The arrival was rude. I must’ve fallen asleep aboard the Fairchild because when my eyes opened, they were blinded by a brilliant light, warm touch on my skin. But I also felt another sensation tugging at my arms. One much more vigorous and restraining, like a rabid animal dragging me to its den. I realized that there were noises around me now, the sound of men who appeared aggravated, and the whir of a plane’s engines coming to a halt. Then I heard the screaming. A chorus with no melody that boiled my blood and made me shiver, even in the lukewarm light that was the cause of my disorientation. They appeared to be coming from my left, and then my right until they surrounded me.
“Staan op!” A hard strike to the side of my face made me realize someone was talking to me. When I didn’t comply, the second hit came much swifter.
“Up,” the voice repeated. It was at that moment I realized I wasn’t moving on my free will. This time I obeyed the instructions I was given and I felt the change in my bearing, my back now straight. However, my arm was still constricted, this time by something I recognized as a sturdy woolen material. My eyes adjusted and they played over a scene that will always remain engraved in my mind.
The first thing that I found disturbing was the absence of the other missionaries. Taking in what was around me, I saw no familiar faces, except the ample facet of the plane. Not a single one. For a fleeting moment, I feared that my life would come to a close on those very grounds. After what happened next, I sometimes wish it did. I was now aware of the coarse hands that had me dragged across a thin airstrip of grass and rubble and into what appeared to be a hamlet of some kind. The man was not imposing, but his aggressiveness was in his conduct. Dressed in a set of beige and evergreen camouflage and fitted with a black beret, I could easily distinguish the soldiers from the commons. I could not see a weapon, but I suspected he could do worse with his hands. These commons…it was almost impossible to define what I saw. I remember being led somewhere through the streets of this small village, trodden with bicycle tracks and footprints that were not human. On either side of me, there was a strange versatility of order. Small houses made of a dusty apricot material, maybe hardened dirt or stone, plotted our path. Topped with thatched roofs of dried grasses sewn in a motif of entwining lines, these made the majority of structures nearest us. But behind the rows of these homes stood larger buildings, not elegant in any way but managing to overshadow the feeble frameworks below. I mention these houses because what surprised me was that no one was in them.
It was now apparent that we had arrived in Ciskei, Eastern Cape. I could see that more soldiers accompanied the man in charge of me, and I knew why. Lining the walkways that crisscrossed the layout of the land were throngs of people. Now normally seeing a multitude of this size would not alarm me, but it was the condition of these people that crushed my great expectations. Men, women, and children of all ages were chaotically pulsing through an atmosphere of bedlam. Most of the men were dancing and chanting something undecipherable, something that was unlike the language I’d learned. Jy sal die liefde ons wanneer ons vry is, they had said . The others, those too weak or afraid to stir retreated into the shadows of their own poverty. The woman and the youth in their hands were unhealthily slender, some I wondered how they’d survived at all. Crying out in agony, they were blanketed in insects crawling in the crevices of their mouths and noses. Many of them had nothing to wrap themselves in except their own clothes, and their bodies were left bare and raw. Ahead of us, a truck turned the sharp corner, bringing with it a platoon of armed soldiers.
They acted with a deadly efficiency, jumping off the rear of the vehicle and approaching the line of rebellious men , rifles in hand. My eyes couldn’t leave the unfolding horrors, I felt the least I could do to honor these people was to watch their demise come quickly. But I had no idea their fates would be much worse. The man urging me forward stopped to see what was happening, and I mirrored his actions. The natives continued to repeat the phrase, once, twice…until a short ballet of bullet fire overcame the noises of the village. The men closed their eyes, and many fell back. But it was not the men who had been hurt. I don’t know what overcame me, but I managed to break loose of the soldier’s grip. I ran, uncaring of the glasses that fell from my face, hoping that I would be chased by death. I passed the huddles of the women and kids, a portion of them now staring blankly as blood flowed from the wounds they had received. I didn’t know what I was running for, and I never found out. Because as quickly as I had beheld the atrocities of apartheid, its blackness enveloped me. Cold and unrelenting.
…
I opened my eyes to discover darkness. This time, though, I could feel something covering my face. When it had been removed, the relief that I was met with was almost overwhelming. I saw that we were standing inside a tight building, the walls around us decorated with grisly pictures depicting what could be nothing other than death. Death to who? I didn’t know. I didn’t care at that moment either. My only concern was with the people who now shared the confined space with me. I looked at all the faces, making sure everyone from the plane was there. I panicked when I didn’t find Blaine, and the only thing preventing me from taking action was the presence of some of the same soldiers I had just tried to escape from . Then I remembered the feeling of unconsciousness that shrouded me moments ago. My head was twirling slightly and I could make out a receding pain, faint but persistent.
“Kry hulle ten einde!” The cry came from one of the African men who appeared to be leading the small group. At the sound of his command, his soldiers moved from their positions and, like sheep, herded us in the center of the structure. And suddenly, he began to speak to us.
“What is your purpose here?” His accent was heavy with a dialect that was becoming familiar. Booker was the one who spoke.
“We’ve been planning this arrival for some time now, I’m sure your air traffic recognized us. There has to be a misunderstanding…” Years in the service showed no signs of wavering in Booker’s voice. He was our confidence.
The large man circled our perimeter with the finesse of a predator. His skin was painted in darkness and I swear I’d never seen the sun reflect so unnaturally on a person’s face, “No, no misunderstanding. You realize where you’ve landed?”
“We’re aware.”
“So you are aware that you are under the jurisdiction of the South African Republic-and all of its policies,” he phrased his words into a statement. “You can also understand that foreigners who come here in these times are potential liabilities.” He spoke with such eloquence I was sure his education was formidable.
“I think we all know what we’re risking here.” I hoped Booker was right. The soldiers smiled at this comment and did not hide their amusement at our front.
The African man continued , “Which homeland have you been assigned, missionary?” It seemed that the question raised the curiosity of his men.
“Anele .” I was surprised when the voice was not Booker’s. Looking towards the thin frame of the door, Blaine stood there, fear evident across her face. “Anele is where we’re going.”
This name brought muttering between the soldiers, whose voices ranged between surprise and sympathy. The African grinned at Blaine and I was prepared to assault him at the slightest threat towards her . He said something to his men, I didn’t quite hear what was spoken, and with the exception of three, the soldiers dispersed into the streets.
“Anele? It is a place not spoken of often. Your hopes of conversion were already minimal, and now you seek this place?” His voice rose sharply at the end of his rhetorical remark.
For some reason, my mind flashed back to the rigorous training it took to get to this point. Having been commissioned for the trip for almost two years, I was required to grow stronger in the Word. We all did, actually, and the group that had come was only a handful of those who had volunteered . I remembered the daily routine that ran like clockwork: almost immediately after the sun rose, I woke up to the sweet scents of a breakfast unprepared by my hands. We were allowed to get some exercise in, but only for a half an hour before we equipped ourselves for the day ahead. You could choose between a multitude of language classes to take, since the African trip wasn’t the only one at the time. I chose to study French and the language of the Xhosa people. If I can recall, I remember learning something about the dialect these Africans spoke. It was something I hadn’t heard of until then, called Afrikaans. The realization struck me hard and although something felt familiar, I was foolish not to recognize it earlier.
“You work for the Afrikaners.” It was too late to reverse something I began. The missionaries around me glared at my whispers, and it caught the attention of the African guard.
“I work to enforce political partition on these grounds,” he began. “And your flight arrived when we were moving these villagers out.”
Charlie Manday, who now stood closest to the soldiers, spoke up. “Moving them where? You’re practically strippin’ ‘em of their birthrights.” His tone was hoarse and tired, as if he’d already seen too much and he had not been here for a single day.
“It is…relocation to the coast. As you should know, grand apartheid seeks to separate the Blacks from the whites and coloureds politically, so that they may create their own cultures. Their birthright is our obligation.”
Charlie huffed and left it at that. I decided to speak. “Is homicide your obligation, as well?” I knew the moment the words left my mouth the predator was aware of his prey.
“Is it homicide if we are bringing justice to these lands? It is not. These locals were given their orders and as you can see, some prefer disobedience. Those that you saw, missionary, were violating their legal boundaries. Murder is unprovoked.”
I had done well to remain calm, to hide my emotions under a thin shell ready to crack. “I don’t understand how you’re justifying this! You killed the women, their children…”
“The weakest were terminated. It was in the best interests of the locals. Rebels would only deter their development. Bah! This is becoming an interrogation. Before you raise any more questions, you may be interested in knowing that the mission station is twenty miles from this location. However, the sun is beginning to settle. I apologize for your rough entrance, and if you need shelter, you are welcome to stay within these walls.”
At that moment, one of the soldiers who had left rushed in with a frantic look. It seemed he had been crying and was trying now to conceal it . He whispered something to the large African who in return dropped his head in exasperation. He then looked at us.
“Yes, you might strongly consider your company.” He waved the soldier away, who paused in hesitation. It took a stone-faced stare by the large African before the soldier complied. “Tomorrow, I will affirm your rights here. You will hope that you speak the truth today.” The undertone was cobra-like. “If I find that you are here on false motives, you will be jailed.”
The nervous chatter of the missionary group echoed my thoughts: there would be no peaceful night’s rest. Although the air was humid, the sky remained blank without trace of a cloud or its golden companion. But he was right. It was becoming darker and by the time we reached the mission station, the sun would have fallen. We could risk the backyard of a late African safari, or we would stay in this…this hellhole. I would’ve preferred the former but the unsure faces of my peers indicated otherwise. The African nodded, and he knew we were staying.
“Good. My men will be here shortly to give you hammocks and spread for the night. If you would like some food, I do not believe the bugs here are poisonous .” The three soldiers in the room hacked rough and chilling laughs. “There is a cellar if the area becomes crowded…,” he continued instructing and pointing out the locations of places we were probably much too fearful to make use of. I didn’t realize Ms. Wesley stepped up behind me, and suddenly I felt a soft hand touch my arm, before recoiling like a thick mist in morning air. I didn’t know if the touch was purposeful, but somehow it managed to cool my blood, a feeling that was right on par with the chilled musky atmosphere of the Motherland.

The night had caught us faster than we expected, and only the sound of creeping insects and the creaking wood of nearby huts stirred. The African did as he said and found some covering for the night ahead. Made of a strange textile, possibly animal skin, the blankets were not warm but no one would complain. It was an alien feeling: the entire twenty-something camaraderie of us was huddled on the hard ground of the same building we had been in for hours. A strong and pungent aroma crept across the ground until it rose in a brilliant hue of tinted red smoke. I didn’t need to look to confirm Chris Filis’ presence and the pack of Razz Ling Cherry Cigars I was sure was in his pocket. He always smoked when he was nervous. Nervous or happy. The occasions of that day didn’t suggest happiness, though, and even Charlie seemed shaken.
“Oi!” It was Chris’s way of a greeting. When I saw that he was beckoning at me, I walked with an unseen briskness, hoping I would not be drawn in to a useless conversation. As always, Charlie was right on his heels, along with a few others. It looked like they had been in a discussion when I joined. What I heard surprised me.
“…killed them. All of ‘em. There’s something corrupt here. Worse than we thought.” Chris shook his head as those around him absorbed the truth of what happened. Here we were, unscathed and covered by the same people who had just killed innocent villagers. Sometimes you get so close to life that you don’t realize its knife is right up against you.
It was the first time that night that I heard from Mr. Crenshaw. He came with his wife from an isolated part of Hungary, both new members of the Mormon denomination. “Did anybody see what happened out there, hm? First thing I know, I’m hit across the face and dragged into these depths. No respect here. ”
I raised my hand and told him my account of what happened. Everything from my first view of the village to the last moment of consciousness. I watched as their faces turned from horror to awe and then to sadness.
“Oh, my Lord.” Mrs. Crenshaw put her hands over her mouth. Her husband carefully rubbed her back until even he began to submit. You see, the Mrs. could bear no children and the mention of even one was adequate to bring her to tears .
“Not even here for a day and the spirits are already dark,” Charlie began. “Menty.” It was his name for me, even though I told him I didn’t like it. Before he could say what he wanted, Jason the pilot, now rugged and visibly shocked by the day’s events, spoke up.
“Listen, please. Tomorrow before we leave for the station, I want to make sure you buddy up. You’ve all seen this place. We have to expect this kind of conflict later in our trip and we can’t afford to have our guard down.
I wouldn’t advise staying up late.” His statement received general agreement with nods and murmurs of consent. No one knew how long the day ahead of us would last, or if we would even see the end of it. Our preacher’s wife said a prayer before we blew out the candlelight and oil lamps lighting the room. Some had to squeeze into the nooks of the basement, although I don’t know how well those people slept. What could’ve been done to these Africans down there…we didn’t want to know that.
…
That night, when nearly everyone was in a deep sleep, I heard a whisper. The voice was dulcet and soft, and I looked around to see the outline of a slim figure in the creamy luminescence of the moonlight. Clement, the voice rung in my ears. It was Ms. Wesley, I now saw. I shifted in the thin covering and sat up against a nearby wall. I remembered my glasses had fallen when I ran from the soldiers, and her face was blurred partially. Yet even in the shroud over my eyes, I could see hers, exquisite irises of cerulean. She hadn’t approached me in this way since the first time I met her. We were young, naïvely infatuated, and any chance we had to be on our own, we took. Our first encounter was under strange circumstances, having met at the turn of the last decade. A strange ten years if there ever were some. The new wave of hippies dominated the scene, and I was drawn into that. The music, the leaves…I’m ashamed to say it was my heaven. She and I met at a local concert, Roy Orbison was touring our little town, and she was one of the ones lucky enough to get a nice view of the enigma. I mingled in the crowd of people, laughing loud and head held high-but headin’ straight into beauty will humble you, for sure. I almost knocked her onto her backside but she caught herself on my hand. I fell with her and expected some simple apologies. Seemed her fist had other things in mind, though. She had knocked me good in my mouth and boy was I surprised to find out she was a churchin’ girl. She was with Booker the day they found me outside their doors, curled and seething from a lack of leaves. I’m here now and can say they picked me up, and my attraction for Ms. Wesley has never died. Funny how God places you in the hands of people you never would’ve imagined…’specially if you don’t deserve it.
“Yeah?” I was happy to see Blaine, but she just disrupted my sleep and my body was adjusting to the humid African night.
She was silent for a moment longer. Then, with little warning, she began to sob, falling into my arms and driving her head into my chest. I was temporarily speechless and wasn’t used to these situations. I patted my hand along her back but did no more to physically console her. “Why’d they have to shoot ‘em? Why the hell they have to shoot ‘em?”
It took me one second to register her despair, and the feelings within me stirred violently, its capabilities were something I could only suppress. Coping with the slaughter of that day was becoming straining on the group’s morale, it was so quick. So brutal.
“Wish I knew those answers, myself, Ms. Wesley. Tomorrow you won’t have to deal with any more of this. You’ll be in Anele, with the rest of us.”
“You can’t just run from this.” Her whispers were urgent and the some of the missionaries stirred in their sleep. I knew she was right but what could I say? She continued, “What if Anele isn’t even there ? Then what?”
“Don’t think like that. God already took care of it. I’m sure. It’ll be there. And when we go, our lives will feel like something new.” I didn’t completely believe my own words, but seeing the smile on her face before drifting back to a deep sleep made it all worth the risk.
…
The first thing I heard at the break of dawn was a macabre silence . There was little doubt in my mind that the village was nearly empty, and a sickening thought grazed my conscience. What if the remaining villagers saw the same fate as those who’d been killed yesterday? Before my mind could go to its dark places, our pilot’s voice rang in my ears as he gave orders and directed people to a caravan of vehicles outside our temporary shelter. Soldiers surrounded them, although the group appeared to be different from the previous day. I was partnered with Alden, who still showed signs of bitterness from the beginning of his trip . For a moment, I wondered where the trucks came from-I didn’t know if there was another town nearby-but, I worried about it no more when the African general who spoke to us last night began to address us.
“When you arrive at the mission station, there will be people to instruct you and guide you to Anele. The village is some hours off the station but you will be there for one night. A word of advice: do not become curious. These lands are not accepting of foreigners and I advise little interaction with any people you meet along the way,” he coughed up and spit at the ground next to him. “Your chauffeurs are a few of the local men, all of whom were cooperative with the great apartheid’s policy. There is no need to be concerned.”
I could’ve argued contrarily. I thought I saw him shoot a glance at me, but he shifted his gaze before any more suspicions arose. We left cleanly and with barely a trouble. Our belongings were put in the rear vehicle, and surprisingly, only a few small handbags needed to be carried by their owners. Looking at Alden, I tried to think of any reason he might find to be so unsure of this trip. His expression seldom changed, and his fidgety hand movements were more prominent than usual. I was told to stay with Alden and watch him as if he were my own brother. In the truck, silence ruled over us for drawn out moments until his lips became loose with bitterness.
“You saw what happened, Clement. They’re dead and we saw them die. That’s not something you just take back, man.” I was so shocked by his bluntness that I was not certain he was talking to me. Then, he continued. “Do you even know the situations that brought us here?”
Surprisingly, I hadn’t inquired as to the reasons behind our mission trip. I was only concerned with the outcome.
“Have you heard of the Xhosa people? Before this I mean.”
“Somewhat,” was my educated response.
“This apartheid…the cruelty and poverty you see, this wasn’t always here. Not ‘til recently, actually. Those people you saw at the village, they weren’t moved on their own will. You get it?”
The look etched across my features suggested otherwise, and I couldn’t help but see the driver’s eyes prance between the road and us. I had no doubt he understood every word that was spoken.
“We aren’t in the middle of some minor conflict, Clement, some domestic dispute. Every step we take on this land is one that leads us closer to something bad. The people here will not consider you as a missionary. You’re white. Meaning, every person here with some color to their skin doesn’t like you.”
The words hit me fast and they hit hard. Honestly, it was something I didn’t want to face. We had recently passed over the waves of racism in America, and now to be the victim of it-hard to take in . Alden’s words rang true, but it didn’t explain one thing.
“Why are you even here? You’ve been against this thing for months, yet you still show up at every meeting? Our plane ride. Everything.”
His face morphed out of anger and into something that resembled remorse. He couldn’t look at me when he spoke, but every word had a crystal translucency. His appearance betrayed him as they led me to believe his secrets dug deeper than I could have imagined. I wasn’t expecting an answer, until he finally nudged my thoughts.
“Fate. I believe in it. You should too.” There was something almost menacing about those words. As if he was asking me to believe in condemnation and suffering. Fate. A word that holds many meanings, all of which powerful. The one thing that bothered me about fate was that no matter how close you came to it, you could never know exactly how it played out. I truly wished Alden didn’t come because of fate.
“Anyways,” Alden continued. “In my previous life, there were things I’d done that only haunt me when I don’t need ‘em. I’m just hoping this might be able to make it up. I feel like I need to be here. To witness what happens.”
I wondered if he took me for a fool, because I knew there was more to his presence. After that conversation, though, it didn’t arise again. I’d been curious as to what the driver was thinking. Each time I saw him, he looked more nervous than the last. I thought no more of it as I looked out onto the passing African backdrop. The sun was centered in the sky and warmth radiated through the pores of my body, and deep into my bones. There was something beautiful about the expectancy that rested within me. Just wondering what laid ahead in the near future…it was exhilarating ! Even if I was the victim of prejudice, the feeling was nearly sacred. To be a part of history, although little remembered, is a treasure I wouldn’t give to a soul.
Although the shift in the semblance of our surroundings was minor, the change was so startling that my hopes for the salvation of these people diminished. We began to encounter dispersed clusters of humbled buildings, dilapidated, and eroded by years of neglect. The grasslands dwindled in the background and paved way for a gritty sandy earth. The unswept dirt crumbled beneath the tires of the truck, and soon overcame our line of sight. Civilization was returning, and the prospect of meeting these people stimulated my excitement. Then, I noticed the people. It was something so natural to me that I initially failed to realize how out-of-place it really was. Now this town wasn’t graceful by the standards of anyone who was sane, and its inhabitants were not handsome. Even looking at the village we came from, this place seemed less suitable for a night’s stay. I remember the gambol of my eyes as they played over the masses that walked the unpaved streets. Many of their eyes were an azul blue, hinted with a pigment of steel. Their gaits, although not flawless, indicated a division amongst classes and I could now see why. The faces of the people…they were so pale and ashen. There were few Africans in this village and those that I could see were confined to a ghetto of filth and infestation. We were forced to slow down because of the density in such a small place.
“This is what I mean.” Alden’s voice broke the pattern of an ever-growing rage. I turned to him and his face looked peculiar. “I didn’t know this would affect you so much.”
I didn’t know what he meant until I could practically feel the pity crawling over my face. I wasn’t sad, though. No, I didn’t know these people well enough to feel that way. It was anger that I felt, I think. You’ll find that no emotion runs deeper than anger, and I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to Alden’s curious eyes.
“These people are Afrikaners. You heard the language back at the village. Look at them, it’s disgusting.”
I did just that. Seeing these people walk around with filth-ridden grins and turquoise suits …and then the fact that they let the natives rot. As we passed by, I tried not to lock eyes with any of those poor people, but resistance was difficult. The leers that I received reflected the pain of lives that probably didn’t have many years to go. The few Africans that were healthy enough to do work in the village were forced to stand aside as the whites entered their designated restrooms, heads held high. I wondered where they lived in such a tight place, but the answer came to me as quickly as the question arose. All the homes I had seen…they didn’t belong to the Africans. Some resided under makeshift canopies, while others made do with clothes they were fortunate enough to have. Looking at the driver, I could see his hands shaking. He was barely holding on.
“Don’t look at them,” Alden spoke with an ominous calm. “I told you, it doesn’t matter that you’re here to teach ‘em ‘bout God. They don’t care right now .” He shook his head and I couldn’t believe he actually seemed angry with these people. “Just look forward and you’ll get where you need to go.”
We drove over the thick roads until finally we reached an expanse of flat. The farmland of the locals extended for a couple of miles before ending abruptly. I glanced out the rear window and something horrific occurred to me. The caravan of trucks we left with had been reduced only to ours. I don’t think Alden realized it until he followed my gaze. Shocked as I was, Alden shouted to the driver.
“Hey. We were, uh…where are the rest of the missionaries?” The driver continued to drive, not even sparing us his attention. “You hear me?”
At that moment, the driver responded, though not in English. “Hulle het ingesluk is deur apartheid . Jy mag ook wees.” He was doing this purposefully and my worries began to escalate. Again, Alden urged.
“Uh, waar word…the missionaries. Um, the sendelinge?” The African repeated himself, stressing his words now, as if we were ignorant children who hadn’t heard the first time. “I don’t think he can speak English,” Alden whispered to me. “He can understand it, though. I’m sure of that.”
Without warning, Alden began to pry at the lock of his door. The car was still in motion and the driver’s eyes widened in disbelief. He began shouting at Alden, who continued to meddle with his door.
“What in God’s-,” I tried to restrain Alden from opening the door, when he suddenly stopped.
“Wait! What’d you say?” He was referring to the driver. “Rivier! He said “river”, Clement.” I didn’t know where Alden was going was this until he pointed to a captivating sight outside that was waiting to greet us miles away. “Anele is on a river. We’re almost there.”
Lying across a field of citrine and ivory like a fleece of pure crystal was one of the most beautiful rivers I’d ever seen. Its stillness captured the sunlight and emulated the glare of its rays in a sonorous balance of form and grace. The waves wrinkled and swelled as a light wind skidded over its top, enveloping the sierra that protruded from its mouth. The mountains above opened into a wide, lush valley of craggy rocks and the river wrapped itself around the trees to form an infinite ring of silvery bondage. From this distance, no sign of life could be seen in the valley, but the subtle sounds of chirping and rustling were all around us. Even the flowers at our sides appeared to sing songs of a frail life as they swayed with the voice of nature. Nothing would disrupt the trance that captured my senses now. Alden now composed and with a sense of calmness about him, was evidently awestruck by the expansive view. Although our destination was nearing, we wouldn’t arrive until the midday, when the sun was making its journey to night. In light of all this, I sat back in my seat and for one moment-brief as it was- I knew that where the world gave you something filthy, God gave you something to clean it up.
“They must’ve taken another route.” Alden reverted to his enigmatic self. “When I saw the maps there were several back roads that penetrate the valley up there. My issue is why they would go that way.”
His concerns echoed mine and suddenly I had to ask him something. “What was that? When you tried opening the door?”
“It was a scare tactic.” He spoke quietly so if the driver was listening he had to strain his hearing. “You can’t be kind to an unkind land, Clement. For all you know the guy could’ve been driving us six feet under.”
I understood his philosophy, but it was disturbing nonetheless. The broad, bulky exterior of the vehicle was painted with a motley portrayal of once eager insects. Sun-crisped fields of amber grass stretched on either side of us for what seemed like miles. My eyes certainly couldn’t count. As we moved along the roads, the plains surrounding us constricted our movement until the tires of the metal heap glided unevenly over lengths of rubble and dirt long since compact. I could feel the heat of the sun on the crown of my head, finding its way down my back until the seat below me was drenched. Looking at the driver to the right of my eye, I saw him wipe the sweat from under his nose. He seemed more agitated than usual. At least twenty minutes passed until the heat became nearly unbearable. Alden, whose eyes refused to meet mine, was using his sleeve to pat the sides of his face, as if even using cotton would be enough to quench the drought. If you listened with alert ears, the hum of raspy breathing became more apparent than the discouraging glares of the farmers in the passing countryside.
With an expression of what I once perceived as comic anxiety, the driver forced his foot on the brake of the vehicle. The marvel at the abruptness of the stop would have been embarrassing if not for the solemn cloud that was rising in the distance. Before anyone could grab him, the chauffeur leaped out the truck, the door open enough so that his slim build could sly through. He sprinted for what could have been no more than a few meters and fell into the ground, his face mingling with the earth below. I remember us, Alden and me, pausing and glancing at one another in bewilderment. We leaped out the car and as we approached the driver, now convulsing and trembling with no control, we hesitated in kneeling to his side. I reached to his shoulder and with the touch, I found myself lying on the ground with the driver above me, his face hideous with a demented fury. The moments in between what occurred next aren’t clear to me, although I do recall sporadic stints of fresh wounds. It was as if the African was cutting my face with deliberate sluggishness. Alden tore him off me and he did not rant as I had expected. All he did was point. My gaze followed his finger until it fell upon the same gloomy cloud. Unsure of what it was, I regained my posture and that was all I needed to realize what had gone wrong. Now that I reminisce, I can’t understand why I wasn’t more decisive. I only know that I found it hard to move.
The cloud, which was but a couple of miles down the road, continued to rise. Popping flecks of scarlet and coral complemented the ascension, once as a conductor of a strange play of effects. Now as a horrid reaper of purity. The flecks expanded into violent whips of flame whose roar was mightier than any African beast. If I must be truthful, I’m still in a daze. What I wish was a dream…didn’t feel like it. The words ensured it. The driver averted his yellowed eyes to me once more and he must have said something. Although, I only saw the movement of his mouth-I heard nothing. He was saying the same thing, time after time, as if knowing I wasn’t listening. I was not bothered by the fact that he now spoke in rough English. Burn, he said. Burn. Never to be restored. Never…
He was not speaking of the leaden clouds in the distance.

I wondered how drastically our plans would be affected now that the mission station was in a grave of ember . The African driver, now a void husk of disbelief, was no use to us. Alden and I attempted to get him back in the car, but he wouldn’t let us touch him. I felt the sting on my face and realized I had been cut. The driver’s concealed blade left a deep gash in my cheek when he pounced on me, and he began running to the source of the fire, taking no care to use the dying vehicle. I hadn’t noticed how close the smoke was until I saw the driver descend over a steep ridge that appeared to meld with the fluid backdrop of the blazing scenery. Alden and I dashed to the crest of the outlook and saw the full effects of the destruction. No more than maybe four hundred meters across were the remnants of a tribal pueblo . Any sign of life was nonexistent. Stretching along the perimeter of the town were coils of wire, the rust visible even from our view. I thought I saw tufts of animal hair trapped within the barbs, but my eyes weren’t that keen.
As we waltzed down the hill, the sharp and clogging stench of burning wood and scorched stone wafted through our noses until we were forced to cover our mouths and squint. None of the edifices of the former town stood, although it must’ve hosted a thriving market center. I saw what I thought to be broken crates, now blackened and scarred beyond recognition. The center of the pueblo opened up into a plaza of some sort, curling in an awkward U. We approached the wire, and confirmed the animal presence within these crude barriers.
“God,” Alden ran his hands through a greasy head of hair as he took in what was around him. “Must’ve happened within the hour. The smoke ain’t died down and the animal hair seems fresh. Can’t really tell, though.”
“Ever since we got here the situation’s gotten worse.” I know I was stating the obvious, but the words had to be spoken just to make things seem less surreal.
“They don’t like missionaries here. We disrupt the mold of things, you know? Our goal is to break century-old religious traditions and I wouldn’t expect any other reaction than hatred.” Alden’s words were laden with disgust, as if these people had placed apartheid upon themselves. For a man of such strong convictions, his faith was hard to see.
“Do you hear that?” Alden was now on alert, listening and looking intently for the slightest movement. “That sound, it’s like a humming noise. From the other side of the village, I think.”
I tried to seek out the aforementioned hum but discovered nothing except the sizzle and crackle of a dying ember. I wondered where the driver went; maybe he’d caused the noise that Alden heard. We walked across the barren plaza and I soon understood what Alden was speaking of. The noise was a soft looping hum, resembling a low growl. Now that we had driven deep into the pueblo, we could see the mission station-what was left of it. The hum was coming from behind it, and for a moment, I feared it was an animal that had strayed for a meal in the dead town . But as we listened, the growl turned into a spasmodic roar and the beast was pushing into the ground below. By now, I recognized the sound of the trucks that carried us to this point and within seconds, the front of one of the vehicles appeared from behind the smoking mission station. I wondered if Blaine could see me smile from where she was. From the look of her face, glowing and abundant, I think she did.
…
I can remember the first time I saw Anele, as if the moment would remain immortalized. Alden and I were picked up by one of the trucks, and I was glad to see everyone was there. Ms. Wesley told us the story of the caravan’s brief disappearance and what she said chilled me for many nights to come. The African general near Ciskei appointed their drivers. Each one of them was supposed to drop us off at the station, with as little contact as possible. But something at the village apparently went wrong. One of the soldier drivers, who Ms. Wesley claims spoke like a motorboat, was speaking of a soldier who was under suspicion. He said the rogue was suffering from early stages of a psychological disease and would do whatever he could to leave the village. I thought back to the soldier who had entered the hut in Ciskei crying. I now understood why. The line of trucks carrying the others took a route penetrating the base of the mountain base, expecting ours to turn back around after them. That wasn’t happening. I knew when she said this that our driver was the crazed soldier. I guess that explained his nervousness, but I never knew why he decided to drive us to the station . He should’ve known the others would be nearby. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore. Even the insane have a limit.
Well, the last leg of our road travel was still, and I remember thinking I wouldn’t be able to keep doing this at the pace of the events around us. It was the first time during the expedition that I’d paid attention to Booker’s uncanny silence. He sat on the passenger’s side and when he spoke, it was in no more than a few words. Often, any attempt I made at conversation would fail in a matter of seconds and the roads would be haunted by a sudden awkwardness. I really wanted to ask him what was wrong, even if I probably knew what his answer would be. See that’s the clench-I think I know just about everything. I don’t, but I think I do . But even if I could tell you all that and more, I wasn’t going to approach Ol’ Booker in that mood. It was just so damn depressing.
It wasn’t until that night that I realized how beautiful dusk was. The day was moving quickly, and the sky above held coughs of wispy white. Behind them, it was like God’s hand painting an everlasting moment, hues of pink and royal purple suspended in a collage of oils and indigo pigment. The sky was revolving, and its cloudless spaces held an air of allure and mystery, inviting you to join them in the dance of stars above. I wanted to go with them, but I was obliged on earth. It was one of the times where you just ignore what’s around you, and you listen. You hear what you’ve always wanted and pray that you get a fragment. The beauty of its intimacy was transcendent and it was something I wanted to keep with me for as long as my will was still strong. I think that will was counting down.
The first change that I could see was in the layout of the land. Almost immediately, the landscape transformed from an expanse of grass and desert to an isolated plot of fertile soil, complemented by the river we had seen earlier. The mountains now loomed above and the ground dipped abruptly to give way to lush earth. Way out in the distance I could make out indefinite forms, some appearing to be shaped in a honeycomb-like formation. The honeycombs were dispersed across acres of farmland (I assumed it was farmland because of the crops that colonized the ground) and in the center of these clusters was a large, rounded cattle enclosure. As our caravan was approaching, I could see that the honeycombs were actually small huts. Adorned with paintings and topped with a thatched roof, the refuges were surrounded by screened off areas that held strange clay-like structures and utensils used for cooking.
I could feel the excitement of the others buzzing and for a moment I thought it was my own. Our descent from the top of the ridge soon ended and we found ourselves leveled with the land. There were no paved roads, and so we stopped some ways off, maybe a hundred meters or so. I looked at Ms. Wesley, who did not attempt to mask her fidgetiness. I could’ve grabbed her hand right then, I was so anxious.
“This is it.” It was the first reference she would make to Anele. I nodded at her statement when I couldn’t find the words I’d been meaning to say.
We got out the car and saw a group of locals approaching the new arrivals, surprisingly gleaming with warm smiles. I looked past the group and realized the whole village must’ve been staring at us, because everybody stopped moving until the only sounds were the natural kind. The coterie came closer until they stood at a surprisingly close distance for a first encounter. About six or seven men dressed in blankets of red ochre came up to us, but only one came forward to speak. I knew when I saw him that this man was no force to be toyed with. He was the type of person who could stand straight without a spine, his head lifted confidently with a gaze humbled by the ground. His apparel was a baroque robe of a fine scarlet. Around his neck and running the length of his shoulder was an assortment of necklaces, hand-woven and distinguished by their many beads and grotesque colors. His skin had a stark distinction of onyx and it was obvious that his well-defined physique was from years of working with cattle in the fields.
I was preparing myself to change my dialect until he spoke in rough English, his words divided by lengthy hesitations. “We must welcome you to our village, missionaries. What you see is Anele.” He pointed to the village behind him with a wide smile and began to laugh. It was a hardy one, if I do say so. “Come! We invite you into our homes tonight to celebrate the arrival!”
His eyes played us over and when they fell on me, I thanked him for his kindness. “Much thanks.” Almost impetuously, I bowed my head at him in respect. Years of learning the customs of these people prepared we well . “I wasn’t aware that you had feasts for your guests, though.”
At this, the group of men burst out into laughter. I knew that it meant well, but it didn’t stop the embarrassment.
“No. You will not take our food as well! It is for the amakrwala. They return at the fall of the sun. We will all enjoy what the night allows us.”
“What do we call you?” I was surprised to hear Ol’ Booker speak again.
“I am Melisizwe , the leader of Anele.” He bowed his head to us. “If it pleases you, we will move into the village to accustom you.”
He motioned for us to follow him, and we all dragged behind the coterie, trying to absorb the feel of the place. I could smell Chris’s cherry cigars and Mrs. Crenshaw scolded him until his hands were practically on fire. He dropped his cigar and put it out with the sole of his foot. I wondered how long he would wait before popping another. Charlie and Mr. Crenshaw followed their steps, and I could make out Booker beckoning me to come over. I could see that his face was concerned.
“After the ceremonies tonight, you meet me by the trucks out ‘der. You need to know something.” I assume he didn’t expect questions because he walked with a brisk touch ahead of the crowd. I really hated suspense and almost decided not to show up. But I knew better than that-if Booker had to tell you something in seclusion, that’s probably the best place to hear what he’s got to say.
We passed the thin wired and wooded fences of the village outskirts and our first decent view of the Xhosa people became clear. By no means was Anele very populous. I’d say there were no more than a hundred of them, most outside the open doors of the honeycomb huts. Most of the people we passed were females, and the diversity of their appearance left me awestruck. Many were shrouded by handmade beads and ivory-rimmed bangles wrapped around their arms and feet. Upon their heads were elaborate headdresses, tied and crossed in bundles that protruded from the center. The other thing I found notable was that all of the women expressed some form of purple. Whether it was the sashes reaching across their chests or the arrangement of oils on their faces, it appeared that the women were bearers of a royal birthright . There were very few of them that didn’t walk around with young children, either. If a baby wasn’t held close to the woman, certainly there was a toddler on their back. Even the older women, who sat just outside the huts with long pipes in their mouths, seemed to be overcome with kids.
Melisizwe and his followers led us through the core of Anele, towards a small ridge that was the host of a hut I guessed belonged to him. A few of Melisizwe’s men took aside some of the missionaries to help them get the stuff settled in the different huts, and fortunately I wasn’t one of them. I was too anxious to do anything but explore the place. The village head signaled for us to stop and then continued to his home, raising his voice at an unseen figure. He spoke in his native tongue and I almost felt proud that I could understand him. Well most of it I got. It didn’t take a translator to realize he was calling for somebody to come out.
She came out with such reserve that I expected her to be mute. Underneath the soft shadows, a girl was peering at us with timid, wide eyes. Melisizwe urged her until the falling sun revealed the hidden form. The girl couldn’t have been any older than eleven or twelve. She was slim, but not sickly like many others I’d seen around. Short hair nearly touched precious lavender linen and I wondered how she managed to stay warm with uncovered arms and legs . I don’t know why, but there’s one thing I always remembered about her. The smile on her face. God, it was something that just made you happy. Any stranger knew she was shy, but it didn’t stop her from showing her childlike anticipation. The way it reached around until touching tiny dimples…reminded me why I wanted a kid. One day, I thought.
“Missionaries! This is my daughter, Nontle. She is pleased to see visitors.” He coaxed the girl with a calm that made me think he was under the spell of her innocence. The girl looked down when he spoke her name and buried her face into her father’s side. “Ah, you must settle into the village. We have been patient for many months and now you are here. Something to acknowledge!” His excitement was a stark contrast to his daughter’s demeanor.
Nontle, I repeated in my head. Nice name. Nice name.

“You make me a promise, boy. You hear me. Don’t get too settled.” Booker said these words to me when we were finally alone. We sat on padded hammocks within one of the huts that the Xhosa used for storage of their food. The night was approaching and excitement was building throughout the village. Our arrival and the prospect of some unknown surprise made just about everyone anxious. The moment Booker saw me sifting through Anele and attempting to speak with some of the locals, he called me into the small hut with a careful expression laid across his features.
“Booker, let us get here first. I don’t plan on being ‘settled’. Just came to do a job.”
“Humph. That’s all this is to you. A job. Clement, what was the one thing promised to you before we came here, hm?”
I thought back to the loads of paper I’d gotten and the loads I’d tossed away without a second glance. Then I threw Booker’s words around in my head until I recalled. “‘Enjoy a one-year long expedition through the mystic surroundings of an African village while spreading the message of the Lord your God .’” I recited one of the only lines I’d skimmed across and hoped I was right.
“Yes. One year, they said…” Booker shut his eyes, lost in more than his thoughts. “Well that’s not what we’re getting, Clement.” I was sure he saw the confusion in my face and to make sure he did I cocked my head to the side. “Apartheid is getting bad here. Fast. I’ve been tracking the news and villages are being extirpated in the name of education and ‘spreading the peace’. Our time has been cut down by three months.”
The air escaped me in a wisp of shock. But my concerns didn’t lie in our time constraints. “They’re coming here, aren’t they?”
The look in Booker’s eyes…an ageless entity of remorse and helplessness. To behold the destruction of your closest allies. They fall and you move on. The trenches are your only friends, the gun in your hand the point between life and death. The look was that of war.
“They coming hard, boy. Real hard.” His eyes lost their hardness for just a moment and they were replaced by difficulty. “You look at me, and you promise me you can leave these people behind if it’s that way .”
I didn’t know what to think of that. He was already asking me to turn my back on the people I had sworn to help. He was right, though. Things were getting much worse and I didn’t know how it would change. Didn’t know if it could. It took all I had to look at Booker and tell him, “No.”
He looked like he’d expected the response and just shook his head with a throaty chuckle. “You never lost that stubbornness, boy. Try to keep it. We’ll see how long you can hold that straight face. I lost mine a while back.”
It was the last time that night that I would talk to Booker like that. The threshold of the hut opened into the village, now watered by sunlight. When the sun went black, I looked to the door to find two African boys barely standing there. They shifted with such urgency I feared something was wrong for a moment. I couldn’t have been further from the truth. Leaping with excitement, they called to us in their native tone, emphasizing certain words with strong clicks of the tongue. Come , they insisted. The amakrwala have returned to the feast of their initiation. Come, come! I remember hearing the name, but there was no time to speculate because one of the boys practically dragged me out the hut, Booker not far behind.
It was like a whole ‘nother world. The first thing I recall hearing were the chants and cries of Xhosa, something that was tribal in itself. I didn’t understand all the words, but I knew they were singing some song. The words flowed with a glib carefulness, as if they were living, pious beings. I wouldn’t have minded listening to the rhythm longer, but the acrid smell of burning cattle intervened as the stench rose in the air, becoming a cloud of sacredness. As we were led towards the center of Anele, the people around us were growing closer and closer, focusing in on one point. Young children ran through the legs of their parents whose faces were nearly as interested as theirs were. Dispersed throughout the crowds were African girls, who seemed about fourteen or fifteen, though I couldn’t be sure. They were dressed especially elaborately, with garments of fine silk wrapped around their waists. Even in my personal writing, I find it hard not to be bashful about the lack of upper-body wear. Looking at their shaven heads, I thought they were the newly initiated females of the village. They were ready to be married and the amakrwala were going to fulfill that.
We reached the heart of the village, where we saw the enlightened cattle, warmed in a spectacular show of ember. The crowd was surrounding a group of people, but I had to maneuver my way through the people in order to get a view. Standing in the center were about ten Xhosa boys, draped in skirts of palm leaves and crowned with these magnificent headdresses. They looked like they had been fashioned out of bird feathers, or maybe even leopard. They were so diverse I really couldn’t make out any one trend. The most significant thing about these boys was what they were covered in. Completely masking their faces and reaching across their bodies and to the soles of their feet was a white clay-like material . I could make out the texture as something coarse and I imagined it must’ve been irritating. You could see that they were happy to be surrounded by their families, as their smiles indicated, but there was something about their conduct that was amazingly humbled. I noticed that when they walked, it was in small steps, and their eyes seldom left the ground.
It was a pleasant surprise to see Blaine among the crowd. She was standing on the opposite side, and her face was filled with awe as she beheld the boys before her. I think she may have even joined in with the chanting, laughing and dancing with those around her, uncaring if they were men, women, boys, girls…she was just so at peace. I envied her . Even Charlie and Chris looked on with a suppressed interest. Booker put his hand on my shoulder and I looked back to see him pointing at the congregation forming around Melisizwe. He had abandoned his ochre attire and replaced it with a similar palm skirt. His face wasn’t covered, however, and his grin was wide and abundant. He looked on at one of the boys endearingly and called him to his side. He was thin, all his muscles lied in his face, hardy, and firm, which was stunningly reminiscent of Melisizwe’s. The boy bowed his head and was pulled into Melisizwe’s arms. When he let go, Melisizwe spoke a few words of silence to the boy who in turn stepped back, as if to brace himself. Then, the village leader’s hands were raised, and silence consumed the people.
My children of Anele, he spoke loudly. This day is a good one, for the amakrwala have brought us humility and respect. They have endured their trials of manhood, from the circumcision to the hunt. They have succeeded! A roar of approval erupted from the crowd, and the spirit of dancing possessed these people as the solemn sound of hollowed drums began to beat. The sun closes on this day but we shall stand and feast. This is not a time for rebuttal. More cheers. There will be no blood spilled on this night! Apartheid will come, and her feet will rest against the resistance of the Xhosa! The walls of Babylon shook at the ovation that Melisizwe received after speaking those words. The sounds of the village were cacophonous and beautiful. Children danced and moved with a blissfully ignorant glee as the bum and ka-dum of the drums made me numb. But there was more.
On this night, we will show our ancestors the mold of their work. The spirits will be at peace on this night! Melisizwe was feeding off the crowd in a symbiosis of preacher and choir. To this day, I haven’t seen anything like it. He grabbed the boy he had spoken to only moments ago and continued to speak. The years I shall remain on this earth dwindle. It is not, I fear, due to age or affliction. But of a broken heart. I look at you, my people, my Xhosa, and I do not imagine what the world says they would do with you. It makes me sick, to the point of ill wishes. I have become weaker in the face of the giant we stand against now. And it is now that I look to my son. The boy looked up at the people for the first time all night with a purpose that was as great as his father’s. Unathi will soon take a wife. It is with joy that I pass on the inherent birthright of our tribe and I only hope to see it prosper. My son will not speak to you tonight merely with words. No! His hands, his feet. They will dance and speak to you all!
Hands flailed in the air as Unathi began to make quick, jerky movements. He was joined by the other amakrwala as they twisted their hips and stomped their feet in accord with the ever-increasing thump of the drums. More and more Xhosa began chanting and clicking and they were one with the pace of the dancing. When feet rose, so did their voices. The young girls in the crowd soon joined them yet with a dance that was all their own. Very similar to the boys, its grace and finesse was timid in the dropping sun. Their shadows pirouetted and pranced along the ground and soon more people began to join. Before I could move, something pulled me into the dance and I found myself looking into the eyes of Ms. Wesley. What a smile she had! She put a finger on my lips when I tried to speak and pointed to the ground.
“Talk with your feet!” she said. I obliged her and moved with a clumsy, offbeat step. In moments, though, my movements were somewhat in harmony and I could attribute that to Ms. Wesley. The way she moved…so liberally. Looking around me, I had to smile as even Booker was patting his foot, more on tune than I. Then, as if the art of the feet was inadequate, we began speaking with our hands, clapping as swift as our bodies would allow. Unathi could certainly lead a dance. Right alongside Unathi, with a grin as wide as the horizon was Nontle. You could tell she wasn’t a dancer, but Unathi slowed down just for her. He grabbed her hands delicately and she followed him as he stepped to one side, and then the other.
“Isn’t it something,” Blaine spoke softly. Whether I was meant to hear it or not, I didn’t know.
“Yes it is, Ms. Wesley. I’d have to say so.”

The night consumed those below, immersing us in a ballet of starlight. The dancing hadn’t completely died, but it certainly subdued. Now, an intense fire warmed those villagers brave enough to remain outside. Melisizwe invited us to stay longer, surprised that any of us actually danced. He stood surrounded by us missionaries and looked on with a longing, passionate gaze.
“It is a good night, missionaries. A good night. Our ancestors have brought us back men and we stand here this night in hope that it will be enough.” His voice dropped low until it was nearly inaudible. There was an undertone of sadness in his voice, or at least that’s what I thought. “May I tell you a story ?”
The first one I looked to was Booker, who was surprised as I. When no one spoke, I urged Melisizwe on.
“I do not know how much of us you have learned, nor how you were educated in the schools of your country. I see that you all are doing well when speaking in our tongue, although there is much you can learn!” He was the only one to laugh and soon he continued. “How long you plan on staying here is a mystery to me, but I must ask something of you.”
He looked at the Xhosa who were intent on listening to Melisizwe’s every word and whisked them away by flaunting his hands. He made sure they were out of sight before looking back at us.
“Apartheid is killing the Xhosa,” he sighed. I can only speak for myself and I know that it was beginning to get uncomfortable. Where was he leading us? “For many years, Anele has been an isolated sect of the province of Ciskei. I am not the first leader of this village. My father developed this tribe by the river that is only miles away. It was prosperous in its first years, growing as an agricultural center. My mother told me I was born in the fields, always working them and overseeing the harvest. Months after my initiation, the Xhosa felt the first hand of the great apartheid. As I’ve said, we are very much isolated but we know when danger is arriving. They told us we were to relocate for the purpose of educational development. My father knew it was for the white men, though. He resisted their push and weeks later, he was found in the river. They came into our lands and pushed us here, cutting off our main source of food. Our lives were stripped from us and many of us had nothing to live for. We became impoverished. Crime in the village rose, and I lost many close friends during this time.” Melisizwe’s eyes became sympathetic as he saw our horror and engrossment.
“Then, at our most critical point, when Anele was nearing its fall, a group of men from the West who were staying in Ciskei told us that soon we would see the faces of pure men and women. That we would learn of a savior who would supply us with all of our needs. I was reluctant until these men told me of your God, uThixo. I do not know what he can do, but those men said you would come. You would teach us.” I was trying to remember who those men might have been but we had met so many people along the way I couldn’t be sure.
“Now that you are here, and you are able to teach us, I will ask for one thing in return. Our fathers have passed down many stories, even from the times of great migrations. Of such tales, one remains critical to our very survival. It is the mind that holds your burdens, your flesh purely a vessel, yes?”
Nods of agreement repeated through the missionaries, almost mechanically.
“Yes,” Melisizwe trailed off. “The mind is the link to all things, pure and corrupt. It holds our secrets when our bodies betray us, keeps us silent when all we do is speak. This is the very thing that the white men are destroying . Not only do they defile tradition, but they also break our willpower. Many harvests ago, our ancestors began the ageless traditions of healing practices. Interpreting dreams and using herbal medicines was the job of these Zulu workers. When night fell upon these chosen healers, the ancestors spoke to them in the deep embrace of their dreams. It was a calling, you see. A command.”
I made sure my pen was sturdy in hand as I wrote down every word I could.
“They ordered these Zulu to rise and seek a certain medicinal herb in the wilderness. There was no fear of death, no hesitation made. These dreams were passed down to the Xhosa. However, it is not visions of the herbs that we often see. It is of people. Persons who suffer in silence, those who hover on the fingers of the other world. Through winds and spirits, these Xhosa interpret the words of the ancestors and seek to heal through their words and omens. Their rituals are of a higher power than anything man could comprehend. It is a physiological identity, and it is heavenly in conduct. Their voices chant the words of old, their dances are the embodiment of those who have passed. It is a transition brought by umoya, your Holy Spirit. You see, missionaries, these Xhosa are the diviners. Now, diviners are nothing less than our life force. They would give me instruction and direction in these difficult times. Their dreams are prophetical and invaluable. Yet there are those who wish to serve the wrath of their hatred. Bewitchers and sorcerers who poison the mind and body. Who would see the demise of all life so that they may prosper.”
Diviners. At the time, I didn’t know why the word held so much power for me. It was something I’d read briefly of, but didn’t pay great attention to. I found that my mind was drifting although Melisizwe still spoke.
“…not know who it is. This is why I must ask for your hand in assistance. Apartheid will devour this place if we have no diviner. It is our very life force, you see. The village elders have consulted one another and they are unable to discern who it may be. I ask you: if it be the will of your God, will you help the Xhosa discover their diviner? ”
I could see Booker about to object, and before I could say a word, it was Chris Filis who spoke. “I can speak for the lot of us here when I say ‘twas God who brought us to Anele. Hell, within these past couple of days we seen some stuff I never want to again.” Chris shot a look at Booker, whose reprimanding frown somehow ignited a hysterical coughing fit . “I’ll…stay.”
Alden shook his head in a not-so-well concealed disgust . Yet following Chris, other missionaries began to raise their voices, including Ms. Wesley. The group’s eyes fell upon me and of course, I would agree.
“Good…,” Melisizwe smiled gently. “Tonight you must be well-rested. I see many of you have been tired by the spirit of the Xhosa people!” His laugh returned. Almost as if hiding in the shadows that whole time, some of the local men appeared before us, prepared to lead us to our respective huts. Fortunately, there was plenty of space to accommodate us. As I was about to shuffle along with everyone else, I saw something move behind the gates of a cattle enclosure, which couldn’t have been more than a few yards away. It darted off behind a cluster of huts, moving impetuously. I stayed behind and let Melisizwe pass. But instead of going ahead of me, he touched me on the shoulder and spoke with an unexpected urgency .
“Do not be startled, missionary. My daughter cannot be discouraged to eavesdrop.” He nodded to the void of darkness before us and his face was grave. “I fear for her, for her health. She speaks with an eerie softness, she will not let others touch her. I have sent my finest herbalists to treat her but she refuses help.” I didn’t know why the village head was telling me this until from underneath his robe, he pulled out a familiar book.
“In your Bible, uThixo promises paradise for those who will be as children in his sight. I come to you because of what I see. You are characterized by silence, and you speak with your pen.” He nodded at the journal I hopelessly tried hiding beside my hip. “I ask that you will help be a guide to the youth of this place. Promise me you will protect and educate them as if you were their own father. My body is growing weaker, missionary, and apartheid will surely take it away from me .”
At this point, I actually felt…anger. Who was he to come and place this responsibility on my shoulders? Yes I had come to teach these people, but why was it me? I was probably the farthest thing from a father-like figure and now that could all change, because of pure intimidation. Then the fact that he was playing me for a fool. ‘My body is growing weaker’. I remember asking God that night: Why do I care? No, I asked why I should care. Not for the first time that day, I stood speechless.
Surprised at the falter of my words, Melisizwe frowned. “You may speak now, missionary.”
“Clement!” It came out louder than I wanted it to. In a much more reserved time , I repeated, “my name is Clement, sir. I…I really don’t know what to say. It’s an honor that you accept our help and to be truthful, I really can’t deny you.” I was weaker than I ever knew.
Melisizwe smiled in satisfaction, fully aware of the fact that he had won this battle. A battle that would soon become warfare, I feared . A man can only be pushed so far before he meets the cliff. “Tomorrow, the children go out to the river to collect fish for us. If you would be kind, I ask that you accompany them and keep them under close watch. You may also bring a missionary friend. Some of my men will join you and they will teach you the proper way to catch a fish. Then you will learn!” My laugh was weak, though not from frustration. The day had taken its toll and it was time to rest. I couldn’t have known the next time I’d be able to sleep well, so might as well have started that night.
The pathways of the village huts were swept clean and joined in the now empty central courtyard of Anele. Barely a soul was out, and even Melisizwe managed to leave the area before me. Before I finish this entry, there’s one more thing I should note. It isn’t of great importance, but strange nonetheless. Now maybe I was imagining things, maybe not. I was dragging my feet and my hands were barely holding onto the journal. Passing along I saw a figure, hunched and still, behind a wagon stanchion filled with what smelled like maize. After some effort on my part, my eyes focused until they made out a small girl. Her hands were wrapped around her legs and she was staring directly at me with large, perplexed eyes. I recognized her as Melisizwe’s daughter. I don’t know what provoked me to speak to her, but it was probably because I was running on pockets of consciousness.
“Hey, why have you been around here? Do you want something?” I spoke so as not to frighten her. I knew she could hear me, there wasn’t a noise to rustle the wind, yet she continued staring. “You want the bread?” I pointed to the maize wagon, at least to get her head moving-but my efforts were useless. “I’m goin’ be helping you tomorrow. Down there by the river. Is that okay? No, never mind. You wouldn’t answer that.”
Almost unexpectedly, she began to speak, if that’s what you want to call it. Her voice was subtle as a river’s wave
No. Her Xhosa was soft-spoken, so understanding her was no issue.
“No, what? You don’t want me to come with you?”
Dangerous. No looking. It wasn’t enough that I was exhausted, but now she was speaking illegibly. She kneeled on the ground, spread her hands across the dirt, and drew it up in her hands. This earth, she held it high for me to see, is not your responsibility.
If she was trying to get my attention, she had it now more than ever. “What do you mean?”
You don’t find a diviner. The dreams find them. This earth and all it produces, is not your responsibility. I’m not either. Our existence is in our own hands, missionary. One moment I was upset that I had been burdened with this responsibility, and now I was offended that she insisted on me not bothering. What I needed that night was a bed. Before I could respond, Nontle was gone. And so there I stood, listening to the sounds of little footsteps receding into the dark. A mind misunderstood.

I made myself a silent oath that no one would ever tell me that catching a fish was child’s play. I didn’t remember going to sleep the previous night, but I didn’t complain now that I had it. We had to wake up at sun’s first crack, when most of the village was still at rest. Blaine and Alden came out with me, and the trip to the river was nothing short of breathtaking. In order to reach the riverbank, we had to cut through a short plain, the one we arrived in, and around a small wood. As promised, the village youth gathered all they needed for the adventure ahead. Many of them had carved knives and hand-sewn nets by their side, while others carried with them baskets and wood for storage and I guess cooking too. I saw that even the young children came out to do work with us, probably no younger than five or six.
Unathi and his fellow amakrwala led the procession, with their siblings not far behind. I saw Nontle look at me briefly before averting her eyes to more important matters. The river was the same I had seen when coming down the valley and its beauty didn’t falter, even more splendid as the sun ignited its still shores. We set up along the bank of the river, and it was Unathi who caught the first. He had the grace of a hunter and the footwork of a dancer. He drew his knife and his eyes followed the river current, in search for foreign movement. He became tense, only for a moment, and lunged for the water a heartbeat later. His hands were immersed and as quickly as he had noticed the fish, he brought it out on the tip of his blade. He tossed it into one of the baskets and went right back in. By this point, most of the other youth were doing the same thing, though none with the skill that Unathi possessed.
“Think you got it?” Alden was staring at the river when I saw him, and now he held one of the knives eagerly. “I h’aint been fishing for some time, least of all like this.”
I told him I was ready, trying to look more interested than I really was. For some reason, my mind had gone back to what Nontle said to me the night before. There was something fascinating about the girl, who was more mature than those of her same age. I wondered what it was that had made this girl grow beyond her years, but I wasn’t sure how I would actually find that out. Ms. Wesley already caught two fishes and was urging me to try with her. She always liked trying new things.
“Well, Clement, first thing you need to do is roll up the sleeves.” Her laugh was better than the river. “You don’t look like you know what you’re doing. Do you?”
I affirmed it by nearly dropping my knife in the river as I revealed the skin of my arms. Ms. Wesley didn’t do well to hide her amusement and I don’t really believe she was trying to. I found myself laughing with her, and it was the first time in a while that I truly felt good doing something . Alden maintained his silent disposition along the riverbank, and I honestly thought he just wanted some attention. I wouldn’t humor him today or any other actually. We were out there for some time before Unathi was hunting our way. His trance was unbroken as he swopped up fish like a sport. To them I think that’s exactly what it was. Ms. Wesley and myself had caught a few good ones before his voice came from behind my ear.
“The fish will not dance with your knife. You must force it upon them if you want something other than water to rise.” He surprised me at the wrong time and my foot was submerged in the ebb and flow of the water. Unathi steadied me with an entertained mien until I stood facing him.
“You’re too kind.” I hoped he heard the sarcasm in that. I really did .
“Come. Look with me.” He paced the trim of the tide until coming to a halt. Below him was a school of fish, rushing and turning as if the world was at end. He knelt down and again placed his hand in the water, no knife however. “What do you think these are?”
I understood that I was no genius, but the fact that he could mock me like so was unbearable in front of Blaine. But I must say-the question did stump me.
“I don’t know. They’re fish, man.”
“Yes. And where is their soul?”
“In their tiny little hearts.”
“No. They are fish. There is no soul. But what they do have is understanding. The discernment between predator and prey, perception of one’s offspring. You see, there is something long since instilled in them. We try to understand them but it is impossible to comprehend what we are not.” He expelled a fish from beneath the aquatic Arcadia and released it moments later. “They exist for the water, as you and I exist for the earth. They are nothing without it, we are everything because of it. It is stunning and humbling. Dreadful and symbiotic.”
He was a damned philosopher . “Why are you telling me this?”
“Missionary, great apartheid pursues my people with an unforgiving hand . The leaders of Anele have felt a rumbling of the earth, which will bring forth beasts more fearsome than the lion’s roar. You have seen what they are capable of, yet you continue here. We often wonder what your purpose is, all of you. You come to tell of your God, but I see no avail. What is it that draws you to your faith?”
I sincerely had no answer. And that’s what made me sick. It was amazing how a single question could stop the whole day from moving. Placing everything in reverse until you’ve found what you’ve always wanted, waiting for you to take it. I took my vows to God years ago. Now something told me they were deteriorating.
“What draws me to my faith?” I milled the question around in my head praying for a sudden revelation. I didn’t get it. “Well, I’d have to say the prospect of not knowing what’s going to happen when you close your eyes for the night…it terrified me.”
Arresting my breath, clutching at the pale fringes of my existence…
“It made me hope that today would always be worse than tomorrow, so I’d have something to look forward to.”
Fabricating that distorted, fanciful hope that maybe there would be one more hour in the day…
“I mean having something to believe in will save you a whole lot of sanity. I think for me, I turned to this faith because it was there when people weren’t.”
Unathi nodded in understanding. “You appear-,” And like that, my life would never be one of speculation again.
Emerging from the wooded plain nearby was a dark forerunner, whose body now shook with little control of its agitation. His neck held not only beads of precious gem, but of exhaustion as well. He pointed out Unathi and spoke so even the sparrows could hear him.
They are here, at the village! His panting made it difficult to sift through his thick dialect. It is a peace offering for the Xhosa people!
Unathi’s momentary surprise morphed into concern. Who is in the village?
Great apartheid surrenders before us! The Boers have come to Anele and given us a supply of maize, and fruit, and much more. It is better than the ancestors could have imagined, Unathi. We humble ourselves in knowing that death will no longer pester. I have come to call you back so that you may witness this day of joy! The forerunner did not wait for a response, instead he leapt and thumped his feet in a boundless display of gaiety.
I did not know Unathi well. By definition, I had every reason to envy him. His physical prowess far surpassed my abilities. Down to the way in which he walked, Unathi was more confident than I. But for that brief period in time, there was one thing that we both shared. The youth around us were yelping with joy, and so were the amakrwala. Yet there we stood. Somber. Thoughtful. And not a smile on our face.

“You will not raise your tone here, boy !” Melisizwe’s thunder could carry Pangaea.
“Father, this offering is an insult to us. To accept it is wrong.” Unathi stood strong, in spite of his father’s request. We were back in Anele before the sun could even reach its height. My lips were sealed as we had sauntered through the forest of enclosed crates that littered the courtyard. Many of the locals celebrated the new arrivals within the privacy of their homes, but I think the main reason few were outside was to avoid the clash I was now witnessing . The argument came suddenly, before Ms. Wesley and I even had the chance to join the other missionaries. Today was the first day that we started telling the Xhosa about our faith, so everyone was divided into groups. I was specifically assigned to the head family (so was Ms. Wesley), thus, we had no choice but to try and resolve the issue at hand.
“Be aware that you are newly initiated, Unathi. You do not understand the meaning of this gift right now. Yes, these same people have caused us much pain, but now look at what they do. Our fields are losing their fertility and this food will give us new life. The Xhosa will experience a renaissance, not of gold and silver, but of camaraderie and livelihood!”
“I understand what your son is saying,” Blaine interrupted the back-and-forth. “If you’d allow me to voice it, something in me is just as skeptical as Unathi.”
“What evidence do you base your fears upon?”
Blaine was silent after that, although I could see her eyes flaring. I had to say something.
“Well, just look at what they’ve done in the past. These people are cruel and I know you want this village to prosper again, but maybe you should think about the consequences.”
Melisizwe’s laugh was that of apparent indignation. “Please, I only beg you to tell me of these consequences you assume my people will face. Missionaries, we have welcomed you here under our jurisdiction. I will be grateful if you choose to mind your own affairs. Be thankful for what we have received.”
I didn’t want to accept it, but I knew another battle had been lost. Who was I to come into their village and tell them what they shouldn’t eat? Well, I was a human.
“Go, Unathi, and prepare for me the courtyard. Tonight the cattle will rest and we shall feast on maize! You will see that from this comes no harm. ”
Without debate, Unathi was gone.
Melisizwe turned to Ms. Wesley and I, and Nontle treaded with a light foot behind her father.
“You must understand, I am not being impetuous. My decision comes with knowing that the Xhosa of Anele are a dying people. We are not the protectors of this world, we all need saving. I ask that you would continue your commission and do what you have come to do. I give you my daughter now.” He looked at me. “She listens well when she does not speak.” Nontle shuffled forward, her face cast in an ethereal glow.
“Can you understand my daughter without trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I will return soon. You may do what you will.” Melisizwe now spoke to Blaine, who inclined her head. He left us alone, hushed and accompanied only by a faint breeze.
“I don’t like this.” Blaine spread her arms emphasizing the crates around us.
“I know, I can’t…I just think this is wrong. But I don’t know how.”
“Well, pray about it. Pray that we’re both wrong and nothing is.” She touched my face with light fingers and I experienced a longing that had long since abated. “Alright, I’m goin’ join up with some of the others. See what they’re doing.”
God I wanted her to stay by my side. “Yeah. That’s, uh, that’s fine.” I could feel a pair of eyes piercing my back and I turned to Nontle’s ample eyes. “Okay, where would you like to go?”
…
“So has you’re father told you about Go-, um, uThixo?”
She nodded.
“Okay, so can you share with me what he told you?”
A moment of silence. God is someone who creates. He makes people and animals and he loves them, was her laconic reply.
“That’s right. He does. Do you know about his son?”
The way her eyes flashed told me she didn’t.
“God has a son, his name is Jesus. He’s as loving as his father and when he was on the earth, he taught people about love. Do you love anybody?”
I love my brother. I love me and I think I love my father.
“Hm? You think you love your father? Don’t you know?”
No. I would tell you if I did. Do you love anybody?
“Uh, yes, yes I do. I love my parents. And I love my sister, my brother too.”
Do you love the lady with the brown hair?
“I care for her very much. God says love everyone, even if they do wrong to you.”
So you love everyone?
“I try to. I really do. Can I ask you a question?”
You are asking me a question. What is it?
“Do you have dreams often?”
Yes. Most of them scare me. I don’t like dreaming.
“Dreaming is a beautiful thing, though. What’s one of the dreams you had? Will you tell me?”
No. The dream is scary.
“Alright well could you tell me about one of the good dreams you’ve had?”
She thought for a moment. Later. Not now. Why are you here?
“Uh, I’m here to teach you about uThixo.”
No, why are you here. On earth?
“That’s a good question, Nontle. You’re very smart. Well, I think I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m here to be the best person I can be and love and-,”
Why do you talk like that?
“Like what, Nontle?”
Like everything is at peace. My father told me you are here to tell me the truth. Can you tell me why Anele is dying?
I couldn’t.
Okay. I’ll tell you about my dream when you tell me why we are dying. Is that okay?
“Yes. That’s fine.”
…
The festivities were something else. Until that night, I never knew how something as insignificant as a piece of fruit could be to people. Not one crate was left unopened, and the food was being passed around. Surprisingly, some Xhosa didn’t touch the food either. Many of them happened to be the elders, who watched on with keen oversight. That night, there was no speech by Melisizwe, who was actually still gone , but only a gathering of people to revel and socialize. Chris and Charlie came to me, no cigars in sight .
“Oi! In’t it beautiful today, Clement? Not often you can say it these days, eh?” Chris took a giant chunk out of an apricot and most of it came back out when he spoke.
“My God, Chris, who taught you how to eat?” The two of them obviously didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t laughing, since they waltzed away smiling and whispering about the most attractive woman they saw in the crowds .
Among the rebels were Nontle, Blaine, and Ol’ Booker, who appeared to have lightened his mood in spite of what was happening. Blaine was actually talking with Nontle with a mother-like temperament. I hung back, snapping a few photos with the camera I brought. I rarely used it. Most of the stuff I wanted to share was in my novellas, but I needed to do something new. I needed to know that not every part of my life was stale. Those who celebrated clapped and sang old hymns of their predecessors as the sun laid out its copious dress of halcyon light upon the mountaintops.
The night had an unrivaled allure. In a way, it was haunting to see these people here in the flesh. So often, they had talked about life and death as if it were as simple as waking up and going to sleep. But now…they smiled and moved, their fates not a burden on their backs. How many had lost their families before we came? I could’ve been standing on their graves and it wouldn’t make a difference. As much as I wanted to be a part of these people, as much as I needed to be…I couldn’t. Why did I have to be a boy from urban Utah and not a Xhosa, suffering with the people I loved ? But it was on that same night I saw the Crenshaws, dancing alone in the midst of a throng of people. If I hadn’t been that boy from urban Utah, they wouldn’t be a part of me now. That’s exactly where my mind went that night, questioning the very justification of my existence. It was a strange thing to think about, actually. I don’t regret it though. Lord knows I don’t regret it.

Nine Months Later
I will listen to what God the Lord will say; he promises peace to his people, his saints-but let them not return to folly. I will listen to what God the Lord will say; he promises peace to his people, his saints-but let them not return to folly. I will listen to what God the Lord will say; he promises peace to his people, his saints-but let them not return to folly… I didn’t pray. All this time, I waited for something and I didn’t pray. She told me, a long time ago. She said, ‘Pray about it’. Just close your eyes, five minutes in the day, and speak. And now…now everything is lost .
Up to this point, life in Anele had improved. For months, we taught these people more and more about God. Booker even enjoyed himself as time went along, and I was glad to see Chris and Charlie making improvements in their lives. They had put down cigars long enough to forget the flavor they always smoked. Occasionally, the Xhosa would have celebrations when another one converted to the new faith. Babies were being baptized, locals getting married…all under God’s name. It was a true rebirth, a revival like I’d never seen before.
Even Nontle had given me a chance. She didn’t tell me about her dreams, but for a long time I forgot about even asking her. She was thirteen now, and had reached the age of getting married. Nkosana. It was the boy who had taken interest in her, and apparently, she opened to him as well . She told me she didn’t feel ready for marriage yet, but her father wanted it to go through. I remember telling her she needed to stay true to herself, even when she feels powerless. It was just one time out of many that we’d have these kinds of conversations.
Then there was Melisizwe. His decree was powerful as always and he had the people under his claws. Time shows you who somebody really is. It’s just a matter of looking at the person while the sun brings out the dark. When I first came to Anele, he was someone to respect. I guess I’d brought with me the misconceptions that often come with meeting new people. But Africans can be as dark as those they protest. He was manipulative, to be honest. He came at you with that wide smile and humbling gestures, but as soon as your back was turned, he’d do just about whatever he pleased. It didn’t matter to me, though. As long as I had solace in knowing that I was helping at least one person, the whole village could’ve been corrupt.
She might not know it, probably does, but Blaine and I have been getting closer. I don’t know what the feeling is. Doesn’t seem like love. It’s more crude than that. I care for her, really do, but it’s fashioned out of marble, not the heart. I think I’m going to tell her, though . I’m going to tell her that I love her. I’ve seen too many missed opportunities so what better time to tell her than…yeah. Well, it’s the only time.
Time does not heal wounds. No, allowing time for pain to subdue is to feed it, to give it the power to control you. To drive you past insanity. The pain becomes part of you, coursing through your veins in an angry rush of venom until you yield to its requests. Once you think, but do not conform, you have lost the only connection to this world-your free will. And when that’s gone…time kills a man. It began on a day that was mellower than any countryside. The sun hid behind darkening clouds and it felt like we were going to get some seldom-seen rain. Anele breathed with the land, preparing itself for the likely downpour and pushing its inhabitants inside. Like most other times, I was sheltered in Melisizwe’s home and telling Nontle the story of Noah and his great ark. I think that was her favorite.
“And so he took all the animals that God told him to get and he left with his family for forty days.”
She found that funny. Why were there two animals each? That takes up space.
“It was a male and female so that they could reproduce and make many more. That’s why you see so many animals around you now.”
Oh. She was very fond of that response after she’d heard me say it many times. Thunder rolled and growled outside the hut and Nontle was visibly shaken. She buried her head into her knees and covered her head.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s going to pass by soon.”
It never passes by. You know it doesn’t go away . She was talking about a nightmare. If I ‘d known it was going to get worse, I probably would’ve hugged her. In an instant, the thin wired door barring the entrance was thrown open. I realized it was one of the amakrwala Unathi had been initiated with, and he walked with shallow steps, his eyes as void as the sky above. Melisizwe came out of a back room to see the boy whose lips now trembled.
Bongani! What have you seen?
Bongani pointed out of the doorway behind him, and I saw that he was incapable of speaking. He fell to his knees and buried his face into the dirt, almost driving it. Melisizwe gamboled to his side and lifted him up, holding his shoulders firmly.
Speak!
It is Unathi! Unathi is dead! He is dead!
Certainly he yelled loud enough, but I don’t think I heard him. Subconsciously, I raced out the door, leaving Nontle with confused eyes as the thunder laughed at her frailty. I wouldn’t face her again, as long as I had the choice. It was a sad way to say goodbye . Melisizwe was a great stallion racing through the rain to his fallen son and I was upset that I couldn’t run faster. Ahead of us was a multitude of people, Xhosa and missionaries alike, serving as the ambit of Unathi’s cold corpse. I pushed my way through to see what happened, and I couldn’t understand what I saw.
Unathi lay still on the grass, mourners and lamenters scooping up his body before the dirt could begin to corrode it. His eyes were open and amazed, yet his lips were drawn together tightly. When he was living, Unathi’s hazelnut eyes were the defining characteristic of his being. Now, an eerie shroud of white and silver clouded them. All across his legs were tiny patches of unnatural white, giving him the appearance of a leopard. His skin was scarred and deformed and although I didn’t look closely, I could tell that he had lost some weight . Melisizwe did not speak a word as he took his son from the hands of the grievers. Expressionless and devoid of any warmth, he marched through the crowd with Unathi sprawled across his back. The rain fell on his body and flowed over the sides, harboring his father like a macabre umbrella . Every eye followed Melisizwe’s footsteps, but not a soul dared speak.
I’m not a person who cries . Even when someone close to me dies, I remain unscathed. I felt something towards Unathi, though. He wasn’t a good friend of mine and I didn’t know much about him, not even how he died. But I grew to respect him because he cared so much for Nontle. You’ll find that time doesn’t exist when people around you fall. I wondered if I would cry this time, but I never got the chance to find out. If anything came from my eyes, it was the tingle of heaven’s raindrops. Washing down the sides of my neck. Cleansing me .

The next day came mockingly. How dare it bring out the sun, setting alight morose faces of sorrow. I didn’t sleep well, if at all, nor did any of the others I shared a space with that night. I think we all wanted the mission trip to end, but we couldn’t just abandon these people. Not now. All of the missionaries had been forced to relocate in between two huts. We weren’t told why, only that we could only leave for food. We were not to communicate with any Xhosa, and I soon began to fear the worst. Booker sat across from me, looking far more aged than he should have. His hair was an ashen white and his skin lost some of its ardor. When he did speak, I had to strain my ears to hear well.
“This is what I failed to prevent.” That’s what he said. I was about sick of it.
“Damn it! Don’t start this. We’re here and we’re waiting for something, Booker, and we couldn’t have stopped it if we wanted. God put us here for some reason. I don’t know why he wants us in Anele, but right now I know these people need help. They need us. So you’re not going to sit there and place the blame on yourself while we sit here feeling sorry for you .”
When he looked at me, I knew he’d given up. I didn’t look him in the eye since. Ms. Wesley sat there too, keeping a powerful front, but even she couldn’t hide her doubt. Most of us were wondering what they were going to do to. Would they think we were liars because God didn’t keep their child here? My thoughts went to darker places. Anger. Hatred. We come to teach them and they lock us up because one of their own died. It was all I could do to stop from contemplating my own fate. Melisizwe looked to me to protect his children, and I failed. He wouldn’t care that I was only a man. He would just know I failed.
We must’ve been restricted to the huts nearly all day, because when Melisizwe summoned us, darkness had dominated the landscape. Keeping us under close watch, Xhosa escorted us to the courtyard where we’d heard infamous speeches numerous times before. Now it seemed that this speech would either give us life or take it. Melisizwe always needed a crowd to say what he needed to say, and tonight was no exception. He addressed the missionaries collectively after silencing the locals. The illuminators that painted the night sky seemed to breathe on the tight enclosure. As I watched the faces of the Africans, there I found hollow recesses of abhorrence. Their filthy glares attempting to pierce me…I did not return the look. The air around us carried with it a scent of…betrayal, almost sublime as it was.
Missionaries! He bellowed. For many months, my people have entrusted you with the sacredness of their faith. You claimed you came here to spread your word, and you have done so. But it is now that we have reason to believe you’ve spread much more than this! The Xhosa erupted like mad men, jeering and accusing us with words I wish I never knew. It was sickening . Only days ago we were speaking with these people with no issue and now…it was just uncivilized.
Yesterday, my son was found dead on his hunt. Instead of returning with food for us to be thankful for, his companions arrived carrying him on their shoulders. He showed no signs of a violent death, but a passive one. Not a wound to be found, but horribly disfigured. Since then, there have been four more similar situations, although none yet fatal. Foreign lands bring disease to natives, missionaries…
I couldn’t believe it. He was accusing us of spreading this outbreak amongst his people. It was senseless. If there was ever a doubt in my mind that Melisizwe was conniving, it now evaporated with my respect for him.
Do not fear, Xhosa. For these people will soon be purged of their impurities. We are in a time of need, and for us to be saved-the diviner must reveal himself. Come! Now diviner. Will you not serve these people before they inflict any more suffering! Show me the Undlela Ziimhlophe . The plant that will restore both mind and body. Come, diviner! I could barely restrain myself from attacking this man now that I knew what he was doing. His own son had died, and he was only concerned with finding the diviner. It was utterly heartless. No? You do not wish to show your face. Very well, then. He signaled for his men to come from behind us. They tied our hands in an impenetrable twine and herded us in the center of everyone’s attention.
These people have brought upon us a plague. They threaten who we are and if not cleansed, they will surely be our death! We would throw these white men to their brothers, to the Boers , if action were not taken. Oh, might the diviner humble himself in our presence.
I prayed until I believed every prayer would be answered. I prayed that life would turn out well just once, so that I could appreciate it more. I prayed for forgiveness for unknown sins. I prayed for love and for mercy. Against apartheid, for the Xhosa. And I asked, and begged, and urged. But I look back and I realize that the one thing I didn’t pray for was myself . Nobody answered Melisizwe’s call and we were dragged back to our huts, unaware of the next step in our lives. Day and night became shorter. With all that was happening, sudden as it was, I was drifting further and further away from the Bible and closer to my own desires . Patience was an attribute of those who had something to lose . I had nothing. I had none.
…
I’m here but I don’t know for how long. It’s good to see that something worthwhile arose from this. Almost two months have passed since Unathi’s death my friend died. I’ve tried speaking with Nontle but Melisizwe won’t allow it. I almost wouldn’t allow myself. My words bring death and yet I write with the hope that they will save . I didn’t tell Melisizwe this. Whether I got his consent or not, I needed to see Nontle. To confirm her physical existence. Nothing would stop me.
I had planned to wake in the midst of new sunlight, the breeze carried by the river miles away to mask my scent. That morning I prayed that the musk would not be detected by any of the locals. I did not have the heart to incapacitate a soul. I stretched my muscles, from my calves to my neck, which had been stiff from a night of unrest, and brushed off the leaves and wind-swept earth from my berth. Thankfully, the Xhosa had our twine removed weeks ago, only to see how we would react. I had to move with god-speed and prance like a gazelle through the hollow depressions and green lush of the village, making sure not to rouse the cattle near the courtyard. Few of the locals were working, preparing mounds of well-drained soil to plant seeds. Probably maize. I weaved my way through the honeycomb houses with light feet until I reached the furrow that marked the pathway to Nontle’s hut. There was nothing to shield my arrival as I approached the nearly conical refuge, enriched by intricate arrangements of diamonds and flower sepals. Before I could draw breath, Melisizwe’s figure formed in the shadow of the threshold.
His eyes were gravel, rough and unrelenting. Seldom had I feared any man’s capabilities, but this one-I could feel the heat of his heart no longer, only a wintry obscurity . His bistre hair, braided and adorned with beads of cream, seemed to lose its burnish. I would have liked to attribute that to the elongated pipe in his mouth, clouds of smoke rising with leisure, but the author of his pain was rooted much deeper. A sash of terra extended the length of his chest until giving way to another, pale and solemn in the light of the newly risen sun . I was quite direct with him. Please, Melisizwe, may you grant me the time God has allowed me? I knew the attempt was of poor taste, but if I had to guilt him into acceptance-I would not hesitate. His eyes squinted as he studied my face. He must have been surprised to see that there was nothing, because I noticed his eyes widen for a brief moment, until returning to their scrutiny. You killed my son. I had been stabbed in the heart. He continued. You killed my son, and you come here, asking to see my daughter? I have every right to break you, here as we stand. His voice held no remorse, and I said nothing, for fear my weakness would be discovered. Why wouldn’t he pace or scream? Maybe I would find solace in death’s embrace. But this…his gaze did not waver, although my eyes did not meet his. The torture was unjust. We did not ask the Boers to come and teach us of your God, nor did we request your pity. And still you continue to hope to be a savior of these people when they struggle. He shook his head. You will not know what we have suffered. You will not empathize with those who have. You are not Xhosa.
At that moment, any words I planned to say escaped me. My awe was evident at the dismissal of my existence. I tried accepting his people, when I never realized they had to accept me first. Please, just give me this. I know I am not Xhosa. I’m only a missionary, who has come here in the hopes that someone could be saved. But I’ve come to realize that you aren’t the person who needs faith right now. It’s me. My words were unforeseen and they had an effect on him. He took long enough to ponder his next move.
You have treated my daughter well, missionary. For the time that I have known you, I never saw you as a coward. You prove your persistence here now. You will speak with her, but your time is limited. If you act out of order, if there is any disturbance, I will take my responsibility as a father and as a leader.
The insinuated threat passed over my head and I hurried past him towards Nontle. There she was, on her bed and lying in wait. She looked sickly now. Her face was dry and she was becoming increasingly thin. When I walked in and sat to her side, she didn’t even look at me.
“Nontle...”
Yes?
“Do you forgive me? For your brother’s death, I mean?”
No. You are not guilty . She was like a sculpture, responding as such.
“I don’t know if I do. I don’t know if I forgive myself.”
Oh. You should. It’s what uThixo would want. Unathi too. He wouldn’t want you to feel sorry for him.
“Did you cry, Nontle? When Unathi died, did you cry?”
She didn’t respond for some time. Then she nodded.
“That’s okay. I just wanted to know. Do you feel comfortable talking to me now?”
Again, a nod.
“Remember when I asked you a long time ago what you dream about?”
Yes. And I didn’t answer.
“That’s right. Well, do you think you can tell me one of them now? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But do you think you could?”
She stirred and soon rose from her bed, running out of the room. I didn’t know what to think until she came back, holding something that was concealed by a burlap sack.
I will. Do not tell my father this dream. I made her a promise. When I was little, I began to experience something unusual. My brother used to tell me that as a baby, I had troubles going to sleep and even more trouble waking up. He told me that I was having nightmares and dreams. He said that a nightmare was only an unfulfilled dream, and that I shouldn’t fear. But I did, because I was little.
When we went fishing for the first time, months ago, my brother told you something about the fish. What did he say?
I tried to recall, but so much had occurred since then that I couldn’t completely piece it together. “He was telling me that the fish have knowledge, I think. He said the fish live for the earth as we do.”
He said the fish live for the water as we live for the earth. It is the essence of my dreaming. I envision a symbiosis. The relationship between man and entity. Whether it is as simple as his possessions, or as complex as a fish. I dream of existence. You exist because of the connections to other people. You are unique, not because you are human, but because there is no other man who has seen all that you have seen. That is what makes you human. It is what makes us all. Imagine if you and I had experienced all the moments of our lives together, in the same fashion, with the same perspective, and the same opinions. Nothing would amount from either of us, because the point of our existence would be superficial. But it is not how things are. You and I are different. If we shared the same views on everything, we would have no worth. But because we have so many differences, our worth exceeds that of a thousand pieces of gold and silver.
I dream of a consistent world, and it terrifies me. It frightens me to know that no matter how much I dream, the world will always be as it is. Man will be cruel. And the earth will have no choice but to accept it. These are the horrors I sense at night. And when storms come, they disrupt my fantasy, something that causes damage that cannot be repaired.
It was not until recently that I dreamed of you . You stood still, in a backdrop plain as day. The dream had no order. It rained, and you searched for cover. Your flesh was burnt, and you flinched. The brown haired woman was there, and you hugged. My father was there, and you bowed. You see, your very existence lies on that of others. You rely on the things that make life beautiful to you. Without them, you would no longer exist. But with them, you flourish and thrive in an ever-changing world. These are my dreams, good missionary.
I had been struck by awe and didn’t know what to say after that. Nontle’s purpose was as clear as ever. She was a healer. A restorer. And then I wondered…
“Nontle, what do you have there in the covering?” I pointed to the bag of burlap.
It is my new life.
“What do you mean by that?”
She took what was in the bag out and placed it at her side. There, tangible and uncovered was a plant. It took the form of a coconut and its outer covering was blackened. Lining the interior was the white bulky center and spread around it was gangly, thorny roots.
“Nontle, is that-,”
It is the dream herb, Undlela Ziimhlophe. The plant of the diviner. I found it in the river many suns ago. I now had a newfound reverence for Nontle. She was so young, yet incredibly understanding. But I realized something.
“You’ve been hiding this from everyone?”
You said you wouldn’t tell my father.
“No, no, I won’t. But why be so scared to help your people?”
How would you approach your father, so greatly proud of his son and all the young males of the village, and tell him of your destiny ? To tell him that you are a diviner. I would never be accepted because I am weak.
“Weak? You’re the strongest person I’ve met here. Look at you, even when faced with death you manage to stay true to who you are. You just told me that we exist because of what other people choose to do. Now Anele has chosen to cry for help. They need you, Nontle.”
No. They need a savior. Where is your God to help them?
In the beginning, I was ignorant. Now I knew all I needed to. “He’s in you . Nontle, he’s in you. All you need to do is accept.”
I can’t…
“You can! Stop doubting yourself and do something! Do what I couldn’t and make something happen.”
Why are you yelling at me?
“You don’t realize how little time we have here. How indecisive we can be when the answer is staring us in the eyes. Choose now!”
Stop it. Or I’ll call for someone.
“No!” I grabbed her arms and pushed her on the bed. “You can’t send me back when we’re this close to achieving something.” I didn’t realize how barbarian I must’ve seemed to this girl and I saw tears come to her eyes.
Get off me. Let me go!
The discomfort on my face must have been immediate, as her pained eyes traced the drip of my tongue. She leaned towards the plant and played with its roots almost comically, the flecks of dirt appearing before me quicker than they should have. My God, this torture was becoming horrid. Nontle, I was hoping my voice would make her submit. Her defiance was firm. Again, I called her name and the look in her eyes made my throat restrict. Then her eyes became liquid. I don’t recall ever hearing her scream, and the sound that escaped was one of … I don’t know what it was. I thought I knew-but I didn’t. My head twisted towards the entrance and I instinctively stood between it and the youth behind me. There was nothing before me. I didn’t want to confirm my fears, but I did just that when I saw Nontle staring at me with wide eyes of amazement. I recall a cherubic sensation overcoming my senses. The floor embraced me as my hands played over the soft dirt. Yet I did not feel it. At this moment, any sense of taste or sound I had left fled my trembling body. Nontle's face was sketched with creased and curious brows, her hands hesitantly extended, as if to supplement the grip of death. Before I could smile, before an apology was uttered, the mosaic of grasses above me disappeared, my limbs frozen. It was all I’d recorded since.

“They’re coming! Through the woods, the great apartheid is coming!” That’s what they were shouting when the trucks came through. Coming out in an echelon of these rusty bins was a horde of official looking men in their pinstriped, grey suits . They were attended by a good-size group of soldiers, who didn’t even make the effort to hide their guns up. The man who carried himself like he was in charge walked to the nearest white man he could rest his eyes on (that happened to be Samuel) and asked him where he could find the village head. Of course, he didn’t know so I had to step in.
“He’s at his home,” I made sure he was hearing a woman’s voice. Just so there were no mistakes. He eyed me over and I was ‘bout ready to slap ‘im across the face.
“And where might that be, ma’am?”
I had to ask him who he was , intruding Anele like that and he responded simply, “We’re a group that’s coming to represent apartheid the best we can,” is what he said. They had a great amount of nerve to come here. “Now will you answer me that and let me know where he is?”
There wasn’t anything I could do to stop them so I pointed them in the general direction.
“Thank you, kindly, pretty lady .” With that, he tipped his hat and was on his way, followed by the five other men who wore similar suits and their little platoon of Afrikaners. I kept a decent distance but made sure they didn’t leave my line of sight. They didn’t even reach his hut before Melisizwe came out. He was standing with his chest expanded, chin lifted a little higher than the men who’d come.
“Who are you?” Melisizwe was honestly confused.
“I come representing the great apartheid’s agenda and I see here that the village should be ready for relocation. Actually, we’re about two months overdue so it should’ve given you a pretty good amount of time to do what you have to.”
The color drained from his face and his mouth was left hanging on hinges. “You…no!”
“Please, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. We’re here for educational reform throughout Southern Africa, and our only wish is to see you migrate away from where we need to be. We’re here to see any possible prospects for future building. Now if you don’t mind-,” The Boer was about to lead his other buddies around until something stopped them in their tracks.
“Who is this? Hello, little girl, what’s your name ?”
I was glad Nontle didn’t respond to the man, but she stood there with the same resolve she always had in her eyes.
“Are you going to speak?”
Nontle remained as she was and stared them down.
“Okay then. We’ll be on our way.” Before they could move again, Nontle raised her voice.
What are you here to do?
The hat-tipper smiled at her, smug smile. “Did your dad every teach you respect, little girl? How’d he say address us? Well?”
“You’re not going to speak to her like that.” I told him the truth.
He shrugged his shoulders with the same smugness and I had a feeling it would be gone soon.
What are you here to do? Again, Nontle was speaking to them but now I was becoming concerned for the girl.
“We’re here to move you away. You’ll be in a better place than this, though, little girl. So you let us adults do what we have to do.”
No. I need to stand up.
Melisizwe ‘bout lost it at that, trying to bring Nontle back. But the girl just would not budge.
I have a friend who has sacrificed all he has to help my people. He looks like you and he came here to tell us about uThixo. God.
Most, if not all, the Boers had their attention glued to Nontle.
What would it take for you to go away? Would you destroy one of your own just to get this land? What does it take?
One of the men whispered to another, “A hell of a lot of money.” Hat-tipper just stood, though, and I thought he was generally interested in what Nontle was saying.
“Who are you, girl?”
I am Nontle, the daughter of Melisizwe. She made sure her eyes caught her father’s before continuing. And I am the diviner of Anele . I expected a much more dramatic shock from Melisizwe but there was only sadness in his eyes. Like he didn’t want his little girl to have the responsibility of the title. I think I knew for some time now that she had the gift of healing. I could’ve been sure her father did too.
“The diviner, eh? And what is that?”
It is my duty. My call to service and the reason I am here today. It is why I wake in the mornings and rest in the evenings. It is my decree, given to me by the hand of God. And you will not take this away from me.
I was just preparing to whisk her away when the hat-tipper abruptly ceased all movement.
“You feel that, men?” He looked back at them to find them looking around confused. “You don’t feel that wind? It’s getting stronger .”
Even I didn’t feel it, so when he mentioned it I felt a little confusion.
Yes, Nontle spoke. It is the umoya carrying its spirit across the corners of the earth. Yield to its power so that even you may witness the passing hand of kindness .
The Boers spoke to one another in a rushed tone until it was their hat-tipper that spoke for the lot of them.
“This is…unfortunate. It wasn’t supposed to be this breezy today. Shoot, it even looks like you may get some rain here today. I regret doing this but it looks like we’re going to have to reconsider for now. Don’t feel satisfied with this. Trust me, we’re not through with a job until it’s over. Understand?”
I do.
“We do.” Melisizwe came from behind his daughter, hugging her close to him. “We will talk later, Nontle.” For the first time in a while, he looked at peace with the way things were going. It reminded me.
“Nontle, where is Clement? I know he’d love to have written about this.” My smile left as soon as hers had and her eyes traced the ground.
Everything is okay, she told me. Everything is fine.

I think Clement got the worst of it. I don’t understand how he could stay there. That’s not being brave. He’s just not willing to accept that you can’t save everyone. The farewell was not heartfelt. The missionaries that had come on this trip went to the Lanseria International Airport, just north of Johannesburg. The departure was unenthusiastic, although I’m pretty sure they were happy to go home. But their faces…the droop of their eyes and the submission of their smiles-it felt like their hearts were left in Anele with all that had happened. There had been no clamor at the airport, since the soldiers had been called back. My worst fear was that we wouldn’t care if we were shot down right there. We came to Africa as missionaries, we left as slaves to our own ambiguity. Uncertain of the worth of our lives and yet sympathetic towards the people of this land.
Mr. Abram was unwilling to let Clement stay behind, the day before our departure. We rode to the outskirts of Anele, fearful of any airborne creature, of the slightest rustle in the nearby trees. The air smelled of a cessation of life, a stark and ironic contrast to the incense and spices of native flowers lining our path. We left in a succession of vehicles, as we had arrived, ours nearest the rear. There had not been many belongings to load and the locals marked our withdrawal with a strange silence. I saw Clement speaking with Nontle, and after a quick embrace, he came up to me with slow and awkward movements, and I saw the dried tears he had hidden so well up until this point. The first thing he said to me was, Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird. I was startled to hear a recital from Proverbs, although I couldn’t recall the exact passage. He reached his hand out and groped my shoulders until it found itself rested on my stomach, and with the other he gently brushed a tear that was running down my cheek. With an unforeseen shock, he lifted his finger and cocked his head, like he was surprised to find a tear. I closed my eyes momentarily, and prayed that he would be there when they opened. When I saw that he was, I fell into his arms, to feel the warmth of his breath trickle down my spine.
I don’t believe the others understood the emotions that radiated from the moment, as if they could no longer perceive sentiments of joy. When I looked at Alden, I found him staring at me. I expected him to turn away in embarrassment, but he didn’t . He kept his eyes where they were. Maybe he sensed my anger with him and he looked on in the hopes of forgiveness. And then as if he were my father, his eyes pierced me with ruefulness. I never asked him why he didn’t look away. I’m not sure if I ever will. Clement and I were in the same vehicle on the way to Ciskei and I couldn’t decipher what he felt at that moment. His face implied acceptance. But his voice, with its hauntingly gentle undertone…was it sadness? But how could he be sad? I did not take my eyes away from him and I could feel my cheeks flush when he didn’t look back. He was acting so strange…I can’t imagine the trauma he had been through but he couldn’t seem to decide between ignoring me and granting me his regard.
I thought I saw the African chauffeur, with has impenetrable focus, look in his mirror to peruse Clement, but when I looked at him, his eyes were locked on the dry roads ahead of us. With the exception of a brief mentioning of the beautiful sights that confined us, the trip was eerily bashful. I turned my attention to the outside world, hoping to find more vivacity. The alluring assembly of mountains and tints of African fynbos dominated the landscape. I never had decent time to admire the beauty around me, but on this day we drove by animals I didn’t expect to see. A pack of African wild dogs, painted with a wonderfully grotesque cluster of spots, oddly resembling a leopard’s, raced through the green of the grass until stopping to listen with their keen ears. The driver was occasionally forced to stop to allow migrating aardvarks to pass, with their pig-like snouts and rodent eyes. We even saw an impala, its large crested horns more reddish-brown than its hide. It was something that cannot be captured with words. Not even a picture could do it justice. It was something that was only meant for experience. Again, I looked to Clement to see the same look of awe, but I only saw reservation. The feelings within me began to stir uncomfortably. I sensed something was wrong but I had not the courage to ask. Not right now. When everything was so right.
When I felt the sweet cradle of a slumber begin to overcome me, I rested my hands gently across my abdomen. Before my eyes fluttered shut, I looked at Clement with a resolved smile, certain that something was amiss. I parted my lips to say something, but I don’t know if I said what I meant to. Before I could do anything else, I was dreaming.
…
I woke to the sound of Clement’s voice, mellow and rich. Blaine, he called . I waited for him to utter my name once more before opening my eyes. Looking around me, I saw that the cars had stopped within a few feet of each other, the others from the church exiting the cars with yawns and stretches. Clement was looking at me, and his face held unsure folds, I almost laughed. Why are you looking at me like that? I asked him. He turned away again and I almost yelped with frustration. The driver in front motioned for us to get out, and I did. When I saw Clement remaining in his seat, speculations began running through my mind. I assume he sensed my presence gone, though, and he quickly followed suit. The streets of Ciskei were quiet, relative our last visit, and the only sounds that seemed out of place were the cries of the domestic donkeys, bound by thin cords to their masters. The houses were stout and rectangular, covered with tinted windows. They resided on the top of small hills, giving way to a deeper fall until rising again to the next house. Until the early morning, we were to stay in the houses of some volunteering locals. Although I’m not sure how much volunteering was done on their own accord.
I was going to stay with a woman’s family. I say a woman’s family because her husband had died years ago. Her name was Sipho, and she was a short woman who aged well. She told me the secret of youth was an abundance of maize and a nice complement of beer. She said children were a divine gift, but they didn’t help you look good. I would be certain to remember the prudent advice. Along with the other women who accompanied the church on the mission, I stayed in the kitchen of the small abode, huddled into a wool blanket, my bag serving as a makeshift pillow. I wasn’t looking for comfort that night. I just wanted home. Before I slept, I opened my Bible, uncaring of where fate led me this night. I turned to Solomon’s Song, somewhere in the ninth chapter. Even in my tired state, I needed consistency. I flipped back to the first chapter, brief as it was, and began to read.
…
The next morning, we rose with the sun and Sipho fed us some of her bread supply. She was limited on grain, and knowing this would probably be our only chance to eat until another far-off time, the loaf was divided amongst the five women. We said our goodbyes to Sipho, whose fast tongue was difficult to interpret. For me, at least. She waved us off as we got into the trucks that had brought us to her. Clement was not in the same vehicle as me, and the journey to the airport was horrendously lagging.
Then, before I had the opportunity to register our arrival, I heard the loud, incessant shutter of the plane that would take us to our homes. After getting out of the truck, that now spewed balls of smoke that smelled of crude gasoline, I searched the faces of the missionaries boarding the plane, expecting to see Clement soon. Then I did. He was standing next to one of the Africans, his face now riddled with severity. Mr. Abram approached me and told me that the plane was being refueled. We hadn’t much time left, but it was effectual for what I had to do. I walked to Clement’s side and touched his arm, which was frigid underneath a thin layer of clothing. He flinched at the warm graze on his skin and I told him who touched him. A smile returned to his face, and he followed the direction of my voice .
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
“Are you?” My response was sincere.
He opened his mouth, only to close it again. He was thinking.
“Put your hands in mine,” he insisted.
I obeyed without hesitation. His fingers traced the veins of my hand with such perfection I was certain it was an art form, a sensual calligraphy. He followed the curve of my wrist across my arms until I found my hand resting on his heart.
“This is what matters, right?” He looked down at my hand, which was trying to liberate itself from his grip.
“Clement, what are you doing? Where’s your stuff…just get on the plane.” I didn’t need to look at him to confirm the truth that I feared.
“Just answer, give me that. Please,” his voice was severed although I didn’t know what was causing him so much pain. He was leaving me, leaving us, I should have been the one indignant.
“God, Clement, yes. Yes, your heart matters.” I thrust my finger at his chest. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He was silent. “Answer me.”
“No, you do-,”
“What the hell? I don’t understand? Tell me what I don’t know, Clement.”
He bowed his head towards the ground and mumbled illegibly before looking up past my shoulder, eyes in a glaze. “Would you love someone who could never see you, even after you’ve given them the greatest gift they can receive?”
“I can love someone who tries . What has been plaguing you for this entire trip? Suddenly you decide to neglect me, even after…,” my voice trailed off.
“Just look at me, Blaine. Look!”
I searched every detail I could find. From his rough beard, now pinpointed with ashen gray hairs, to the bulk of his revealed flesh. With his sleeves rolled up , I could make out the pulse of blood that rushed through his pale skin. Even under the African sun, his skin seemed to remain untouched, as if clouded by a veil of rebellion. Of course, this is only noticing the complexion of his skin. He had suffered much worse from the disease . Bulging lumps and a severe redness marked the lesions on his skin. Still, his eyes, unrelentingly handsome, were now delineated by sagging patches of skin. I felt a jagged pang of guilt when I found myself looking away, dreading the age that had accompanied him throughout his journey. And then my heart fell, plunging into a dark abyss that I had wished never loosened its hold. I remember looking into his eyes, subliminally realizing how selfish I really am. His sage eyes, brushed with a fair streak of green and silver, had lost their wisdom. One wouldn’t normally notice the abnormality, but the key to your soul is something you usually hold sacred. Although they retained a touch of gray, the green had drained and was now replaced with a ghastly white.
Would you love someone who could never see you…the words haunt me to this day.
As if interpreting my shock by the pain that now filled the air, he nodded. We had both come to an understanding. I was less willing to accept. Then I remembered what happened to Unathi and some of the others. And the fruit we’d gotten what felt like years ago.
The fruit.
“Clement,” I urged. “Do you remember when we got the supply of food? From the Boers. Did you eat any ?”
He hadn’t moved since my realization. I was so damn ignorant.
“Oh, God. You did…can you see me?”
There was no reply. I repeated myself, this time hearing the pity in my voice.
“No.” His face was blank. “No, I can’t.”
I thought that my response would be…well I didn’t know how to react. Should I have sympathized for him? I had every right to be angry, to be seething on the verge of my faith. By God, I was. There were very few moments in my life where I was incapable of speech. My feelings so stimulated that no words would come out properly. I was taught to hold my tongue when I feared nothing good would come out.
Nevertheless, I had lost my self-control.
“Why,” It was all I could say.
“Why am I blind?” His words were like venom on my skin.
“Why, every time God gives me a blessing, why do you take it away?” My words came out harshly, as I intended. I saw him flinch, but I didn’t care anymore . I just didn’t.
“You know what your problem is, Ms. Wesley? You know? God ain’t take away anything from you. You’re too blind to appreciate it. How can you attack me like this?”
How was I supposed to explain the rant to him? If only he would grant me this one time, to say how I felt. I wish he had just listened. My mind was racing so swiftly, I almost wasn’t aware of my pacing back and forth.
“This isn’t attacking you! I’m just trying to understand…Clement, why are you leaving me?” Mr. Abram whistled at me, unaware of the ensuing argument. I assumed it was almost time to go.
“Last I checked you were the one boarding the plane, Ms. Wesley. You could just as easily stay here, with me. You really could…”
“Sweetie, you know I ca-,” My words betrayed me as they clumsily fell out.
“You can do anything you’d like.” He reached for my face until I moved into his hands, embracing them. Hating him and loving him. He stroked the hair out of my eyes, revealing the tears that now swelled over until flowing without control. I almost averted my gaze, when I remembered I was prisoner to my own self-remorse. His lips brushed mine until we were locked in an aesthetic union, and my incomprehensible sins returned to me, taunting and seductive.
“No, I can’t, Clement.” I touched my stomach mildly and looked at the plane, its engineers and hired hands removing the nozzle. What little time had passed before it would tear us apart. “If God wanted me to stay, I wouldn’t be out here, would I?”
“Ms. Wesley, sometimes God will test his children. You know, he may even send you out to places you only dreamed of. And some you didn’t. Occasionally, you have to run away just to see who comes after you . I’m coming for you.”
“Then walk up on that plane with us and sit down. You don’t need your books or your bags, just go up there and you sit down.”
“I don’t have my Bible, Ms. W-,” I was tired of the pleasantries.
“Stop calling me that. We can get you a Bible in the States, nice and new, your own KJV.” I was fighting an impossible battle, now that I look back on it. I couldn’t think of a single reason he would want to stay. This wasn’t divine will, wasn’t Providence. He told me it was love. But for what?
Nontle, he said. Anele, everything. Everything. I don’t know why I can’t remember the details of those last few words. So final, maybe I just didn’t want to accept it. I know I didn’t. I asked him if the girl was more important than me, didn’t mind if I sounded selfish, and he had no answer. Just that he felt it was…it was what God wanted. Our last words weren’t endearing by anyone’s standards, ‘specially not mine. But I remember his smile, a thing I hadn’t seen genuine for a long time. Something about it made me shudder, though, and I knew then that I would never see this man again. It’s funny, the first time I saw him I was sure he would love my wedding dress. I never knew if he would be my husband. I still think he would’ve liked the dress I wore .
Surely if you asked me today what I had thought of Clement, I would tell you he was insane. I would tell you he didn’t know what he was saying, that he was so traumatized by the disease his thinking wasn’t straight. But you see with time, even if your scars don’t disappear, they can close. Then when you think it’s in your past, something beautiful flowers from that pain . Something so incomprehensibly splendid that it changes your life for the rest of it. Almost three years ago, I left the grounds of a place that will be with me to my grave. I saw horrors and I saw hopes, just passing by like any other person. I even met a love that I may never know. I’d say the best part was getting to know those people. So fascinating. Few people know what they want to do with their lives, but everybody has hopes. I’ve seen those who want to be artists, hand painting the best pictures you’ve ever seen. Others want to smoke that infamous cherry cigar, or become princes, God even diviners. But some people…some people just want to smile.