The Smoke That Thunders

  “I don’t believe you. You don’t remember, do you? He was such an arrogant ass. And what will Simon say? What about the stuff we’re supposed to be doing on Sunday? Why would you agree to that? I ain’t going.”

  Chad retorted, “Why not? It’ll be a change. See a bit of Johannesburg. Quit tripping.”

  “You should have asked Simon first.”

  “He’s not our dad, Peter. It’s no big deal.”

  ***

  “I see. We should have discussed this first. Now what about Sunday services? Sunday School?” Simon responded curtly when Peter mentioned the invitation in passing over dinner that evening.

  Peter looked at Chad and raised his eyebrow, indicating it was his role to deal with an irritated Simon.

  “Didn’t think it’d be a problem,” Chad said. “You don’t mind doing Sunday school, do you? Sorry. I suppose we should have asked.”

  Simon drew his head back, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly. “It will be fine. It’s fine. You will find the church is different. Roger is a bit … well, he’s different but a wonderful fellow. I appreciate him. I always have.”

  Peter felt a ‘but’ was sure to come, but it didn’t.

  ***

  “A chauffeur! How ’bout that?” Chad whispered to Peter as they followed the middle-aged African man to the car on Sunday morning. Chad was about to follow Peter into the back seat when the driver opened the front door of the car.

  A sculptured and modest afro enhanced the man’s already tall frame. His broad nose, extended forehead, and slight convergent squint gave him what some might have construed as a sinister look. However, his disarming smile calmed any such perception. That smile, on its own, revealed a gentle heart and a concerned spirit ready to reach out to everyone he met. The African introduced himself. “I am Dumisani Bhengu. I have the honor to bring you to church this morning. What a privilege it is to meet you, Peter, Chad. This is a true pleasure, indeed.”

  He spoke without the broken English they had heard from the few natives they encountered; he pronounced each word with care, reminding the listener that every word spoken was of importance. “I assist Reverend Roger at his church. I have been looking forward to meeting the two Americans. It will be wonderful to have you join us this morning, a great honor.”

  Peter responded in his normal near mumble, “Yeah, we’ve been looking forward to this as well.” Chad looked quickly at Peter in the back seat with a terse glare. Peter knew it was meant to remind him of the countless times he had complained about Chad’s acceptance of Roger’s invitation. Peter just shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is getting warmer now.” Dumisani moved into the niceties required by social norms, even in Africa. “Oh yes, summer has come a little late this year for us. November will soon be here, and the rains have only just arrived. Summer has not officially started until the first rain. Now, you must tell me about your America. It is a special place, I know. Please tell me about where you come from.”

  They offered superficial glimpses into their hometowns, their lives as America’s average, White, middle-class nobodies. Peter felt uneasy, fearing he might ask about America’s view on apartheid and South Africa’s Afrikaner government. Dumisani seemed to avoid the subject. Maybe he doesn’t worry about politics, Peter thought.

  Roger welcomed them rather curtly when they arrived at the church, obviously preoccupied and rushed. As they took their seats in the front row of the sanctuary, they were shocked to see a dozen or so Africans in the congregation of roughly a hundred.

  Peter looked up as the music began and was stunned to see Dumisani standing alongside Roger. A glance Chad’s way revealed he, too, was surprised. “More than just a houseboy, I guess.” Peter whispered in Chad’s ear.

  “Interesting,” Chad replied in less than a whisper.

  The service began, and Peter knew immediately that it was the antithesis of the St. Stephen’s church services, which were more formal, if not stuffy. The congregation interacted and seemed more intense, daring to exhibit emotions. Chad shifted constantly in the pew throughout robust and unfamiliar modern hymns. He squirmed even more during rousing prayers, as individuals sporadically called out “Amen!” Peter made more effort to engage in the singing and found himself, for some reason, smiling during the songs of praise.

  Then Roger stood to preach. His deep, full voice thundered with emotion. These unleashed emotions increased Chad’s fidgeting in his seat. Peter nudged Chad several times and gave him a look conveying his annoyance. Chad crossed his arms and remained still for a few moments before his feet began to shift and his arms worked to find a comfortable position.

  Peter found Roger’s booming voice and his spirited delivery intriguing. He mused to himself, What a far cry from ole George, who beats an obscure passage to death, putting us all to sleep while he tries to uncover hidden spiritual lessons.

  Toward the end of his sermon, Roger’s tone intensified. “The horror of Soweto is a call to Whites, a wakeup call that demands we examine our hearts and souls. It is a call to join with the Africans in their struggle. Soweto, my friends, has challenged the Church, has challenged each one of us to declare to this nation that in Christ, there is no Black or White. There is no slave or free, no rich or poor. In Christ, we are one. Because this is true, we must, we will stand together against apartheid with our African brothers and sisters.”

  Roger paused and surveyed the congregation. He continued, with mounting passion in his plea, “It is our call. It is who we are. Christ has made us so. This is a tender time in our nation’s history, and we, God’s Church, must gird ourselves to speak out.” He pointed to various individuals seated around the modest sanctuary, “For you … and you, it may be subtle, perhaps a change of attitude and words spoken. For you … and you, it may require growing compassion and understanding. For you … and you … and you, it may call for bold action, taking risks that require sacrifice. It well may mean speaking up and speaking out. To answer this call will not be easy. But we, English and Afrikaners alike, must answer this challenge.”

  He paused for a moment. He put his fist against his heart and continued in a calmer, more tender manner. “To my African brothers and sisters, let the tragedy of Soweto burn in your hearts and do respond with vigor. However, please, please remember to examine your hearts, your souls and respond not out of hatred and bitterness, but out of noble motives and out of love. Respond, yes! But respond knowing, and embracing, that in Jesus Christ, we are one. Let us all embrace the reality of ubantu. In Christ, ubantu reigns! Black and White, together we are God’s people. Amen.”

  With Roger’s “Amen,” Chad leaned over to Peter and said, “Let’s skip lunch. I’ll tell him we have to get back. I’ve had enough of this.”

  Peter tilted his head like a confused puppy staring at a record player. “What do you mean? We can’t do that. It’ll be interesting. What’s up with you? We can’t back out now.”

  “Just make sure we keep it short. And I’m going tell him we don’t want to talk about politics.”

  Peter laughed. “You do that.”

  ***

  Chad walked around Roger’s small apartment looking at carved figurines of native women, men, and children mingled with figurines of Africa’s wildlife, often picking them up to observe them more closely. Peter stood by the far wall looking at colorful paintings depicting Africans engaging in the joys of village life. Along with paintings were several photographs of Roger and his wife Rebecca, posing with Africans of all ages, most taken in small villages.

  “Hey, Chad. Look at these pictures. Roger’s wearing a fancy African robe. I love the bright green and yellow and this hand-carved jewelry hanging around their necks. It’s cool.”

  Chad looked at the photographs. He nearly rolled his eyes at Peter but caught himself and simply nodded.

  Roger entered the room with a tray of teacups. “Now, who had sugar and milk?” Chad reached for the cup as Roger handed Peter the other one and said,
“This one’s yours then, Peter. You like those? We took those photos in Lesotho. We go on mission trips there most winters, doing outreaches in the villages there. We spend about …”

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted him.

  Roger walked toward the door and said, “That’ll be Dumisani and his wife Nisha. They usually join us for Sunday lunch.”

  Chad had an uncomfortable emotion turn over in this stomach as Dumisani and Nisha came through the door. The odd sensation continued to nag him as they sat down for dinner. He could not name the feeling, but it increased his desire to hurry through the meal and return home. At least he felt some relief when the women served dessert. We can get the heck out of here soon, and we’ve escaped the political dissertations.

  Then, Peter opened his mouth. “I enjoyed your sermon. I found it was different – very different – from George’s approach. It was really thought provoking.”

  Roger’s eyes lit up. Rebecca looked at her husband with a proud smile. With focused passion in his voice, he replied, “Peter, proclamation of the Word of God necessitates challenge and demands provocation. I do not want individuals to enjoy a sermon. I want them to leave feeling uncomfortable, even worried. The more worried and uncomfortable a person becomes, that is the gauge by which I judge the effectiveness of my or anyone’s sermon. A sermon must show us how we have failed to believe, failed to embrace the true Christ, and failed to be the people of God.”

  Peter responded, “Never have thought of it that way, but all that about Soweto? How does that fit in?”

  Chad glared at Peter. He tried to kick him underneath the table but hit a table leg instead. This caused teacups to rattle and spill some of their contents. “Oh I’m sorry. My leg, it went to sleep. I was trying to stretch it. Sorry. Yes. What about Soweto, this call to respond? What exactly happened there?”

  Roger and Dumisani leaned forward at this question. The women suddenly excused themselves to clean up and prepare a fresh pot of coffee. Roger spoke, “It began early this year when the National Party passed a law requiring that English and Afrikaans be used in all schools on a 50/50 basis. This was a ridiculous idea from the ridiculously out-of-touch government. Math and social studies would be taught in Afrikaans, while science and electives, woodwork, housecraft and such like would be in English. Some say this insane and inane decision by the government was rooted in fear that the introduction of television would somehow build more favor for the English, somehow strengthen the English cultural stronghold. But—”

  Dumisani interrupted, “Ja, but no doubt the true concern, the true fear of this White government is that Black children become too well educated, too assertive, and too self-confident. This was a well-thought-out plan by the oppressors to continue their subjection of the African people. There is no question about this. Force all schools to use Afrikaans? It is a way to frustrate – indeed hinder – their education, so as to keep Africans in their place!”

  Roger was biting his lower lip as Dumisani spoke. He nodded, then resumed. “Think about it. What does education do? What does it accomplish?”

  Chad was quick to respond. “It teaches. It gives us knowledge about things.”

  Roger replied with a slight smirk that he punctuated with a pretentious tilt of his head. “Oh, but there is so much more, gentlemen! Education enlightens, brings awareness, and creates power. Proper education will always teach us how to think, not what to think. Education gives an individual and a people the tools to lead, and it takes away the need to be led. Education is power. South Africa’s greatest hope is to educate young Africans. We must prepare them we … we must raise up leaders. The government fears an educated Black.”

  Dumisani spoke, his voice increasing in intensity with each sentence, “Yebo, yes. The government chooses to ignore the Africans. Where there are schools, they are ill equipped. Black parents are expected to pay for this education, but Black parents have less and pay more for education, much more than any White family. White families pay half what an African family pays, and they make much, much more. The reason is simple. The government fears the educated African.” Dumisani stopped. He stood up and said, “Coffee? I shall assist Nisha in preparing some coffee.” He retreated quickly to the kitchen.

  This African’s growing anger and intensifying passion caused Chad’s stomach to tighten. He had sensed anger from the Afrikaners and also from the English South Africans, though much more tempered. Dumisani’s anger and passion were both desperate and intimidating. He felt this whole conversation inappropriate for a Sunday afternoon. Why the hell am I here? I could be in Vandy. I could be with Sarah this afternoon.

  Roger continued, “They passed this ludicrous law. Everyone was up in arms – teachers, principals, and students, both Black and White. Schools across the country protested, but the bloody decree was already in place. The fools in Pretoria expected English-speaking teachers to wake up one day and teach subjects in their second or even third language. Many spoke minimal Afrikaans.

  “Exams were coming in June, and students were frustrated and fed up. They knew this was not just a stupid and unnecessary decree from Pretoria. They understood its goal was to frustrate them so they would give up. These children decided to do something – a protest, a march. They did it on their own. No parents or teachers even knew about it. They did not want to be dissuaded.” Roger paused, took a few slow breaths, and then continued, “June 16 was cold and overcast, a bleak winter morning. At ten o’clock, students from all the schools in Soweto stood up, walked right out of their classrooms, and marched down the streets. The plan was to meet at the soccer stadium. There were 12,000 children, maybe more, ages ten clear up to eighteen. They were going to draw up a list of grievances. Some would then march to the school board in Booysens to present their concerns.”

  Dumisani now composed, returned with six cups of coffee. He chose his words carefully. “Oh yes, it was … it was beautiful. Young Africans standing up in a wonderfully assertive and peaceful … a peaceful manner. Then … then …” Dumisani stopped. He shook his head, took a breath, and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Roger spoke, “Police arrived and ordered them to stop. Then, for God knows what reason, a policeman shot into the crowd, the crowd of children. It was unprovoked and senseless. Other policemen started shooting, and Armageddon was unleashed. No purpose, no reason. Police shooting … shooting children. Defenseless, innocent boys and girls were falling dead in the streets. The streets of Soweto ran with children’s blood.

  “Of course, the students reacted! Yes, in anger, in terror, in fear. They began to attack government buildings, government vehicles and buses. They turned their rage and fear against any symbol of apartheid. It went on and on. It would not stop, could not stop. By noon, helicopters circled the township, dropping teargas canisters. They fired into crowds, into houses, not caring who or what they hit. The more force they applied, the more the students responded with rage and destruction.

  “Early evening came. Buses and taxis arrived, bringing workers back home from Johannesburg. These people knew nothing of what was happening. They didn’t realize gatherings of more than two people had been banned. The witless police attacked them, bullets fired into crowds of three, four, five innocent people – just ordinary people walking home, just walking home.

  “By the time night fell, Soweto was alight in flames. Black smoke rose over the township. The gunfire didn’t stop. The helicopters circled. The hospitals … the hospitals were flooded with people, flooded with African blood. Dumisani was there. He worked in Baragwaneth Hospital. He saw it with his own eyes, witnessed the horrors firsthand. He talks little about it.” Roger paused and looked at Dumisani.

  His coworker looked down at his clenched fist resting on the table. The others waited. Roger finally said, “It’s fine, my friend.” He looked at Chad and said, “It remains too difficult to give it words.” Still staring at his hands, now clasped together, Dumisani said, “No. It needs words.” He slowly raised hi
s head. His lips quivering, he opened his mouth and spoke the unspeakable. “At ten fifty a.m. a young boy was rushed into casualty. He was no more than fifteen years old, dressed in his school uniform. He had been shot … shot in the head. Blood oozed out from his throat. A bullet had gone through his head and left his body through his neck. The doctors and nurses did all they could, but they could not save the boy. His name was Hector, and I shall never forget him.

  “We could not believe a child had been shot. How could this happen? How? Who? A robbery? Children playing with a gun? Young children in a horrible argument? Where would they get a gun? Black South Africans do not – cannot have guns. Shortly after we lost Hector, more children began to come to our hospital … ten year olds, eleven, twelve, in their school uniforms, all covered with blood, all with gunshot wounds. Every child shot above the waist. Why? Why did the police shoot to kill? We could not figure out why.

  “As the day went on, the dying and the wounded kept coming. Parents began to arrive at the hospital, hysterical, desperately looking for their children, begging to know if their sons and daughters were still alive. My task became to help these parents. I had to get information about their children, their names, ages, and features – anything that may help put a name to each new child brought in, a name to all the children lining the corridors of the hospital, a name to the children lying in the streets around the hospital. This was a grim task trying to help parents find their child … most often, their children. Workers from the hospital, too, were among them. Imagine these poor parents, too hysterical to concentrate or do their work, having to know, to find out if this one or that one was their child. Then having to go back to work sometimes knowing and sometimes knowing nothing.

  “As the sun set, adults were being admitted. Some had wounds going through the tops of their bodies. It made no sense. The helicopters were hovering above Soweto. The whirling, rhythmic whips and thuds of the blades fading in and out as they circled around the township, shooting, shooting downward, down through people’s houses.”

  Dumisani paused. He gazed past his companions and focused on the lone window in the flat. He spoke in a near whisper, and tears began to well up. “I watched through the windows of the hospital, late into the night – so exhausted, so angry, so terrified. The wounded, the dying, did not stop coming. The fires … countless fires burned across the township, for blocks, for miles. These fires revealed a surreal scene of carnage and destruction.” His words grew louder. “Soweto burned. Black smoke shrouded Soweto. That smoke … that smoke drifted toward Johannesburg and cast its terrible shadow over that great city. That smoke, it declared … no, it thundered! That black smoke of terror demanded that change come.” He allowed his welling tears to fall but worked hard not to allow those tears to turn into sobs, uncontrollable sobs that had too often marred his nights since June 16.