UMTATA Page 4

  “Oh! Oh! I am so sorry, Barney.” She scrambled to free herself from his arms, but his hands were holding her; he felt aroused. She attempted to scramble free, but in an instant their faces were almost touching. It was enough: fuelled with passion, they spontaneously kissed; her instincts got the better of her and she wildly pulled the buttons from his shirt. He spread his hands over her body; the thirty years’ difference in age was irrelevant.

  It was daylight when Barney stirred, his naked body lying close to the sleeping Sarah. Her face looked content, her body curled towards him; she looked to him quite beautiful sleeping peacefully on her side. Quietly he rose from the floor, straightened the upturned chair and, collecting his clothes from where they were strewn, made his way to his bedroom, collapsed on the unmade bed and again fell asleep.

  Two weeks had now passed and Barney was keeping his head down, going out for a walk only at night.

  Sarah had now accepted his situation, totally convinced that he was an honest but misguided man, one who had turned away from evil, away from hurting others. She was content for him to stay; she had no guilt or concern regarding the neighbours or what her friends thought of her situation, swallowing her pride in the process.

  They had only slept together twice, and both times the act had been tender but simple, she not wanting to show her long marriage experience to the younger man too readily, but there was time and she longed for him to stay.

  Barney felt guilty regarding his deceit, but he was driven towards another life, ever thoughtful, his mind forever scheming. Life would never be quite the same for him as in those carefree days in Rostrevor; he yearned for his freedom and autonomy, a new identity, a new life.

  During his stay with Sarah his plans were progressing better than he had ever imagined. He now had to find a way to put things into perspective and cover his escape plan once it was initiated.

  Sarah confided in him, and discussed the circumstances of her husband’s death. The controversial issue, she explained, was that there was no conclusive evidence; his body had never been found.

  His clothing was discovered on a beach in Devon early one morning during their holiday. He had apparently gone for his early-morning swim but had not returned to the hotel. A sea search followed without success, and he was listed as ‘missing, presumed dead’. During the enquiry his army record and disability were taken into account and the case was left open by the coroner. She mentioned that during the months since his death their business interests had remained the same; she had not closed his accounts or his credit cards.

  Barney took every opportunity to explore the flat when Sarah was not there, and his dishonesty started to pay dividends. He discovered Charles’s passport, his National Insurance number, receipts and household bills; he familiarised himself with information gained from Charles’s business diary, and took notes of his medical history.

  Armed with this information, he applied for a new passport. It was fortunate that the two men were similar in looks and physique; the difference in age was not obvious in Charles’s passport photograph and when it was necessary he would make up his face to suit the picture in the passport.

  Once he had received his new identity, his name would change forever to Charles Siddons. This was something that he could not face with Sarah – she would not accept this situation, and nor would Barney want her to!

  6

  A Simple Life

  Naomi Zimba was born in Johannesburg in 1953. Her father was called Chaka, and he was named after the famous Zulu chieftain. Her mother Hilda was also Zulu, born and bred in a small village close to the town of Lundazi in the eastern province of Zambia. She was from the same village as her future husband, though the two did not forge a friendship until later.

  Searching for a better life, Hilda had moved to Johannesburg after her twenty-sixth birthday in 1946 and met Chaka at an ANC rally a few months later. After a year they married and both found jobs in Johannesburg, Hilda in service and Chaka as a gardener.

  Hilda was of mixed race; her biological father was an Scottish farmer called Peterson, and her mother, a maid, worked on his farm. It was not uncommon in the early days of Dutch settlement for associations to happen in this way, and Hilda’s mother Beatrice often explained her side of the story in vivid detail whenever the subject arose.

  The association between Beatrice and Peterson turned out well for her, as the old farmer bequeathed a sizeable legacy to his mistress and her descendants in his will. It was stipulated that this money was to be used for education only.

  Hilda’s mother often told Naomi stories of the old way of life, some handed down from the Zulu Wars of the late nineteenth century, but always fell short of explaining her affair with Peterson. She married some months after Peterson had died, and described an incident her husband had told her about. On his way back from a hunting trip he and four comrades came across three Boer infantry soldiers. They were wounded, but this did not deter the hunters and they murdered the white soldiers. Naomi’s grandmother knew of the suffering and persecution of the black African at the hands of the Boer; it bred hatred and distrust but Beatrice could find no words to express her sadness at such an act. “Killing solves nothing and breeds hatred,” she would tell her granddaughter.

  Spontaneous as it was, Hilda tried to explain to Naomi at every opportunity that violence should not be met with violence; the old lady had seen plenty, the sadness etched on her face.

  Naomi was fascinated with her grandmother. The one thing she really wanted to know had been swept under the carpet for years; it was something that the old lady never mentioned. It was difficult to break the family code of respect; she would need to wait until the time was right.

  As a young girl, hiding in all the places little girls do provided Naomi with the opportunity to overhear discussions between family members that were not for the ears of the young. She did not understand all that was said but now, as she was becoming older, things were falling into place.

  When Naomi looked in the mirror she saw a light brown face, and yet her family and friends in the village had a much darker tone to their skin. What was it that was in her bloodline, she asked herself?

  When the elders talked late into the night they spoke about such things, and it was during one of these sessions that Naomi heard the old ladies talking and began to grasp the one tale that might provide the answer that she wanted.

  By the time she reached fourteen Naomi was a magnificent specimen of a female – nearly six feet tall with a willowy torso and long legs that carried her like a gazelle. Her smile lit up the whole room.

  One night she had been playing with friends in the open common area near her home, but the night was hot and she returned home early.

  The rest of the family were out somewhere in the village when Naomi found herself sitting outside on the porch next to Beatrice. It was an ideal time to truly bond with her grandmother.

  A Quiet Time

  They spoke softly; it was necessary because sound carried in the still night air. The old lady looked sad, and her eyes seemed to drift into another world. She chose her words carefully, describing her early life, the work she did, her family and the farm. She kept the discussion on the important issues of the time and did not dwell on detail. Her deep brown eyes stared at the light from the fire, and the flames reflected her every emotion: sadness, joy and trepidation.

  Naomi needed to know the one thing that was on her mind – better to face it now, rather than never – but she might have to wait until Beatrice was ready.

  “I was born at the turn of the century on a farm near the border of Zambia and Botswana,” the old lady went on. “The owner of the farm was a Scotsman called Angus Peterson.”

  At this stage of the conversation Naomi started to suspect that he had been her mother’s father, and this person that Beatrice was describing was her own biological grandfather, a white man. She could
not wait to hear the whole story.

  The old lady did not look up. “Peterson lived with his wife in the big house that his family had built a decade before. He told me later that he had watched me walking to the well for water, and he followed me everywhere, he became besotted. I am sure it was his age at the time to fancy a girl much younger than himself; it was the unbridled desire and lust that the old Scotsman had.”

  “How old was he at the time?” Naomi asked innocently.

  “He and his wife were both in their late fifties.” Beatrice paused. “Their relationship was now platonic, although still exceptionally friendly.” She laughed. “I knew he always asked after me – where I was, when I would be back. He tried to be discreet; it did not always work but he found out what he needed to know.

  “My mother and I had lived on the farm for three years, but during that time Peterson did not notice me. He could not understand why he hadn’t known about me from the beginning – he later confided to me that those years had been wasted.

  “When I started work at the farm his yard foreman made arrangements for me to move into a small house adjacent to the barn where my mother lived. I was to share with two other girls. My mother lived with her husband and another family in the converted barn.

  “But one particular day Peterson was devious and sent two of the girls on a jaunt to the next farm to help with the harvest. This gave him the chance to visit me when I was alone. He told me later that he waited on the porch until his wife was in bed and all seemed quiet in the servants’ quarters before he made his move.

  “I was in turmoil when Peterson entered my room, undressed in the dark and climbed in beside me. I was numb with fright, too scared to cry out for my mother, who was so near but yet so far, and whilst he groped me I just gritted my teeth and lay still as he did what he wanted. His breath was thick with whisky fumes, and the pain was so intense; I did not understand his brutality at that time, as in later years he became gentle. I just winced through my tears, and at least it finished as quickly as it had started. Afterwards he got up, dressed without saying a word and left the hut.

  “I lay very quiet and cried silently for many hours, feeling abused and alone. I was unable to call for help, too scared to shout for my mama – no one would believe me, so I just curled up.

  “As I was falling into slumber, he returned, and I stiffened with horror. I closed my eyes, and then I smelt something and realised it was his whisky breath.

  “‘Do not say a word, for your sake and your mother’s.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand?’

  “Not opening my eyes, I said, ‘Yes.’

  “‘Tell me you understand.’ His tone was threatening.

  “‘Yes,’ I replied again, ‘I understand.’

  “He had the hut sectioned off, with my small room nearest the main house, and this permitted him to visit me as much as he wanted. After a while he became more gentle, more humane, and even confided in me from time to time. I never fully accepted the situation but I did become tolerant as it brought some fruits of gain.

  “However, he did not take precautions; it was not that he cared, but I knew it would cost him money in the long run both at the pregnancy stage and later when the child would need tending.

  “I soon became pregnant and gave birth to a nine-pound baby girl who was to become your mother. Three years and one month after he had first visited me, Angus Peterson was killed, crushed by a tractor.”

  Beatrice laughed again, and the smile remained on her face when she said, “I smile with respect for Peterson, but must find immense amusement regarding the antics that occurred after his last will and testament was read by the local lawyer at the family gathering; the wailing and crying that ensued after we were bequeathed a portion of the inheritance. The whole of his family were disgusted, astounded that the old man would even consider us, the black worker, a stigma they could not contemplate; it would leave them in shame; but then I suppose we showed him the love and honesty that his family didn’t.

  “I put the money in a bank and split it to be shared by the next three generations, so a part of it can be used for your education, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Grandma, for your love, your generosity and sharing your stories. I love you.”

  The next day, armed with the information her grandmother had given her, Naomi approached her mother.

  “Can I go to school here in Johannesburg?” she stammered, not knowing the family plans.

  “No, my dear – your father and I are returning to Lundazi, and you will attend boarding school in Swaziland.”

  “Boarding school? Away from you and Papa?”

  “Yes, my dear; you must get a good education, and this is private school, paid for by your inheritance that I understand your grandmother told you all about.” Hilda smiled at her daughter. “It will provide a future for you. Now let’s go inside before the lions eat us.”

  They both laughed. Naomi was now very excited about the future.

  7

  An Education,

  1966/67

  Chaka wanted desperately to keep the family together, it was the Zulu way, but he secretly knew that a private school would be best for his daughter. Still, he maintained pretence just for appearances’ sake, to maintain his pride within the family.

  He did, however, discuss the situation with a local legal man, who advised him that education was the way forward for the black African. It was important to have a brain to compete in an ever-changing world, and this would be Naomi’s opportunity.

  Naomi herself was terrified but excited; she was to leave her beloved family, possibly for the next few years, staying with her uncle during midterm time and only returning home in the summer – a long time for a young girl to be away from her family.

  She realised that it was a chance that many poor African children did not have, not even her brother or sisters, but she knew in her young mind that it was for the best.

  She travelled alone by bus to Lusaka, and then took a two-hour flight to Maputo, where she would stay with her uncle for two nights before taking a bus for the last hundred miles to school. Maputo is predominantly a mining town, the most populated in Mozambique. Her uncle was a kind man and drove her in his rickety old car to the main bus station, where he dutifully shook her hand and bade her farewell as the bus started its journey to the town of Manzini, situated on the Swaziland border, close to her destination.

  Naomi was truly exhausted when she arrived at her new school. She was relieved when the tedious task of registration was complete, and looked forward to some rest and recuperation.

  She found the school very formal – scantily furnished and minimalistic, the wooden floors heavily polished, with wood continuing halfway up the walls. Above the wood the remaining walls and ceiling needed painting as the old paint was crumbling.

  She shrugged and followed her tutor along the corridors, through double doors into a courtyard, then through a door into a long, prefabricated building.

  “This is your dormitory, Naomi. Please find your bed; the fourth down the aisle to your right.” The tutor smiled and beamed as she advised, “Mealtimes are on the noticeboard together with a timetable for your lessons. Have you any questions?”

  “No, ma’am,” Naomi answered politely.

  Over the next few days Naomi found life strange. She felt that the whole school was avoiding her; perhaps it was her imagination but it seemed the other students were unsure of the tall and rangy girl who had just enrolled.

  She kept her head high and her back straight; she was the daughter of Chaka, a descendant of the mighty Zulu chieftain, a fearless warrior. For the country girl from the backwoods of Lundazi, life was about to become more interesting.

  The other students were a mixed bunch – different creeds, nationalities and colours – although all were privileged, born into families who could pay for their children to be educat
ed. What better reason to send their offspring to a school in the bush and allow themselves the peace and tranquillity they wanted?

  Naomi was fortunate; she was as tall as most adults, and could utilise hand-me-downs from them. The quality of her clothes was questionable and did not reach the standard of the other pupils, but it was not the sort of thing that worried her. She was a happy girl and soon became popular with the other students, and at the school there was no prejudice: with black and white girls socialising with each other without a problem. She also learned from the playground a few African dialects such as Zulu, Bemba and Swahili, and in lessons developed her German and English, she was a quick learner.

  The teachers all seemed relaxed; the teaching staff consisted of three female Zambian teachers, a male Ghanaian, a German and two South Africans, only the German and one of the Zambians were white.

  The students were a mixture of colours and nationalities, and they all followed the rules of the school. After lights out many of them showed discontentment at being away from their families, especially the privileged ones who always complained about the conditions and the food. Naomi missed her mother and the slow pace of her village, but under the circumstances she was happy with her new situation.

  One thing that caused her some discomfort was the Ghanaian teacher, a man called Nzema who always seemed to stare at her – in the recreation area, playing netball or just queuing at mealtimes, his stare was making life difficult. At first she shrugged it off, thinking it was her imagination, until the next time, when the situation started to unnerve her.

  In Zambia and Swaziland there is no winter, only a dry and a wet season. The rains start in November, and the water runs off the hard land and quickly becomes a hazard to everything at a lower level. The school drains were ineffective due to lack of maintenance and flooded quickly; it was normal at this time of year and the pupils were trained to deal with the situation and form a chain gang to bail out the floodwater.