black bream or blackfish. A species of marine fish found only along the coast of southern Africa; the national fish of South Africa.

  Skollies: hooligans, gangsters

  Tik: a slang name for the drug methamphetamine in crystal form.

  Tikkop: Tik user

  Author’s note

  Though I conducted my research as meticulously as possible, the historical events depicted here should be regarded as suspect. I am no historian, neither am I Belgian or Congolese. I am merely a writer of fiction whose interest was aroused by the circumstances around Patrice Lumumba’s death, but who ended up writing a totally different story from the one I had initially planned.

  In some cases I twisted the facts to fit the story, in others I blatantly lied.

  All the characters are fictitious. No person like Elijah ever existed, for instance. He, like César, Ammie, Tabia and others, are characters created by my imagination. The street café near Dulle Griet in Ghent does exist and the pea soup is inexpensive and delicious but the owner is fictitious, just like Erdem and the people Caz met in Kieldrecht and Doel.

  Even historical figures like Patrice Lumumba have been fictionalized to a greater or lesser degree.

  There is no AALHA rebel group, but there are numerous actual rebel groups striking terror in the hearts of the people of the DRC.

  Contact in 1986 between a Congolese man and Alice Auma Lakwena is highly unlikely. Tragically, Joseph Kony and his LRA are very active in the DRC.

  To simplify the reading experience, the names of Congolese characters do not conform to the correct naming tradition.

  Caz’s view of the South African situation, as well as her observations in Belgium, are her own.

  The above is not meant as an excuse for facts or statements that may be wrong. I am a writer of fiction. I make a living out of lying. But I try to lie as truthfully as possible.

  A book is never the sole creation of its writer. In fact, without help from so many quarters Offerlam, and subsequently Sacrificed, would never have seen the light.

  People who meant a great deal to me and Caz’s story and whom I wish to thank from the bottom of my heart for their contributions are:

  All the people in Belgium and the Netherlands w
ho meant so much to me and the book. There are too many to name, but I want to single out a few.

  Gino Laureyssen, who set the ball rolling and his wife, Elke van den Bergh, my Dutch translator. Thank you both for your faith in me and my work..

  Carine Duprez, who welcomed me into her home, cooked delicious meals, drove hither and thither to show me places, and introduced me to kriek.

  Ingrid Glorie, Frank Judo and everyone involved with De Week van de Afrikaanse Roman.

  Prof. Emanuel Gerard of KU Leuven for a delicious lunch and a wealth of information, without which I would never have made head or tail of the situation in the Belgian Congo and the period after independence. Especially the information on Patrice Lumumba was invaluable.

  My sincere thanks as well to Marcel Pruwer and Chantal Pauwels of the Antwerp Diamond Bourse for giving me their precious time and affording me the great privilege of holding a handful of rough diamonds!

  Many people in South Africa also helped and supported me. Once again, I can only single out a few.

  LAPA Publishers, for their extensive support.

  Cecilia Britz, my patient publisher, who gives me the freedom to turn flights of fancy into stories and forgives me when I start to panic.

  Wilna Adriaanse, for her thorough reading of the manuscript, her understanding of how stories work, her ability to spot the gaps and her willingness to share her expertise. Without her input the story could not have reached its full potential.

  Elsa Silke, who translated Sacrificed from Afrikaans to English and was so patient with me.

  Karin Schimke who edited Sacrificed and advised me so wisely.

  Jessica Powers for taking a chance on me and Sacrificed. Thanks for your insight and expertise, enthusiasm and hard work.

  Samantha Buitendach, for her enthusiasm and dedication.

  Beryl Maxwell, who lent me exactly the right book at exactly the right time, without which I would have known much less about the Belgian Congo.

  Ernie Blommaert, the man in my life who, after more than a decade, still brings me numerous cups of tea with incredible patience, looks after house and home when I go away to write and understands that I’m sometimes absent in spirit because my head is making up stories. Thanks, Blom—for everything.