Dark Intent (4 page)

KwaZulu-Natal
, Republic of South Africa

Moses Shozi held up his hand as he came to the crest of a hill, small in the vast theatre comprising the Edendale Valley. The land was KwaZulu-Natal, homeland of the Zulus.

‘Which one?’ he said, grinning.

Behind Shozi in the moonlight of the late evening were thirteen men, strong in stature and in their prime, their heads shaven and reflective like domes of polished wood. They were in single file, their bodies clad sparingly in shorts, loose-fitting shirts and heavy belts, their feet bare, impervious to the thorns and stones scattered among the grass. Firmly thrust into their belts, were wide-bladed
pangas
, half-axe, half-knife, the time-honoured implement for hacking through indigenous bush and cutting men to death.

‘
It’s the third on the left.’ Joseph Setlaba returned the grin. He liked it when his master was in a buoyant mood. ‘They stay with their mother, Mrs Mkhize.’

Below them, several hundred metres distant and couched in one of the many shallow valleys lay half-a-dozen modern houses in a staggered row.
Shozi glanced at the cans of paraffin carried by two of his men then urged the group on. The pounding feet crushed the long-stemmed grass as the men descended on the homes before them ignoring the silhouettes they etched against the top of the hill and confident of their authority behind the barrel-chested warrior they had elected to serve.

When they came to
Mrs Mkhize’s house Shozi drew his blade, adjusting the .38 Webley revolver poked into his belt. He cut into the door, exploding the lock and ripping into the jamb. Whining on rusting hinges the door surrendered and Shozi went through.

Seated on a sofa and cradling girl twins in her arms an obese woman cried out as Shozi appeared.
She held the children tightly, the muscles of her arms hidden by the coating of fat that had accumulated from years of eating a high-starch diet of
mielie
porridge, sausage and bread.

Skirting his master Setlaba went to the room adjoining and peered inside, noting five untidy bedrolls, three near the window and partitioned from the others by a low sackcloth screen.
There was no one there and he ambled back, shaking his head.

‘Where are your sons?’ said Shozi, hovering over her.
She started weeping, the tears welling in her eyes and onto her cheeks.

‘Please don’t hurt them,’ she begged.
‘They are good boys.’

Shozi hit her on th
e face with sickening impact, a steel knuckle-duster, shaped into the horned head of a bull, biting into her, cutting a furrow from her cheek to her jaw, drawing a thin line of blood.

‘Where are they,’ he growled evenly.
‘I’ll not harm them but they must learn to be loyal to Inkatha.’

She sobbed quietly, her hand covering the wound, his words providing a measure of reassurance and reducing her fears.
Deep within a voice warned that Shozi was a killer, one who operated with impunity, but she ignored it, choosing to believe her sons would be spared. ‘They work in the city,’ she said softly. ‘Tonight they’ll be late.’ She drew the children closer. ‘They’re on the last bus.’

Shozi dug in a pocket for his watch.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he said, weighing up the information. He glared at her. ‘Take your children and stay in the other room. We’ll wait.’

She bowed, holding her hands together and to her face, as if in prayer to her chosen god.
‘Please don’t hurt them Mr Shozi,’ she repeated pleadingly, bending lower. The girls cowered against their mother, terrified, but too young to understand.

Shozi hit her again, his fist brushin
g her hands away, feathers caught in a gale. She was thrown back on the sofa and he had drawn more blood, a seepage that spread like new red paint and ran down into her eye. But he was without remorse and gripped her arm, his fingers coils of wire, and jerked her bulk out of the seat, the children clinging desperately to her dress. She was spent, illiterate, unable to comprehend the hatred between men.

With a heave he shoved her towards the bedroom and she tripped, the children with her.
Setlaba took over, pulling her onto her feet and pushing her through the doorway, cuffing the girls sharply on the ears as they huddled behind.

Shozi went to the front door.
Outside on the sand his men stood obediently in a semi-circle waiting for his command. ‘Hide them in the grass,’ he directed as his lieutenant joined him. He examined the broken lock, casually peeling off flaking paint. ‘By the time they see this it’ll be over. We’ll stay in here.’

Setlaba issued instructions to the men and they withdrew into the grass and clusters of bush.
Satisfied, he returned inside, settling the door as firmly as he could against the frame.

Shozi nodded and went
into the bedroom. Dabbing her bleeding face with a flannel, Mrs Mkhize stared up from one of the beds, the arms of the children around her waist, immersed like sticks in jelly. He locked the room and lowered himself onto a tomato box standing on its end. ‘This night is ours,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited patiently for these two. For too long they have brazenly supported the men who now rule this land.’

When Moses Shozi rested his weight on the box in their mother’s house, Thomas and Ephraim Mkhize caught the bus at the depot in the city. The journey home was nearly twelve kilometres, down the Edendale Road into KwaZulu and up the valley. In the old single-decker Leyland bus, labouring up every hill, the ride took a full twenty-five minutes to an unmarked stop on the dirt road a few minutes walk from the house.

After disembarking they moved well off the road
, watching the bus depart and letting the cloud of dust settle. Thomas led and they went over the road and into the bush, hungry and tired after a day that began before dawn, hoping their mother had dried porridge and meat in the pot. For a while their path took them up through grass, waist high and subjugated in places by large rocks. Then it dipped and levelled out under low trees, the profuse interlinking foliage deflecting the light like an iron roof. In less than a minute they were nearly through, about to emerge and a few hundred metres from their house. Along the narrow track Thomas had remained ahead, the white splayed soles of his bare feet padding quietly in the sand. As he came into the open he stopped as if turned to stone.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ephraim, startled by the abrupt halt.

Thomas did not answer, grabbing his brother instead and leading him to a crouch next to the trail.

‘Someone’s squatting in the bush in front of the house,’ he said in an urgent whisper.
‘I saw him.’ He pointed to a spot below them. ‘It’s difficult to make him out but I saw him.’

Ephraim looked to where his brother was pointing. ‘Who
is it?’ he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

‘Inkatha’s bullies are always sniffing around,’ said Thomas angrily.
‘Be patient. I’m sure he’ll move again.’

They waited at the top of the slope, scarcely breathing.
‘Perhaps I was mistaken,’ said Thomas at last, beginning to feel annoyed with himself. ‘I suppose it could’ve been an animal.’

As he spoke they saw a movement and someone behind a bush close to where he had pointed.

‘There, I told you,’ Thomas exclaimed, gaining some satisfaction that he was right. ‘What do they want?’ At that moment the door to their house opened and a bold figure, briefly outlined, walked onto the sand. He called into the dark and before him a group of men rose and came from the undergrowth. He directed them to him and they all went inside, closing the door.

At first the brothers were too numbed to speak.
Then Thomas turned to Ephraim, afraid. ‘Do you know that man?’ he asked and without a reply said: ‘It’s Moses Shozi, our enemy.’

‘
They’ll kill poor mama.’ Ephraim cried quietly. ‘What’ve we done to bring this man to our house?’

‘Nothing,’
said Thomas unrepentantly, trying to console his brother by placing his arm round him. ‘Shozi’s a murderer.’ He poked his head up and studied the house, noting a thin line of light. ‘The door’s not shut,’ he said, unable to see the shaved wood. ‘Maybe they’re preparing to leave.’

‘They’ll never give up,’ said Ephraim, knowing how Shozi worked.
‘If they leave they’ll be back. We’ll have to go into hiding.’

‘
We must see mama tonight,’ said Thomas firmly. ‘She may be hurt. Wait and see if they go.’

Mrs Mk
hize’s house

Moses Shozi paced restlessly on the matting of the room, his hands held behind him, his countenance severe, that of a giant raptor. His men were seated on the floor in a ring round him, uncertain of his mood. It was ten-twenty and there was no sign of Mrs Mkhize’s sons.

‘Some of us should’ve waited on the road,’ said Shozi, angry he had not thought of it before.
‘They’re not stupid. I think they saw you.’

The men were silent, not wanting to ignite the gangster’s rage.

‘I know how we can bring them in,’ continued Shozi. He stopped near the door, rocking demonically on his large feet. ‘Follow me. They’re out there somewhere.’

Watching from their position on the hill Thomas and Ephraim shrank when after a few minutes Shozi reappeared in the yellow light, his men on his heels.

‘They’re leaving,’ whispered Thomas, his hopes rising. ‘When they’ve gone I’m going down.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Ephraim fiercely.
‘If they’ve hurt mama I’ll kill them.’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ interjected Thomas.
‘The Zulu police are in their pockets, whatever evidence we manage to scrape together.’

They watched the men cross the sandy patch and begin their ascent of the hill.
Within a short time the gang reached the top and went from sight, disappearing one by one.

‘
Give them more time until they get to the next valley,’ said Thomas. The two stayed in the grass, eager to get to the house but wary in case Shozi decided to return. After a while Thomas went onto the track.

‘Come on,’
he said harshly. ‘We must hurry to mama.’ They ran down the remainder of the path and accelerated over the final stretch to the house.

‘Wait,’ cried Thomas, fearful again when he saw the exposed white pine where the
panga
had cleaved. He looked through a half-inch split that offered a partial view. But his concern for their mother and sisters was too great for him to deliberate any more and he went in.

Ephraim sprang past him and seeing the empty room ran to the closed door, disengaging the bolt and going through.
His mother was still on the bedroll with the twins, her lacerations drawing him inexorably to her. She rolled her eyes and reached for him with a joyous cry.

‘Ephraim, you are safe.
Where’s Thomas?’

They embraced, the twins snuggling and squealing against his body.
Then Thomas was next to them, throwing his arms out like an octopus, encircling and holding the family together. For minutes they smothered one another with their love, sharing the pain.

‘
We must leave soon, mama,’ said Thomas. ‘He’ll be back. We have friends in Umbali.’

Mrs Mkhize rested her big head on Thomas. ‘Oh my sons, you’ll be so tired when you get there.
I must give you what food I have.’ She had wiped the blood from her cheek and the cuts were clotted channels. Ephraim helped her up and with Thomas holding the twins they made to leave.

But like a bad dream
Shozi appeared, his cracked lips pasted to crowned teeth. ‘I knew you were out there,’ he cried exultantly. ‘How easy it was to bring you in.’ He moved over and Setlaba came in, two of the others next to him. ‘Take them,’ said Shozi relaxing his arms in triumph.

Mrs Mkhize went to her knees, uttering a muted scream.
‘What do you want from us Mr Shozi?’ she cried. ‘We’ve nothing for you. Please leave us alone.’

Shozi ignored her, his attention only on her sons.

Thomas and Ephraim knew they were in trouble, that surrender was out of the question and as Setlaba came nearer they ran from their family, jumping over the bedrolls to the window. Ephraim reached it first and scooping up a blanket broke through the panes of glass and struts of wood. He started to climb onto the sill but one of the men was too quick and, grabbing his trousers below the groin, tore him from the window, throwing his skinny body effortlessly onto one of the beds. Giving up his bid to escape, Thomas hit the man on the neck, sending him spinning off like a toy top.

‘You can’t escape,’ said Shozi, taking the gun from his belt.
‘For this you’ll die.’ Setlaba closed in, slamming Thomas to the floor, the large muscles bunched and striated under his shirt. The other two men sprang onto the brothers taking them by the ankles and through the sitting room to the front of the house. In terror Ephraim and Thomas fought to stay indoors knowing that once outside they were doomed. But there were too many of them and they were helpless against the heavily built men.

They were dropped like sacks of grain onto the earth, discarded as carrion
and the eight Zulus formed a circle around them. Inviting the men who carried the cans to do their work Shozi watched as they removed the caps and came up to the youths. When Thomas and Ephraim saw the half-gallon containers, cleaned of their labels and shining in the light, they screamed pitifully, their high-pitched cries slowly devolving to pathetic whimpering, the noise of the condemned.

Shozi was as if in a trance and started chanting, urging the bizarre show on, gyrating his body rhythmically in the dance of death.
The others joined in, waving their
pangas
in the air, delighting in a ritual they had seen before. Swaying in concert, the men with the paraffin drenched their victims until their clothes were stained and the oily fluid clung like glue to their skin and short wire-brush hair. In a last flurry to save himself, invoking tenuous threads of strength, Thomas charged at the circle of men, his fuelled movements fanned by the deepest craving to survive.

As he neared the pe
rimeter he lowered his head, an attacking goat, selecting a spot between two of the men, and charged. His move was unexpected and a metre from his goal he felt he could get through. But their reactions were as sharp as surgical steel and they converged, grunting excitedly, enjoying the exercise before the meal, the agony of the boys before them. As a coordinated unit they tripped him up, expertly taking him to the ground, his greasy face forced into the sand. With practiced ease they locked his arms behind him, causing him to cry heretically and threw him into the centre of the ring. Ephraim went to his brother’s side and lovingly held his head above the dirt, no longer thinking about his own safety. His brother was going to die.

Bored by the foreplay, Shozi stopped his chanting and came into the circle.
From point-blank range he fired his gun, the lead striking Thomas and Ephraim in their knees, breaking and splintering, turning the legs into useless sticks. They shuddered but could not cry any more, holding one another instead with brotherly love, resigned to the horrifying death that was to come, a dispensation from Satan himself.

Stuffing
the Webley into his belt, Shozi looked at Setlaba. The tall lieutenant went to him, reaching into one of the pockets of his shorts for a box of matches. He lit two and flicked them in turn onto their victims’ clothes, grinning savagely when he saw the flames leap, engulfing the youths all at once in the unbearable heat, scorching their young features in a crackling frenzy.

Shozi and his men did not stay to see the corpses reduced to charred remains and with the fire devouring its feast he led his band off, going to the grass and up the hill.
Behind him was quiet, the neighbours, whatever they saw, not daring to resist and further incur his wrath.

Mrs Mkhize, the bedroom locked, knew when she heard the last screams of her sons that they were dying, the most recent act of murder by Shozi.
She wept in gasps as if retching into a bucket, the misery and torment too much to bear.