by Deon Meyer
Domingo just sat there.
Trunkenpolz put a hand in her bag and pulled out another pistol. He hit Domingo in the face with it. ‘Give me the gun,’ and he ripped the R4 from Domingo’s grasp. Domingo’s nose and eyebrow were bleeding. He just sat and watched Mecky Zulu give a signal to the two other men in their minibus. One of them produced a two-way radio, and barked orders into it.
Ten minutes later a lorry and eight motorbikes stopped in the street. The motorbikes were all bright orange and black. They had the letters KTM on their fuel tanks. All the men were armed. They carried our entire store of tinned and dried food out of the supermarket. They stole all two hundred R4 rifles and ammunition from the old police station, and packed them into the lorry. One of the men who had arrived that night climbed into the cab of our tanker and drove away with the diesel.
Trunkenpolz held the R4 to Domingo’s head. He said to Mecky, ‘We must shoot this one.’
People who witnessed all of it said later there was no trace of fear on Domingo’s face. He just sat there with hatred and anger in his eyes, all focused on Trunkenpolz, his fists clenched, nails biting so hard into his palms that they bled.
The woman looked Domingo up and down, and sneered, ‘Don’t bother.’
And they left, their motorbikes roaring, in a triumphant convoy.
The Committee met that evening in the dining room of the Orphanage. Pa said, ‘I was wrong. I should have listened to Domingo.’
‘We’re all too . . . trusting,’ said Bishop Rankin.
‘We’ll have to correct that,’ said Ravi Pillay. ‘And quickly, too.’
‘But how? We don’t have the know-how,’ said Pastor Nkosi.
‘We do,’ said Pa. He looked at me, where I sat in the corner listening. ‘Go and call Domingo, Nico.’
I went to find him. He wasn’t in the sitting room. I knocked on his bedroom door. He opened it. The wounds were thin bloody lines across his eye and nose. ‘Pa would like you to come to the dining room.’
He nodded, as if he knew why.
In the dining room Beryl Fortuin asked him, ‘What must we do, Domingo?’
He looked back at them. ‘Are you asking me?’
‘That’s right. How do we make sure that it never happens again?’
‘Come and sit down with us,’ said Pa.
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘What must we do?’
‘We must control access,’ said Domingo. ‘We must put armed guards night and day at an access gate.’
‘We don’t have a gate,’ said Pastor Nkosi.
‘We have the two buses that we can pull across the road, halfway up the first hill,’ said Domingo. ‘So that nobody can race through. And we park another car between them, one that has to be moved. It will cost us nothing.’
‘Please sit down, Domingo,’ my father said again.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Is that all? Is it enough?’ asked Beryl.
‘No. We have to train an army,’ said Domingo.
‘Sad,’ said the bishop. ‘But true.’
‘It can be a tiny army to start with,’ said Domingo. ‘Small is better than nothing. A small one would have stopped the KTM scum.’
And so the robbers were first called ‘the KTM scum’, and later just ‘the KTM’.
‘Will you form a defence force? And train them?’ Pa asked.
Domingo shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Defence is a symptom of a certain attitude. We want an attack force,’ he said. ‘That’s what I will train them for.’
I remember: that night tempers were frayed in the Orphanage dining room. They argued over emergency measures, over priorities, over policy and the general philosophy of welcoming incoming strangers.
And Nero Dlamini, sitting to one side with a book in his hand and a sleeping child on his lap, broke the tension. ‘My goodness, that woman was beautiful,’ he sighed.
‘What woman?’ asked Pastor Nkosi irritably.
‘That Zulu princess. If I have to be robbed by someone, I’d want it to be her.’
Chapter 26
The sharpshooter
On 7 May work began in securing the entrance to Amanzi.
Before Jacob Mahlangu and I rode up the mountain to tend the animals, we had a quick look: Pa was standing with the bishop and Beryl on the slope. They were watching Domingo and the few men helping him set up the barriers. Pa looked vaguely nervous, and worried.
Domingo and the men parked the buses across the road, in the spot where it passed between two hills. It was a clever choice, because when he later stationed a sentry in the foremost bus, he could see at least three kilometres down the mountain. With more guards on the heights it would be extremely difficult to attack the new gate. Domingo removed the wheels of both buses so they couldn’t easily be moved. He towed a heavy old Nissan pick-up between the buses to form the cross arm of an H. The Nissan would have to be moved before any vehicle could pass between the buses.
He had two people on sentry duty round the clock – one in each bus – equipped with radios to alert him and Pa if someone was on the road. Then Domingo and his team fetched rocks and stones to fill the gaps between the buses and the slopes on either side of the road. It took him three weeks to complete that task.
Under cover of night Domingo brought enough ammo and another two hundred R4 assault rifles down from the mountain. He restocked the arsenal at the police station. And in the course of the next week everyone in Amanzi had the opportunity to learn to shoot, and demonstrate their ability: men and women, boys and girls, anyone over the age of ten.
Those who were away on expeditions also had their turn when they came back.
Domingo set up a shooting range at the massive old gravel quarry near the dam wall. He gave each group of ten shooters an hour of basic instruction in weapon handling and safety. Then he let them shoot. Once everyone was reasonably proficient, he tested us: everyone had to stack five stones, more or less the size of a brick, at fifty metres and try to hit them with five bullets through open sights. And so he divided the wheat from the chaff.
I had my chance much later. I was driven by a fear of humiliation, because I had bragged to the other boys that I could shoot. And I was motivated by my desire to impress Domingo.
I shot all my stones to smithereens.
The next day I shot against all the other five-stone finalists – twelve of us. This time we had to shoot over a hundred metres. I went through to the next round, along with six others, to the hundred-and-fifty-metre knockout. Still six. At two hundred the brick-sized stones were almost too small to see. Only three of us went through. The other two were over twenty years old. I struggled to contain my pride. Every now and then I would glance at Pa, but he looked angry. He stood watching me with his arms folded. I couldn’t understand why.
Domingo walked to his Jeep – the same one that the two original Vanderkloof inhabitants used to drive. He took out three other rifles, and gave us each one. They had telescopes attached. ‘This is the DM variant of the R4. DM stands for dedicated marksman, these are sniper rifles. The telescopes have already been set in. Now you will shoot at three hundred metres,’ he told us.
I was the only one to get five out of five. Domingo gave me a fist bump. I ran to my father.
‘Pa, I’m going to be a soldier.’
He said, ‘You’re too young, Nico.’
‘But Pa . . .’
‘No. You’re still too young.’
‘Please, Pa.’
‘We’re not going to fight over this,’ he said and turned and walked away.
Why did he do that, now? I won the shooting contest, it was my finest moment, the high point of my whole life. And he walks away? I experienced a moment of absolute and bitter disappointment before anger flooded me. It was so unfair. I wanted to scream at him, how can you say that, Pa? What about the two men I shot dead? When Pa couldn’t, when Pa was too soft, too scared to shoot. I wasn’t too young then. Wha
t about the dogs that I had to kill to save Pa? I wasn’t too young then. What about the springbok, when we went hunting at the Koedoeskop Game Ranch? I wasn’t too young then.
I drew a deep breath so I could let all my rage out, to scream all that at him, in front of everyone. I didn’t care, he had betrayed me.
A hand on my arm, fingers squeezing hard. I looked up. It was Domingo. He just shook his head.
Chapter 27
The perfect storm
Throughout that May and June the young settlement of Amanzi staggered on.
The first snow and cold, unusually bitter and totally unexpected, exposed serious shortcomings in our knowledge and skills, forethought and planning. I overheard one resident tell another that my father wasn’t as clever as everyone thought; why choose a place for a new beginning if there weren’t even enough trees for firewood in the winter?
In that foul weather we ate more, but had less opportunity to forage for supplies. Many people were called on to help to fix streets, roofs and burst pipes, cleaning chimneys, frequently without the right tools or knowledge. Others had to collect wood and saw it up, hard physical labour. Those who were out on food-gathering duty struggled to make progress on the slippery, rutted and sometimes impassable roads. School was suspended for three whole weeks, the children needed to help with the workload. Boys of fifteen and sixteen went with the adults on expeditions, searching for food, and sheep and cattle, pigs and chicken. But I wasn’t chosen for one.
And still our numbers grew; every week there were new groups of weary, hungry arrivals.
If the unexpected icy temperatures and snow had been the only setback, I believe we would have survived and overcome them relatively easily. It was the raid by the KTM that changed everything, that made the dominos topple faster. The loss of weapons and security eroded the optimism and self-confidence of Amanzi. The loss of food and fuel pushed the community to the edge of collapse, hunger and deprivation fanned the flames of dissatisfaction and rebellion. Everyone knew we had to ration food. Everyone agreed that we could leave it in Pa and Ravi Pillay’s hands for the division to be done fairly. In the first week or two after the KTM invasion everyone accepted this with resignation. Then hunger began to gnaw at their bellies, and the people complained: why couldn’t we slaughter more cattle and sheep, or some of the hens that Hennie Fly was farming in the temporary buildings of the old holiday resort? Why couldn’t we shoot more springbok in the old game reserve?
‘Because it’s not an infinite resource, and a long, cold winter lies ahead,’ Pa explained patiently each time, and the committee members stood solidly behind him. ‘We must manage sustainably, and that will require sacrifices sometimes.’
The pressure on Pa was immense. More than once I woke in the middle of the night and saw him sitting upright in bed staring into space. He had to make a new notch in his belt, because he was losing weight fast. It seemed as though he wanted to shoulder all the responsibility alone for the growing disaster. On 26 June, in front of the OK Value supermarket, a small crowd of residents complained about the size of the rations that were being doled out. Pa tried to explain about long-term planning.
‘But who gave you the right to make that sort of decision?’ a woman’s voice cried out, caustic and anonymous somewhere in the queue. Other voices murmured in support, a growing wave of discord.
That was when Pa said the only solution was a democratic election. As soon as possible.
At a Forum meeting of the entire Amanzi community they decided to hold elections on 14 July for an executive committee of six people. Voting rights were given to everyone aged sixteen and older, you had to be at least eighteen to be nominated, and a nominee had to give their permission for that.
Many people asked Domingo to stand for election. Every time he just said, ‘Sorry, no.’
In the evening Pa asked him, ‘Won’t you reconsider, Domingo? We need you.’
‘I have done considering,’ he said.
Twelve days before the election, 2 July.
Dusk was just falling when the expedition returned, three middle-aged men, two boys of barely sixteen, in an old ten-ton sheep lorry. They had been away for two weeks on a pretty fruitless search for food in the old Northern Free State: Welkom, Virginia, Kroonstad. Their harvest was small, their loss of heart great.
They came to the Orphanage to report first. Pa commandeered everyone to help off-load the lorry, because the workers at the OK Value supermarket had already gone home. I went with him, Beryl and Domingo, Pastor Nkosi and Hennie Fly and Melinda Swanevelder. Bishop Rankin was sick, he stayed behind.
We worked in the dark, in the icy cold. As we off-loaded and carried boxes, I listened to the expedition team describe their hardships, the giant potholes in the roads, the bandits, the supermarkets and cafés plundered and emptied by other people.
Domingo carried a big box into the store. He said, ‘Ja, well, it is because we are stupid.’
‘What did you say, Domingo?’ asked Pa sharply.
Domingo halted. ‘We are stupid,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’ Pa approached him. I had never seen him look like that. Cold, an icy glare in his eyes. I knew it was the tension of the past few weeks, the pressure of responsibility. Everyone went quiet, everyone looked at Pa. And Domingo.
‘It means we should have left the low-hanging fruit for last – the nearby towns – for the winter, for the bad times. We should have looked for food in the distant places when the weather was good.’
Pa stepped closer to him. ‘And why didn’t you ever say so?’
‘’Cause nobody asked.’
‘’Cause nobody asked?’ said Pa. ‘So we must ask before we can share your wisdom? That’s your idea of a community? Of making a contribution?’
‘Are you saying I don’t make a contribution?’ More surprise than aggression.
Pa took a deep breath, and reined in his temper. He said, ‘That’s not the point, Domingo. You sat in the Orphanage every night listening to us make plans, and you kept quiet. But now you stand there criticising. Now you tell us how stupid it was. You, who are not even standing for election.’
Domingo didn’t answer. I could read his body language; he knew that right now he was in the wrong. I believe it was on the tip of his tongue to defuse the situation, in a way that would allow him to preserve his dignity.
He didn’t get the chance. ‘That’s just cowardly,’ said Pastor Nkosi Sebego. He stood, muscular and broad-shouldered, beside Pa. He looked so much bigger and stronger than the wiry Domingo.
Domingo’s eyes narrowed. ‘You calling me a coward?’
‘I’m saying that a man, a real man, would put himself in the democratic firing line. Takes a lot more guts. So yes, I think you are a coward.’
Things happened in Domingo’s face, possibilities moved across it like spectres: all of them frightened me. It was his eyes, those colourless light eyes of his, that darkened in fury. His hands dropped to the buckle of his belt. On the belt were two holstered pistols. He loosened the buckle, he was going to tackle the pastor bare-fisted.
Pa tried to defuse the situation. He walked in between them, speaking in a casual voice. ‘We all know that Domingo is one of the bravest men in our community. I’m sure he has good reason for declining the nomination.’
Domingo’s hands were on his buckle. He looked past Pa, at Pastor Nkosi. The moment, balanced on a knife-edge, seemed to stretch and stretch. The few bystanders stood transfixed.
Domingo drew a deep breath, relaxed, and said very quietly, ‘Tell me, Padre, would you rather have a real man who lies about his beliefs?’
The pastor thought he had won the confrontation and his voice remained aggressive: ‘What do you mean?’
‘I declined the nomination because I don’t believe in democracy. Not now.’
‘What do you believe in?’
‘Even in a perfect world, democracy is a messy business. This world is all screwed up. What it needs is a benevolent dicta
tor.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ said the pastor, triumphantly appalled.
‘He has the Romans on his side, Nkosi,’ said Pa, his voice light and pacifying. ‘They chose a dictator in times of crisis. In those times the term “dictator” was a positive one.’
‘Then call me a Roman,’ said Domingo.
Nero Dlamini was the only one who laughed then, quietly.
The pastor breathed, calmed. But even he had to retire with dignity. ‘You scare people,’ he said to Domingo.
‘I know,’ said Domingo, as he turned and walked away.
On 4 July it snowed again.
Nero Dlamini called it the last straw that broke the Amanzi camel’s back. Pa would later refer to the events, from the first snow and the KTM, to the last bad weather, as ‘the perfect storm’.
Hennie Fly had been busy for the last two months with the only worthwhile farming enterprises in the community: a chicken and egg project, and a vegetable greenhouse, all in and around the asbestos buildings of the old sprawling holiday resort right at the top, near the gate to the nature reserve.
The seven centimetres of snow did general damage to buildings and roads, but the greatest damage was when the hothouse roof collapsed due to the snow’s weight. All the plants were destroyed – tomatoes and sweetcorn, green beans and beetroot, two weeks before Hennie could begin harvesting. We had lost the Committee’s food insurance policy.
The icy nights caused scores of hens to die. Our meagre egg production came to a halt. In the reserve a number of sheep froze to death.
The two oldest members of the community, sure candidates for the coming election, Granny Nandi Mahlangu and Bishop James Rankin, became seriously ill. Nero Dlamini was the closest thing to a medical practitioner that we had, and he kept repeating that he actually knew nothing. Out of desperation at the illness he prescribed antibiotics. That didn’t help. He realised the two old people weren’t eating, they were donating their food rations to the little ones. Nero put a stop to that. He put them each on a drip. It was too late for Bishop James. He died on 10 July. Everyone who wasn’t out on expedition attended his funeral on 12 July.
