Rage

  ‘From here we walk,’ their guide told them, and led them down the alleys and secret routes of the gangs and comrades, slipping past the rows of township cottages, twice hiding while police Land-Rovers cruised past, and finally entering the back door of one of the thousands of identical undistinguished cottages.

  Moses Gama sat at a table in the tiny back kitchen. Kitty recognized him instantly although his hair was now almost completely silver and his great frame was skeletally wasted. He wore a white open-neck shirt and dark blue slacks, and as he rose to greet her, she saw that though he had aged and his body was ravaged, the commanding presence and his messianic dark gaze were as powerful as when she had first met him.

  ‘I am grateful that you have come,’ he told her gravely. ‘But we have very little time. The Fascist police follow closely as a pack of wolves. I have to leave here within a short while.’

  Hank was already at work, setting up his camera and lights, and he nodded to Kitty. She saw that the gritty reality of the surrounding, the bare walls and plain unadorned wooden furniture, would add drama to the setting, and Moses’ silver hair and enfeebled condition would touch the hearts of her audience.

  She had prepared a few questions in her mind, but they were unnecessary. Moses Gama looked at the camera and spoke with a sincerity and depth that was devastating.

  ‘There are no prison walls thick enough to hold the longing of my people for freedom,’ he said. ‘There is no grave deep enough to keep the truth from you.’

  He spoke for ten minutes and Kitty Godolphin who was old in experience and hardened in the ways of a naughty world was weeping unashamedly as he ended, ‘The struggle is my life. The battle belongs to us. We will prevail, my people. Amandla! Ngawethu!’

  Kitty went up to him and embraced him. ‘You make me feel very humble,’ she said.

  ‘You are a friend,’ he replied. ‘Go in peace, my daughter.’

  ‘Come.’ Raleigh Tabaka took Kitty’s arm and led her away. ‘You have stayed too long already. You must leave now. This man’s name is Robert. He will lead you.’

  Robert was waiting at the kitchen door of the cottage.

  ‘Follow me,’ he ordered, and led them across the bare dusty backyard, through the shadows to the corner of the road. There he stopped unexpectedly.

  ‘What happens now?’ Kitty asked in a whisper. ‘Why are we waiting here?’

  ‘Be patient,’ Robert said. ‘You will learn the reason soon.’

  Suddenly Kitty was aware that they were not alone. There were others waiting like them in the shadows. She could hear them now, the murmur of voices, quiet but expectant. She could see them as her eyes adjusted to the night, many figures, in small groups, huddled beside the hedges or in the shelter of the buildings.

  Dozens, no hundreds of people, men and women, and every moment their numbers increased as more came out of the night shadows, gathering round the cottage that contained Moses Gama, as though his presence was a beacon, a flame that, like moths, they could not resist.

  ‘What is happening?’ Kitty asked softly.

  ‘You will see,’ Robert replied. ‘Have your camera ready.’

  The people were beginning to leave the shadows, creeping closer to the cottage, and a voice called out, ‘Baba! Your children are here. Speak to us, Father.’

  And another cried. ‘Moses Gama, we are ready. Lead us!’

  And then they began to sing, softly at first, ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika — God save Africa!’ and the voices joined and began to harmonize, those beautiful African voices, thrilling and wonderful.

  Then there was another sound, distant at first, but swiftly growing closer, the sobbing undulating wail of police sirens.

  ‘Have your camera ready,’ said Robert again.

  As soon as the American woman and her camera man had left the cottage, Moses Gama began to rise from the table.

  ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Now we can leave.’

  ‘Not yet, my uncle,’ Raleigh Tabaka stopped him. ‘There is something else that we must do first.’

  ‘It is dangerous to delay,’ Moses insisted. ‘We have been in this place too long. The police have informers everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, my uncle. The police informers are everywhere.’ Raleigh put a peculiar emphasis on his agreement. ‘But before you go on to the place where the police cannot touch you, we must talk.’

  Raleigh came to stand at the front of the table facing his uncle.

  ‘This was planned with great care. This afternoon the white monster Verwoerd was assassinated in the racist parliament.’

  Moses started. ‘You did not tell me this,’ he protested, but Raleigh went on quietly, ‘The plan was that in the confusion after Verwoerd’s assassination you would emerge to lead a spontaneous rising of our people.’

  ‘Why was I not told of this?’ Moses asked fiercely.

  ‘Patience, my uncle. Hear me out. The men who planned this are from a cold bleak land in the north, they do not understand the African soul. They do not understand that our people will not rise until their mood is ready, until their rage is ripe. That time is not yet. It will take many more years of patient work to bring their rage to full fruit. Only then can we gather the harvest. The white police are still too strong. They would crush us by raising their little finger and the world would stand by and watch us die as they watched the rebellion in Hungary die.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Moses said. ‘Why have you gone this far if you did not intend to travel to the end of the road?’

  ‘The revolution needs martyrs as well as leaders. The mood and temper of the world must be roused, for without them we can never succeed. Martyrs and leaders, my uncle.’

  ‘I am the chosen leader of our people,’ Moses Gama said simply.

  ‘No, my uncle.’ Raleigh shook his head. ‘You have proved unworthy. You have sold out your people. In exchange for your life, you delivered the revolution into the hands of the enemy. You gave Nelson Mandela and the heroes of Rivonia to the foe. Once I believed you were a god, but now I know that you are a traitor.’

  Moses Gama stared at him silently.

  ‘I am glad you do not deny this, my uncle. Your guilt is proven beyond any doubt. By your action you have forfeited any claim to the leadership. Nelson Mandela alone has the greatness for that role. However, my uncle, the revolution needs martyrs.’

  From the pocket of his jacket Raleigh Tabaka took something wrapped in a clean white cloth. He laid it on the table. Slowly he opened the bundle, taking care not to touch what it contained.

  They both stared at the revolver.

  ‘This pistol is police issue. Only hours ago it was stolen from a local police arsenal. The serial number is still on the police register. It is loaded with police-issue ammunition.’

  Raleigh folded the cloth around the grip of the pistol. ‘It still has the fingerprints of the police officers upon it,’ he said.

  Carrying the pistol he went round the table to stand behind Moses Gama’s chair and placed the muzzle of the pistol at the back of his neck.

  From outside the cottage they heard the singing begin.

  ‘God save Africa.’ Raleigh repeated the words. ‘You are fortunate, my uncle. You have a chance to redeem yourself. You are going to a place where nobody can ever touch you again, and your name will live for ever, pure and unsullied. “The great martyr of Africa who died for his people.”’

  Moses Gama did not move or speak, and Raleigh went on softly, ‘The people have been told you are here. They are gathered outside in their hundreds. They will bear witness to your greatness. Your name will live for ever.’

  Then above the singing they heard the police sirens coming closer, wailing and sobbing.

  ‘The brutal Fascist police have also been told that you are here,’ Raleigh said softly.

  The sound of the sirens built up and then there were the roar of engines, the squeal of brakes, the slamming of Land-Rover doors, the shouted commands, the pounding footsteps, and the cr
ash of the front door being smashed in with sledgehammers.

  As Brigadier Lothar De La Rey led his men in through the front door of the cottage, Raleigh Tabaka said softly, ‘Go in peace, my uncle,’ and he shot Moses Gama in the back of the head.

  The heavy bullet threw Moses forward, his shattered head slammed face down upon the table, the contents of his skull and chips of white bone splattered against the wall and over the kitchen floor.

  Raleigh dropped the police pistol onto the table and slipped out into the dark yard. He joined the watching throng in the street outside, mingling with them, waiting with them until the covered body was carried out of the front door of the cottage on a stretcher. Then he shouted in a strong clear voice, ‘The police have murdered our leader. They have killed Moses Gama.’

  As the cry was taken up by a hundred other voices, and the women began the haunting ululation of mourning, Raleigh Tabaka turned and walked away into the darkness.

  A servant opened the front door of Weltevreden to Manfred De La Rey.

  ‘The master is expecting you,’ he said respectfully. ‘Please come with me.’

  He led Manfred to the gun room and closed the double mahogany doors behind him.

  Manfred stood on the threshold. There was a log fire burning in the hearth of the stone fireplace and Shasa Courtney stood before it. He was wearing a dinner jacket and black tie and a new black silk patch over his eye. He was tall and debonair with silver wings of hair at his temples, but his expression was merciless.

  Centaine Courtney sat at the desk below the gun racks. She also wore evening dress, a brocaded Chinese silk in her favourite shade of yellow with a necklace of magnificent yellow diamonds from the H’ani Mine. Her arms and shoulders were bare and in the muted light her skin seemed flawless and smooth as a young girl’s.

  ‘White Sword,’ Shasa greeted him softly.

  ‘Ja,’ Manfred nodded. ‘But that was long ago — in another war.’

  ‘You killed an innocent man. A noble old man.’

  ‘The bullet was intended for another — for a traitor, an Afrikaner who had delivered his people to the British yoke.’

  ‘You were a terrorist then, as Gama and Mandela are terrorists now. Why should your punishment be any different from theirs?’

  ‘Our cause was just – and God was on our side,’ Manfred replied.

  ‘How many innocents have died for what other men call “just causes”? How many atrocities have been committed in God’s name?’

  ‘You cannot provoke me.’ Manfred shook his head. ‘What I attempted was right and proper.’

  ‘We shall see whether or not the courts of this land agree with you,’ Shasa said, and looked across the room to Centaine. ‘Please ring the number on the pad in front of you, Mater. Ask for Colonel Bothma of CID. I have already asked him to be available to come here.’

  Centaine made no move, and her expression, as she studied Manfred De La Rey, was tragic.

  ‘Please do it, Mater,’ Shasa insisted.

  ‘No,’ Manfred intervened. ‘She cannot do it – and nor can you.’

  ‘Why do you believe that?’

  ‘Tell him, Mother,’ said Manfred.

  Shasa frowned quickly and angrily, but Centaine held up her hand to stop him speaking.

  ‘It is true,’ she whispered. ‘Manfred is as much my son as you are, Shasa. I gave birth to him in the desert. Although his father took him still wet and blind from my child bed, although I did not see him again for almost thirteen years, he is still my son.’

  In the silence one of the logs in the fireplace fell in a soft shower of ash and it sounded like an avalanche.

  ‘Your grandfather has been dead for twenty years and more, Shasa. Do you want to break my heart by sending your brother to the gallows?’

  ‘My duty – my honour,’ Shasa faltered.

  ‘Manfred was as merciful once. He had it in his power to destroy your political career before it began. At my request and in the knowledge that you were brothers, he spared you.’ Centaine was speaking softly, but remorselessly. ‘Can you do less?’

  ‘But — he is only your bastard,’ Shasa blurted.

  ‘You are my bastard also, Shasa. Your father was killed on our wedding day, before the ceremony. That was the fact that Manfred could have used to destroy you. He had you in his power – as he is now in your power. What will you do, Shasa?’

  Shasa turned away from her, and stood with his head bowed staring into the fireplace. When he spoke at last, his voice was racked with pain.

  ‘The friendship – the brotherhood even – all of it is an illusion,’ he said. ‘It is you, Mater, whom I must honour.’

  No one replied to him, and he turned back to Manfred.

  ‘You will inform the caucus of the National Party that you are not available for the premiership and you will retire from public life,’ he said quietly, and saw Manfred flinch and the ruination of his dreams in the agony of his expression. ‘That is the only punishment I can inflict upon you, but perhaps it is more painful and lingering than the gallows. Do you accept it?’

  ‘You are destroying yourself at the same time,’ Manfred told him. ‘Without me the presidency is beyond your grasp.’

  ‘That is my punishment,’ Shasa agreed. ‘I accept it. Do you accept yours?’

  ‘I accept,’ said Manfred De La Rey. He turned to the double mahogany doors, flung them open and strode from the room.

  Shasa stared after him. Only when they heard his car pull away down the long driveway did he turn back to Centaine. She was weeping as she had wept on the day that he brought her the news of Blaine Malcomess’ death.

  ‘My son,’ she whispered. ‘My sons.’ And he went to comfort her.

  A week after the death of Dr Hendrik Verwoerd, the caucus of the National Party elected Balthazar Johannes Vorster to the premiership of South Africa.

  He owed his elevation to the awe-inspiring reputation that he had built for himself while he was Minister of Justice. He was a strong man in the mould of his predecessor and in his acceptance speech he stated boldly, ‘My role is to walk fearlessly along the road already pointed out by Hendrik Verwoerd.’

  Three days after his election he sent for Shasa Courtney.

  ‘I wanted personally to thank you for your hard work and loyalty over the years, but now I think it is time for you to take a well-earned rest. I would like you to go as the South African Ambassador to the Court of St James in London. I know that with you there South Africa House will be in good hands.’

  It was the classic dismissal, but Shasa knew that the golden rule for politicians is never to refuse office.

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ he replied.

  Thirty thousand mourners attended the funeral of Moses Gama in Drake’s Farm township.

  Raleigh Tabaka organized the funeral and was the captain of the honour guard of Umkhonto we Sizwe that stood at the graveside and gave the ANC salute as the coffin was lowered into the earth.

  Vicky Dinizulu Gama, dressed in her flowing caftan of yellow and green and black, defied her banning order to make a speech to the mourners.

  Fierce and strikingly beautiful, she told them, ‘We must devise a death for the collaborators and sell-outs that is so grotesquely horrible that not one of our people will ever dare to turn traitor upon us.’

  The sorrow of the multitudes was so terrible that when a young woman amongst them was pointed out as a police informer they stripped her naked and whipped and beat her until she fell unconscious. Then they doused her with petrol and set her alight and kicked her while she burned. Afterwards the children urinated on her charred corpse. The police dispersed the mourners with tear gas and baton-charges.

  Kitty Godolphin filmed it all, and when the footage was cut in with the Moses Gama interview and the graphic footage from the scene of his brutal slaying by the police, it was amongst the most gripping and horrifying ever shown on American television.

  When Kitty Godolphin was promoted to head of NAB
S News, she became the highest-paid female editor in American television.

  Before taking up his post as ambassador in London, Shasa went on a four-week safari in the Zambezi valley with his eldest son. The Courtney Safaris hunting concession covered five hundred square miles of wonderful game-rich wilderness, and Matatu led Shasa to lion and buffalo and a magnificent old bull elephant.

  The Rhodesian bush war was becoming deadly earnest. Sean had been awarded the Silver Cross of Rhodesia for gallantry and around the camp fire he described how he had won it.

  ‘Matatu and I were following a big bull jumbo when we cut the spoor of twelve ZANU gooks. We dropped the jumbo and tracked the terrs. It was pissing with rain and the cloud was on the treetops so the fire force couldn’t get in to back us up. The terrs were getting close to the Zambezi so we pushed up on them. The first warning we had that they had set an ambush for us was when we saw the fairy lights in the grass just ahead of us.

  ‘Matatu was leading and he took the first burst in the belly. That made me fairly bitter and I went after the gooks with the old .577. It was five miles to the river and they ran like the clappers of hell, but I polished off the last two in the water before they could reach the Zambian side. When I turned around, there was Matatu standing right behind me. The little bugger had backed me up for five miles with his tripes hanging out of the hole in his guts.’

  Across the camp fire the little Ndorobo’s face had brightened as he heard his name mentioned, and Sean told him in Swahili, ‘Show the Bwana Makuba your new belly button.’

  Obligingly Matatu hoisted his tattered shirt tails and displayed for Shasa the fearsome scars the AK47 bullets had left on his stomach.

  ‘You are a stupid little bugger,’ Sean told him severely, ‘running around with a hole in your guts, instead of lying down and dying like you should have. You are bloody stupid, Matatu.’