The October Killings (13 page)

Because of her upbringing, Abigail did not possess that peculiarly African fatalism that made living under the continual threat of violence at least manageable. Most of her formative years had been spent outside the country. Much of her schooling had taken place in the protected environs of an expensive private school in Swaziland. During the nine years between the raid in Maseru and the country's first democratic election, she had lived first in London, in the home of another exiled South African family, then in Boston where she completed a degree in public administration, then back in London where she worked for the movement. She had returned immediately after the 1994 elections at the age of twenty-four and had, since that day, lived in comfortable suburbs, insulated as far as possible, like her white countryfolk and the rest of the rising black middle class, from the excesses of the townships. While she loved her country and was wholly dedicated to the task of helping to rebuild it after the destruction surrounding the liberation struggle, her reactions were in many ways those of a citizen of a modern first-world city. She would have been seen by many in the township as being a “coconut,” someone who is brown on the outside, but white on the inside.

Now, as the gang of young men closed around her car, she was aware that their motives could be anything from the politics born of unmet expectations, to simple criminality or sex. No gainfully employed young woman who lived in the township ever avoided these gangs entirely. Few of them had not been mugged. Few rapes ever came to the attention of the police. Even missing persons often went unreported. In a country in which more than half the men between fifteen and thirty-five were unemployed, those men and women who had employment ran the continual gauntlet of the disaffected and violent. Losing a mobile phone or a small roll of banknotes was so minor in the range of possible losses that they were considered let-offs.

In the next few seconds every type of violent township death presented itself to her, a quick unsolicited catalog that she would rather have ignored: the simple knife between the ribs; the panga with its meter-long blade made of cheap steel and sharpened on any cement slab till it had the edge its owner desired; the
kapmes,
somewhere between a panga and a knife and more effective than the others, but rarer; the AK-47 assault rifle and the 9mm Makarov pistol. These had originally been smuggled across the country's borders in apartheid days for raids on police and military installations, but were now being used for other purposes.

The teenage youths were swarming round the car, but at least Abigail could see no knives, pangas,
kapmesse
or Makarovs—and an AK-47 was not easy to hide. But the apparent absence of weapons was small consolation. The kids blocking her way were looking at her with undisguised hostility that, to Abigail's eyes, seemed like sexual predation.

What are you doing, Abigail Bukula? she asked herself. Coming to this damned place to search for a man you really do not want to find. And, if you get through this afternoon intact, and you find him, what then? What are you going to do with him? What is anyone going to do with him? What might he do with you?

One of the gang of young men, wearing T-shirts, jeans and sneakers, knocked on her side window and gestured for her to open it. His face showed that the gesture was a command, not a suggestion.

Abigail rolled the window down. “Can I help you?” she heard herself ask.

“Can she help us?” He mimicked her to his friends. Most of them were dressed like him, but some wore shorts and a few had no shoes or only plastic sandals. After a brief round of derisory laughter, he spoke to her again in a language of which she only understood the occasional word. She thought it may have been Setswana.

“I'm sorry. I can't understand you.” She was trying to keep her voice even.

“So, foxy woman, where do you come from that you can't speak our language?”

“I grew up in exile.”

“Political?” This was a surprise to the entire troop. “Don't you know you not supposed to be driving around here while the people are holding a march?”

“I'm sorry. I'm not from here. I didn't know about the march.”

“Oh, yes?” He was shaking his head. “We are the township detectives. It's our job to see that no one stays away from the march. How are we going to get government to listen, if people don't join the march?”

This is all I need, Abigail thought, a gang of young, jobless firebrands saving the country. She had not heard of a march taking place anywhere, but sometimes these things arrived suddenly—spontaneously according to their organizers. “I work for the Department of Justice now,” she said, knowing that she was taking a chance by this admission, but needing badly to establish at least some measure of authority.

The leader stared at her through half-closed eyes. It was clear that he needed to think about what the Department of Justice meant to them, if anything. “Government?” he asked eventually.

“Yes.”

Already the gang members were edging out of her way. Their leader was not finished yet. “The government does nothing for us.”

“So, you want to go back to the white boss?” It occurred to her as she was saying it that none of them could have been more than four or five when Mandela was released from prison.

“I'm not saying that. But government doesn't listen to the voice of the people.”

“Today, I'm here to listen.” Abigail was starting to think that, despite the bravado, they were impressed by her accent, as much British as suburban South African, her BMW, the Department of Justice connection and even the fifteen or twenty years she had on them. “I've come to listen to Jones Ndlovu. Perhaps you can show me where to find him.”

“Jones Ndlovu?” The voice again had a derisory sound. “He's nothing. He lies in his shack all day. He waits for a woman who brings him food.”

“He was not always nothing. Once he was a great man. Can you show me where to find him?”

At last they seemed to be satisfied. “All right, sister, but next time don't come when there's a march.”

Two of the gang members ran ahead of the car, passed a few shacks and stopped in front of one that looked even less secure than the others. A rough wooden framework of old, worm-eaten planks supported a roof made of a few sheets of corrugated iron. Two sides had walls made of the same planks, nailed roughly to the frame. One of the other sides was covered with black plastic bin-liners. The last side served as the doorway. A door made of hessian bags and bin-liners was hooked back to allow light and air inside.

“Hey, Jones,” one of her escorts shouted. “There's a foxy lady here who can't speak Setswana. She wants you.” The attempt to impress her with their authority and toughness had disappeared and all of them, the leader included, had caught up to Abigail and were gathering excitedly around the entrance to Jones Ndlovu's shack.

Abigail had to force her way through the gathering to get to the shack. She hesitated in the entrance. She could see only the vaguest shapes in the deep gloom inside, but nothing that could be a human being. “You can go in.” The leader of the detectives was standing next to her. “Go in. It's all right.”

Abigail took a step forward and something moved on what seemed to be a mound of cotton waste products, perhaps factory off-cuts. Now she could see that it was a man, slowly rolling over and then struggling into a sitting position. He wriggled backward until he could rest his back against one of the plank walls. Once sitting up, he blinked in the direction of the doorway's brightness, trying bring his visitor into focus.

“Hey, Jones. Here's the lady who wants to see you.”

Some of the light from the door fell directly onto Ndlovu's face and he closed his eyes. Abigail saw a deeply lined face that had not been shaven recently. It was the face, puffy around the eyes and loose around the mouth, of a heavy drinker. He held up an unsteady hand in an attempt to shield his eyes.

“Jones, my man,” one of the young voices crowed. “You got a foxy lady visiting you from the Department of Justice.” They seemed eager to get the message through, as if they were the ones responsible for producing so singular a visitor.

Four of them had crowded into the shack around Abigail. The rest were clustered behind her.

This was simply not going to work. She had to take charge and do it now. She turned suddenly to face the young men crowding behind her. “Listen, guys. Listen to me.” Almost immediately their babble died down. “Listen, guys. You brought me here. Thank you for that. Now, I need to talk to Mr. Ndlovu alone. If you can just give me a chance to be alone with him, I'd thank you for that.” They fell silent, but no one moved. “Come on, guys. The movement needs me to meet with Mr. Ndlovu. Give me a few minutes alone with him while you go back to your detective work and look after the march.” She was making little shooing movements with both hands and they started to give way, a herd of sheep being guided by their shepherd.

They were soon outside. Their leader regained a little dignity by pointing to two of the youngest members. “You, Sello, and you, Sizwe. Look after the lady's car. The rest, come.” With a final glance at Abigail, a look that told her that he too possessed authority, he set off in the direction from which they had come. The rest followed.

She turned back to the shack. Ndlovu was sitting upright when she again stepped inside. “Mr. Ndlovu…”

“So what does the Department of Justice want with Jones Ndlovu now, after all these years when our new government didn't need him?” The voice was firm enough, but it rattled with loose phlegm. He coughed loudly without raising a hand to shield his mouth, and spat onto the dirt floor of the shack. “I didn't think anyone in government still remembered Jones Ndlovu.” He pointed a shaking finger at her. “They needed me once. I can tell you that.” As her eyes became used to the dark, Abigail could see that the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. His lower lip curled over, the force of gravity having greater effect than whatever facial muscles still functioned. “Never mind,” he shouted at Abigail. “The more things change, the more they stay the same. Have you heard that? The more things change … do you see any changes here? We had no proletarian revolution.” It was not often he had an audience, and he was going to use the opportunity Abigail provided. “Do you see anything different? Tell me that.”

“Mr. Ndlovu…” Abigail tried again.

“Do you see anything different here from apartheid days? First tell me that.”

There was no avoiding him. If she wanted him to answer her questions, she would have to answer his. “There have been many changes,” she said, “but not here. This looks like a township from the old days.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. The more things change, the more they fucking well stay the same.” Suddenly there was an unexpected, less-than-elegant gesture toward good manners. “So what are you standing for? Would you like to sit down?”

The object closest to being a chair that Abigail could see was a small wooden packing case. She sat on it carefully. After her experience in Yudel's study she thought that it may be better not to dust it first. “How are you?” she asked tentatively. It was the standard African greeting. Anything less would have been impolite.

“As you see me,” he said. “And you, sister, how are you? And who are you?”

“I am well,” Abigail said. “And my name is Abigail Bukula. I think you may have known my parents while we were in exile.”

“Tom and Bernadette Bukula? You are Tom Bukula's daughter? I remember seeing you in London, when you were this high.” He held a hand, cupped as if he were holding water in it, at about knee level. “Your father was a good man. Your mother was also a real worker for the revolution.”

“Thank you.” And enough of introducing ourselves, she thought. “I am looking for someone you knew. I was hoping that you may be able to help me.”

“Name?”

“Michael Bishop.”

The expression that had started to become genial, suddenly hardened. “Why? Why do you want him?” Abigail imagined that even the alcoholic fog had dissipated, leaving him suddenly sober.

She had already decided that this was not a man to whom she could entrust the whole truth. “We had a meeting the other day to honor him. He was invited, but he never came. We have a token of respect that we would like to give him.”

“And you want to find him to give it to him.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Forget it, young Abigail. Forget Michael Bishop. You don't want to find him.”

“I've met him,” she said. “I'm not a stranger. He saved my life long ago…” Now he was searching her face in the darkness, clearly waiting for more. “… in Ficksburg,” she finished.

“And what did he take in return?”

Much of my life, she thought, but said nothing.

“Go home, young Abigail. Go home. Forget about Michael Bishop.”

“If I promise not to go near him alone, will you tell me?”

“Alone or with others makes very little difference.” She saw in his face the signs of genuine concern. “But I truly do not know where he is. I have not seen him for fifteen years and I will be happy never to see him again. Perhaps if I had never met him my life would have been different.”

“I gather he is a strange man.”

“He is a man like no other and I do not mean that as being complimentary. Go home, young Abigail.”

But Abigail was not yet ready to listen to his advice. “Where did he come from? Did you know his family?”

Ndlovu shook his head, as if trying to rid it of some inner obstruction. He wished that this girl, Tom Bukula's daughter, would go now and leave him alone. “No family. He turned up at the headquarters in Lusaka one day and said that he wanted to work for the movement.”

“So he got a job in the movement?”