Afrika (19 page)

“Will that man really get off for murdering Sandile?” Kim asked. Her throat was very dry.

“He'll get amnesty – yes – I imagine,” Riana said. Her body was stiff and her shoulders were up by her ears.“The applicant must make full disclosure of all the facts.”

Kim was worried. Her mom was using her journalist voice, the voice she used when she did not want to feel something fully.

“Lettie will be able to have a proper burial,” Riana continued in her I-will-feel-nothing radio voice. “The amnesty rules say that Van Niekerk must tell the hearing of Sandile's whereabouts.”

“His body, you mean.”

“Yes, his body,” answered Riana quickly.

“This is a terrible way to make a living,” Kim said. She was trying to joke – to ease the tension that
was building in her mom's face, but it didn't work. In fact, Riana's face crumpled. She was in tears.

“I followed orders, too,” said Riana softly crying. “Just like that policeman, I blindly moved from one safe pocket of white civilization to another – from the library to the shopping mall to the club. I didn't ask why Blacks went to different schools and hospitals. I didn't ask why I was served first in a line. I didn't ask why Elsie's children couldn't live with her. I trusted my country! Can you understand that? Like you trust Canada, I trusted South Africa! If I hadn't met your father, I might still have believed in it.”

Kim found her mom a tissue. If she wasn't careful she would start to cry too. “Don't you need to get back?” she asked.

Riana composed herself and said: “Well, yes, I do.”

Suddenly, Kim remembered something she had been wanting to ask ever since the fight at school. “What about my summer vacation? Our time here is short, and I hate that school. Since we're leaving anyway …”

Riana smiled. “Don't worry, you don't have to go anymore. I'll let them know you won't be returning.”

Kim pointed to a nearby bench. Thanks. “I'll wait here for you.”

Riana blew her nose and turned to Kim. “Darling, I'm sorry. I love you. You know that, don't you?”

Kim smiled shyly.“I know that,” she said blinking back the tears.

After her mom was gone, Kim sat down. The corridor was quiet except for the odd person walking down the halls carrying files or coffees. Across from her on the wall was a poster.
The Truth Sets You Free
, it read.

At the end of the hall was a large, closed-circuit TV that was showing the hearing live. Suddenly Kim's eyes focused on the monitor. It was Lettie. Kim got to her feet and went closer so she could hear.

Lettie had asked to speak and a lawyer adjusted the microphone so it was closer to her mouth. She cleared her throat and began.

“Mr. Chairman, I am here today with my son, daughter, and young sister-in-law, the only remaining sibling of Sandile. I am also here with Sandile's father. He and I have witnessed this troubled country get to its feet, stumble, and go on, and we have voted recently for the first time in our lives. The decision, however, to attend this hearing was mine and mine alone. It may seem hard for some to understand why. I accepted that Sandile was dead, but I decided to come here today to learn the truth of his death and to ask this man who is responsible what happened to my husband's body.” Lettie swallowed twice. “My
heart is very heavy after hearing his confession, but some questions that have lived with me for the last seven years, have now been answered. Finally, my family will have a proper burial for my husband. I thank the chairman for hearing my case.” She raised her chin. “God bless Africa.”

There was a close-up of Van Niekerk who, after hearing Lettie's words, sat impassive. Then the camera focused on Lettie who refused a glass of water offered to her by the lawyer. The chairman called a short recess.

Kim turned away from the monitor and walked back to the water fountain. At first she didn't swallow anything, letting the cool water run through her mouth. Above her was another Truth and Reconciliation Commission poster with a cartoon figure on it. Directly on the heart, where the victim had been shot, was a gaudy red blob.

“Man, whose bright idea was this? To portray the victim like a cartoon character?”

She wheeled around. It was Themba. She had forgotten to tell him that her mother might make her leave the hearing halfway through.

“I'm sorry about what happened to your dad,” Kim offered as she wiped water droplets from her chin.

Themba stood stiffly by her side. Kim didn't know what else to say.

Themba began to pace. His steps were heavy. It was as if his emotions were bound up in each step he took. “What was it like?” he said between clenched teeth. “To sit in the room and see with my own eyes the man who killed my father? Archbishop Tutu says it; President Mandela says it:
Nou kan ons gesels.
We have to talk to heal. Sweet words. But it doesn't bring Pa back.”

Themba glared at the brightly colored poster, avoiding Kim's eyes.“You want to know why I pushed you so hard to find your pa? Even if this sounds stupid and childish, I was on an adventure. I was starring in a movie where lost daddies and missing fathers could be found.” He squared his shoulders. “But today Gert van Niekerk's words changed all that. Themba Bandla must now act his age.”

He took a small drink of water from the fountain. “I wish you had met him,” he said. “He loved soccer and he taught me how to play it. People in the township talk about him still: how he played it very calmly, with great speed. As you know this is how it should be played.” He paused. “Soccer was everything to him. A friend of his once told me that to him soccer was freedom.” He smiled. “Promise you won't tell your ma that,” he said. “I don't want to end up quoted on the radio.”

“I promise.”

“Thanks for being here. Come back with me. It is all over except the closing procedures. If you want, you can sit with us.”

Kim inhaled sharply. Themba had invited her to sit on the side with him, Lettie, and their relatives. It was an honor to be included like that.

“Thanks,” she said. “I'd love to sit with you.”

Kim followed him back to the hearing room to where Sophie, Ntombi, and Grandpa Khanyisa sat waiting. She waved at her mom. The hearing was underway again and suddenly the people in the audience were singing.

“Senzeni na, senzeni na …
”

“What does it mean?” Kim asked.

Themba's eyes were moist. “They are singing,
‘What have we done? Our only sin is the color of our skin.’”

“Y
our mother claims you're my girl,” Hendrik said as he parked the car. “Some people are easily taken in.”

Kim stiffened when she heard his words, but relaxed when he winked at her. She flung open the car door and got out. It was a fine spring afternoon but Kim was too nervous to notice its beauty.

Hendrik was so tall that he stooped slightly as he walked beside her. “I have a photo of myself at your age,” he said, as he directed her toward a dirt path. “It could be you – spitting image.”

Why had she selected this shirt to wear today? To make matters worse, her hair had gone wild that morning and she was so nervous about meeting her father that she had forgotten to tie it back.

Kim and Hendrik were in the middle of a wide-open field. The wind was nonstop and it caused her ruffled blouse and her hair to flutter every which way.

“Right up there used to be the Seven Steps,” Hendrik pointed as he scanned the horizon for
landmarks. Kim liked his deep voice. “Charlie Jacobs, Apie Ismail, Solly Bosman,” he said. “You remember Solly. You met him in Lion's River.” Kim nodded. “We grew up together in District Six. We sat together on top of the Seven Steps,
slukking
down those big swollen bottles of Coke. Indian snake charmers, gangsters, poets – you name it – the Seven Steps were a hangout for all sorts. Ja, everyone who lived in the Six loved the Seven Steps. They too, were demolished like the rest of the place.” He took out a chocolate bar and offered Kim some.

She was too nervous to eat. “Why was the district torn down?”

Hendrik put the chocolate away. “They didn't want the colored community living so close to the white areas, so they moved us all out and set the bulldozers to work. Everything came down but the churches and mosques. I'll never forget the day it happened. My pa was angry as hell and would not, under any circumstances, leave the house that his pa had built. They'd be looking for a black eye if they touched a brick of his house. True's God, we thought he'd be bulldozed right along with our home.”

Kim's eyes followed where Hendrik was pointing but it was impossible for her to imagine where his boyhood house had stood. There was not a single fence or dwelling left anywhere. All that remained of
the old district were the dome of a mosque and the steeple of a church.

“Where did your family move to?” Kim asked.

“My family was moved to the Flats, far out of Cape Town,” Hendrik continued angrily, as he led her along the path. “Home was a small brick house with no trees. Sand and dust and wind always in our eyes. Our old neighbors were spread all around – never saw them again. Pa never adjusted to the move, the losses – finished him off, and he died soon afterwards.”

Hendrik pointed toward the edge of the hill. “Just over there was the cinema. How about that? We called it the Bioscope in those days.”

“Bioscope,” Kim repeated the strange word.

“That's it,” He nodded. He ran his fingers through his short, cropped hair and then stood very erect as he turned to look at her.
“Sé vir my
, do you know any Afrikaans at all?” He attempted a smile.

“ Buy-a-donkey
,” Kim answered, smiling. But it was a fake smile. Her guard was up. She felt stiff inside; she had no way of knowing what was the proper way to act.

Hendrik was also on edge. He tried to laugh. “How am I doing?” he asked.

Kim looked up in surprise.

He said: “Impressions. Good or bad? It's not
easy, hey, to do this. I mean, I meet new people every day in my job, but – this, man – this is special.”

Kim nodded. She was relieved that he had said what she was feeling.“I think you're doing fine,” she told him.

He smiled. “You're more grown up than I thought.”

Is he crazy? Can't he see how my hands are shaking?
Kim thought. “When I found out you were in South Africa, my heart was bouncing out of my frame,” he said. “I wanted to meet you so badly. So did Ginger.” He looked at her with his almost-black eyes. “Would you like to go somewhere to get some food?”

Kim shook her head. No way. She was feeling queasy enough. Eating was out of the question. “Who's Ginger?” she asked.

“Ginger's my girl. She's eight.”

“Oh,” said Kim. She was trying to figure out how Ginger would be related to her. It took her a moment to realize she would be a half sister.

Hendrik opened his bag and gave Kim something he had for her.“
Catcher in the Rye
,” he said as he handed it to her. “My favorite boyhood book.”

“Thanks,” Kim said. She wished she had something to give him but she hadn't thought of it. Instead, she said, “Mom told me you write books.”

Hendrik smiled.“Lately I write invoices. I write memos. I'm struggling through a second book.”

Kim set her small knapsack down on the path and pulled out the notebook. “Mom gave me this. I think it was yours.”

He squatted down beside her.

“I wondered why you spelled Africa with a
K
?” she asked.

He studied the words that were scribbled there. “Some of us wanted to take the Colonial
C
out of the word
Africa
and make it a political word. Others used the
K
to make it a word derived from
Africa.
For your ma and me
Afrika
was the way we spelt the word since we were children, in our mother tongue.”

Kim looked at him with surprise. “You and my mom have the same mother language?”

Hendrik nodded yes.“
Ons praat Afrikaans.
”

Kim would never understand all the complexities of this country.

Hendrik pointed at an entry in the notebook. “Look at the date: August, 1982. It was around the time I met your mother.” He pulled the notebook closer. “This was written after a funeral. Can I translate it for you?”

Kim nodded and Hendrik began:
“Crowds, songs, flags, buffel tanks and Mello Yellows, stampeding people, coughing, blinded by tear gas.”

He glanced up at her. “A guy I'd known since
primary school was shot in the face by police. At his funeral there was mayhem. People carried banners, not guns. The police attacked the funeral and three people lost their lives. At these three funerals there was more violence. More killing. I write here:
‘How can this be all caused by a teenage boy who was shot going to the store for a loaf of bread?’”
He slowly straightened up.

Kim stood as well. “Do you want it back?” she asked. She did not really want to return the notebook to him.

His eyes met hers. “Kim, I want you to have it,” he said. “We live in a different country now, but we should never be allowed to forget the past.”