African Dawn (5 page)

‘Howzit, Thandi,’ George muttered as he propped his bicycle against the Ngwenyas' front fence.

‘Hello, Georgie Porgie.’ Thandi was as tall as George, and try as he might he couldn't help but notice her budding breasts.

‘Very funny. Is Winston home?’

‘Mmm,’ she said, smiling at him. He felt his face start to colour. ‘Have you come around to play?’

‘I'm too old to play these days, Thandi.’ She giggled. He walked past her briskly.

To his even greater consternation, George sometimes thought about Thandi when he was alone in his bed. He fantasised about what she might look like, minus the pink pedal pushers and black sleeveless blouse she often wore. His tummy fluttered as he knocked on the door frame. He heard soft footsteps on the paving stones and was aware of her behind him.

‘Why does your face go red when you talk to me, Georgie?’ she said quietly.

He couldn't look back at her. He felt his throat constrict, so that he couldn't have said a word even if he could have thought of one. His cheeks burned and he could feel a vein in his temple begin to beat like an African drum.

He coughed. ‘Mrs Ngwenya,’ he squeaked.

Thandi giggled behind him.

George thought he might catch fire on the spot and burn like the sinner he knew he was. A boy at school had smuggled in some postcards of rather plump European women, either naked or in their underwear, and the older boys at school sometimes joked about the female maids who cleaned the dorms. He knew the term for white men who had sex with black women – ‘nanny knockers’ they were called. His mother and father were friends with Winston's father, and they tolerated his mother, Patricia, but never in his wildest imagination could George imagine a white man and a black woman together. It just wasn't supposed to happen. They'd been for a holiday the previous year, to Beira in Mozambique, which was a Portuguese colony, and things were different there. George's mother had been to Mozambique once before, but it was a new experience for his father. His father had expressed surprise at the amount of ‘intermarriage’ in the colony, and his mother had told him it was the way the Portuguese were, and to not talk about such things in front of George. This, of course, had aroused George's interest even more. He'd seen plenty of coloured people growing up, but it was only in the last couple of years, when he'd started taking a keen interest in girls that he started to put the pieces together. Somewhere, somehow – not just in Mozambique but also Rhodesia – some black people and some white people must be making coloured babies.

‘What do you want?’ Patricia Ngwenya blocked the doorway, arms folded. She wore a white apron over her floral-print dress. She was a formidable woman who was becoming more so, and better able to block a doorway, with each passing year. She scowled at him.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Ngwenya.’ If she wasn't going to be polite, that didn't give him an excuse not to be. ‘I'd like to see Winston, please.’

‘Ah, he's not here.’

‘But Thandi said –’

‘I don't care what she said.’ Mrs Ngwenya looked over his shoulder and scowled at her daughter. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Nothing, Mama,’ she cooed.

Winston's five-year-old brother, Emmerson, toddled up to his mother's legs and peered up at George from behind the stout trunks. ‘Hello, Emmerson,’ George said.

‘I told you, he's not here,’ Mrs Ngwenya said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You must go, now.’

‘But –’

‘Go, NOW! I don't have time to jump for you, white boy. My husband is in gaol because he tried to help your mother and now I am here with three children to look after and no man. Ah, but I don't even know if the school will let us stay in this house!’

George wouldn't talk back to an adult, but he had to bite his tongue to stop from challenging her. He didn't know exactly what Winston's father had done, and this was the first he'd heard about him being in gaol. The reference to his mother confused him. His father had told him she'd tripped and fallen in the street in Bulawayo.

‘Do you know where Winston's gone?’

Mrs Ngwenya shrugged. ‘How would I know? That boy, he tells me nothing.’ She took a pace back, nearly tripping over little Emmerson, and slammed the door in George's face. George puffed out his cheeks and then spun around in fright when he felt a touch on his shoulder.

Thandi grinned at his shock and subsequent embarrassment. ‘I know where he has gone,’ she whispered. ‘Come with me.’

George followed her to the gate and glanced over his shoulder to see if the fearsome Mrs Ngwenya was still watching. He saw no curtains twitching. ‘Is it far?’

Thandi nodded. ‘Very.’

He frowned. ‘What about my bicycle?’

‘You can take it.’

‘I can't have you running along behind me.’

Thandi put her hands on her hips. ‘You wouldn't dare. You can double me. I'll sit on the handlebars.’

Gosh, thought George, there was probably a law against that. Thandi straddled the front wheel, with her back to him, then wriggled her backside up onto the handlebars. She looked back at him. ‘Ready?’

God, no, he thought to himself, but at the same time he felt marvellously excited and naughty and brave. He steadied the bike, and the girl, with a light hand on her hip, then pushed off and leapt onto the saddle. Thandi squealed as they wobbled a bit, but he told her to hush, and after a few hard pumps of his legs they picked up enough momentum for her to stay stable.

He could smell her body as he pedalled. It was a rich, musky scent. Not unpleasant. He'd never been this close to a girl – black or white – in his life. He followed her directions, and although they skirted the edge of the sprawling township, there were enough locals about to take an interest in them. A trio of young men in suits whistled and hooted; an old man smiled; a woman of Mrs Ngwenya's size and vintage shook her head and waved a finger at them.

They left the dusty dirt roads for a stony track and when the going became too rough George reluctantly stopped the bike. Thandi put a hand on his shoulder for support as she eased herself down. ‘
Eish
. My bottom hurts.’

He felt himself colour again and she laughed. ‘Thank you, George. That was fun, wasn't it?’

He nodded, once more unable to speak. Thandi was only twelve, but she never seemed lost for words. George, however, often felt tongue-tied around girls.

‘Come,’ she said, with an imperious flick of her wrist.

He followed her, pushing the bike by its saddle, and eventually caught up so they were walking side by side. The stunted, rain-starved trees closed in on the track, forcing them to walk closer together.

‘Do you know where you're going?’ George asked her.

‘Always.’

They walked on for a while longer in silence. George started to feel nervous. He hadn't been to this place before. They were outside town, and the shadows were lengthening as the bush around them started to glow in the mellow, golden light. He should be getting back to his mother and father at the hospital. He presumed he and his father would be going out to the farm tonight, but George wanted to make sure Winston was all right first.

‘If I take you to Winston, will you do something for me?’

George looked at Thandi and tried to shrug nonchalantly. ‘I suppose so, what is it?’

She stopped and he had to reverse the bike a bit when he saw she wasn't going to follow him.

‘I don't have any money on me, Thandi.’ He saw her eyes flare and knew he'd said the wrong thing. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean …’

She strode off, and this time he had to jog to keep up with her. He wasn't paying attention and the bike veered off the track into a thornbush. He cursed and left it there and ran after her. Each footfall set up a little explosion of dust on the track.

‘Thandi! Wait!’

She was running now and he had to sprint hard to catch her. Her legs were long and slender and her stride was fluid like a beautiful female kudu racing from a predator. George chased her, but he wasn't a predator. He had no idea what this game was about, but he felt it was important that Thandi wasn't mad at him.

He caught up with her and when he laid a hand on her shoulder she stopped and turned to face him, her chest heaving. She stared at him and when she reached out her hands he flinched, then stood still. She put her hands behind his neck, drew him to her and kissed him on the mouth.

George thought his heart was going to explode from his body. Her lips were the softest, most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. He had no idea if he should touch her, but one thing he knew was that he never wanted this feeling to end.

It was she who broke the kiss. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Oh God. What have I done?’ she said. ‘My mother would kill me if she knew I'd kissed a
mukiwa
.’

Oddly, he thought his mother might do the same thing to him if she caught him with a black girl, but it didn't seem an appropriate thing to say.

‘Thandi? Is that you?’

George looked to the direction the voice was coming from. It was Winston.

‘Thandi,’ George whispered, ‘I –’

‘Shush. Winston would kill me, too. We must never speak of this again.’

What did she mean? It was the first time he'd ever kissed a girl and now she was telling him they couldn't talk about it. Did that mean it was never going to happen again, or that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone?

George followed Thandi through the bush. The rocky ground didn't seem to bother her, even though she was barefoot. He thought of the succulent taste of her lips. The sight of her bum in her tight pedal pushers was hypnotising.

‘George. You shouldn't have come. I don't want to get you in trouble.’ Winston scowled at his sister. She shrugged in reply.

‘What's going on, Winston?’

‘My father's been arrested and so now I'm running away from home.’

George laughed. He'd run away from home when he was eight, after his mother had scolded him for playing with matches. He'd come home before dusk. ‘Only children run away from home.’

‘I am not a child. It is why I'm leaving.’

George saw that Winston had collected some clothes and a pot and a couple of utensils in an old blanket, which was spread out on the ground. He had made a fire and was smoking a bream over it.
Sadza
, the thickened mealie-meal porridge that was the staple diet of all Africans, was cooking in the pot on the coals. ‘But why?’

‘My father has been arrested. My mother says he might be in prison for two years – perhaps more.’

‘So,’ George said. ‘She needs you. You are the man of the house now. You need to look after her and the others.’ He looked at Thandi, who rolled her eyes.

‘I want to join the army, George. I was serious. They won't take me if they know I am the son of a communist.’

‘Your father's not a communist, he's a schoolteacher.’

Winston shook his head. ‘I found a book in his bedroom, hidden. It was by Karl Marx. We learned about him in school, in South Africa. The Jesuits say that communism is evil and that they kill Christians in Russia.’

George didn't know about any of that, but he was sure Winston's father was a good man. ‘It's not illegal to read books in this country. Come home with us, Winston. It'll be all right. Don't you want to visit your father? He could tell you what's going on.’

Winston clenched his fists. ‘I never want to see him again. He has brought shame to us. My mother said that without his income I will have to stop going to school in South Africa. There is nothing for me here in Rhodesia, George, and I am tired of schooling. It is time for me to go and become a man.’

‘Go home to your mother, Winston,’ George tried again. ‘She needs you. I'll come with you. My dad can pay for your school fees. I know he'd want to.’

Winston exploded. ‘You don't understand, George! My mother hates your family … hates you. She hates the fact that your father helps pay for my education. She says it makes us like beggars. She says one day we black people will run this country, and that all the whites will work for us, or be forced to leave.’

George was shocked. He'd never heard such nonsense before in his life, and he struggled to work out what it was that he or his mother or father might have done to offend Patricia Ngwenya so. He was speechless.

‘She is poisoning me … and Thandi.’

George looked at Thandi. ‘I don't hate white people,’ she said to him. He was fairly sure she was telling the truth, after what had happened a few minutes earlier.

Winston exhaled. ‘I just want to do the right thing, George, and I don't know what that is. I think the best thing for me to do is to go away from Bulawayo, to somewhere where people do not know me or my family.’

‘But what about your education?’

Winston shook his head, and knelt to turn over his fish. ‘I don't want to be a schoolteacher, George. Maybe my mother is right, and that one day Thandi, Emmerson and I will be able to do whatever we want to in life. Until then, I can beg from your father to pay for me to become what my father was, or I can do something for myself.’

‘When will I see you again?’

‘I don't know. Perhaps never. My mother will be poor with my father in prison. I would be a burden for her.’

‘No! Don't go. It isn't fair …’ It was growing dark and George knew he should be getting back to the hospital. His father had enough to worry about without him going missing. At the same time, he didn't want to leave his friend, or Thandi. It wasn't right that Winston's life should be changed like this.

‘Come, George,’ Thandi said, and took his hand.

Winston looked at his friend's white fingers intertwined with his sister's, then from George's eyes to Thandi's. He said nothing. George thought he saw hurt there.

‘It is time for you to go … both of you,’ Winston said at last.

*

Humans had fled from Makuti and his mother when, exhausted, they had touched shore. Makuti's mother had snorted her challenges and tossed her head, but she had been too intent on making for high ground to stop and attack any of the two-legs that fled from her.

When she stopped running, she settled into a plod, not seeming to care whether her tiny calf could keep pace with her or not.