Embracing Change (25 page)

Joel nodded.

“I saw him—and you’ll never guess what else.”

“What?”

“I’m going to visit his mother and brother in Soweto tomorrow. She wants to talk to me and explain what happened to make her son like he is. Dad just about had a fit but I feel it’s something I need to do.” She snuggled up next to him. “Dad is going to come with me but maybe you could come as well?”

“Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.” He touched her cheek gently. “Something’s changed in you, Sarah. You’re different, softer, more at peace.”

She looked up at him. “What you said was right. I needed to come back and face the past. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I’m excited. I think … Joel, I really think God is doing something in my heart.”

Chapter Thirty Four

I woke early this morning, filled with expectancy. I still can’t believe Joel will be coming with me to Soweto. Who would have said that a week ago?

From the journal of Sarah Johnson

Friday 19th December

Soweto was not as she had imagined it. To begin with, some of the houses were modern and had gardens with green lawns and a few shrubs. It could have been any area in Johannesburg. As the car wound further in, however, the scenery changed. Narrow roads were bordered by sun-baked earth, and houses diminished in size and quality.

“Where does the name Soweto come from?” Joel asked.

“It’s short for South Western Townships,” Thabo replied. “Home to forty per cent of Johannesburg’s population. It was originally where the mine workers lived, and conditions were appalling; no running water or sanitation.” He pointed out landmarks as he drove. “Down there is the street where Nelson Mandela lived. His house is now the Mandela Family museum.”

In the distance, Sarah spotted a couple of giant cooling towers decorated with colourful murals. “What are those?”

“They were part of the Orlando Power Station.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Did you know Soweto only got electricity in 1985? The power from that station was all directed to the white suburbs.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

David twisted his head to look towards the back seat. “I didn’t know that either, Sarah.” Already the trip was getting to them both; they were seeing it all through the same strangers’ eyes as Joel was.

How odd,
thought Sarah.
How … discomfiting.

A little further down the road, Thabo slowed down. “Would you like to have a look at the Hector Pietersen Memorial? It’s only a couple of minutes from here.”

Sarah felt the old fear rising as she looked at the congested area, the masses of black faces as people moved about their business.

But Joel squeezed her hand reassuringly. “We’d like that.”

The monument turned out to be a polished expanse of granite blocks with a clear pool and a series of stone walls behind it. A life size photo was mounted to the left of the water. “It commemorates the thirteen-year-old Hector Pietersen,” Thabo told them as they stood together. “He was gunned down during a student protest in 1976.”

The photograph, headlined in newspapers across the world, had burned itself into Sarah’s memory: a young boy in a fellow student’s arms, head lolling back, body lifeless. His sister was running alongside them, her face stricken with terror.
I’ve had a one-sided picture,
she thought.
I’ve no idea what it must have been like to live here.

Back on the road, the area continued to deteriorate in quality, and the houses in size. They passed two teenage girls selling fruit on a street corner. An upturned crate was their table, and apples, plums and bananas were piled into pyramids in brightly coloured plastic bowls. “Bananas!” they shouted as the car passed. “Fresh fruit!” The splashes of colour reminded Sarah of the jewel-like flashes beneath a parrot’s grey wings. She looked around for more relief from the drabness and saw yellow overalls on a line, hanging still in the scorched air; a glossy billboard; a pair of aquamarine curtains at a window.

Thabo slowed to avoid a straggle of children rolling old tyres down the side of the road. “We’re almost there,” he said over his shoulder. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to imagine the killer with dead black eyes running around as a small boy.

“Have you lived here for a long time?”

“I live closer to town now, but my mother has been here twenty years.”

Joel squeezed Sarah’s hand, reassuring and comforting. “You okay?”

She gathered herself and smiled back reassuringly. “I’m okay.”

The house was a simple brick construction, painted brown and set on a patch of dry earth. A few stunted corn plants wilted in the heat. Mrs Dlamini opened the door, eyes modestly downcast as was customary in her tradition. Thabo led the way inside, translating her quiet words as he did so. “She says many thanks for coming. She is very grateful.”

Sarah nodded. “Please tell her thank you for inviting us.” She squeezed Joel’s hand tightly.

Sarah looked around as they entered the front room. A tiny kitchen and two other doorways led off it. Thabo followed her eyes. “This is the living room. On the right is a bedroom and on the left a shower and toilet.”

The living room was spotlessly clean. Green tweed furniture sat on a brown linoleum floor; all the chairs were covered in plastic. “Mama says to please sit.” Thabo gestured to the furniture and Joel and Sarah sat carefully on the double settee while David and Thabo lowered themselves into armchairs. “Would you like some tea, or apple juice?”

Mrs Dlamini reappeared a few minutes later, with a metal tray and four glasses of juice. Sweat beaded the sides and ran in trickles onto the tray. Next to the glasses was a chipped saucer with several biscuits neatly arranged. Sarah helped herself and turned to face Mrs Dlamini. “Thank you very much. You’re very kind to welcome us into your home. It’s beautifully looked after.”

The older woman flushed beneath her dark skin, pleased with the compliment, and her shy smile remained as they ate and drank in silence.

Sarah took in the shabby Formica table in the corner, the small television with its bunny-ears aerial, and the old-fashioned coffee table that held the tray of refreshments. Limp beige curtains partly concealed rusted burglar guards at the window. The walls were a faded cream, with several photos pinned up. They followed the growth progression of two boys, through their school grades, with gap-toothed smiles and neat uniforms.

Sarah felt as though in a dream, floating outside her body. Was this really the house where Luke’s killer had grown up? Was this really his mother; the one who’d held him to her breast and watched him take his first shaky steps? She placed her empty glass on the tray, trying to still her quivering hand as Thabo initiated the conversation.

“Mama has some papers she wants to show you, if you are ready now?”

Mrs Dlamini disappeared into the bedroom and came back clutching a large brown envelope, its edges softened by handling and age. She laid it on the table and removed the tray before coming back and kneeling, traditional-style, before Joel and Sarah.

“She wants to show you how Sipho was as a boy.”

David leaned over to get a good view, and Thabo translated as his mother spoke in Zulu with the odd English word thrown in. Soon the contents of the envelope were spread out on the table; yellowed cuttings, brownish photographs, school reports and faded letters. Sarah felt as though she were watching a documentary on TV as Sipho’s life unfolded before their eyes. “He was born at Baragwaneth Hospital in June 1985, my parents’ first child.” Thabo handed them a picture of a wrinkled newborn, wrapped in a blanket, both parents proudly smiling into the camera. “My father’s cousin took this picture for them.”

The next photo was a toddler posing for the camera. He had a mat of thick black hair and a wide engaging smile. His eyes were clear and happy, although he was dressed in ragged clothes and wore no shoes.

He looked so normal
, Sarah thought.
Nothing like a killer
.

As his early years unfolded, Sarah realised that he’d grown up as a normal child who played in the streets, attended school and loved his mother. As they all had done.

Thabo pushed a newspaper cutting over to them next, fragile and worn where it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. “This story is about my father.” The headlines blared out at Sarah:
“Police Beating Results in Death”.

“What happened?” she asked. “Was it your father who died?”

Thabo sighed, looking across at his mother. “Baba had lost his job and we were starving. He stole some meat from a supermarket and they caught him and turned him over to the police. Some white cops beat him up and he died of internal bleeding a few hours later.”

Sarah bit her lip as she read through the article:

Mandla Dlamini was arrested yesterday morning after stealing two kilograms of meat from a supermarket. A security guard caught him as he was attempting to leave the store and management called the police. Three white constables took him into custody and bystanders report he was knocked to the ground and kicked and beaten before being thrown into a police van. Police later issued a statement saying that Dlamini was taken to hospital where he died from severe internal haemorrhaging. An investigation is underway, but it is understood that the constables had acted in self-defence. It is unlikely they will be charged.

A chink of understanding pierced Sarah’s heart. This family had just as much reason to hate the whites as she had to hate the blacks!

She hesitated. No, that was wrong. She didn’t hate
all
blacks. There was Patience, wasn’t there? Beloved Patience. And other friends over the years … people she had loved. Black people. She reflected sadly on how Luke’s death had tainted her views so deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” she said eventually. “I had no idea.”

Thabo nodded. “That was when Sipho began to change. He was devastated when Baba died. He was in his early teens. He swore he would take revenge on the whites for what they had done. He started by going into white areas and stealing washing off the line, stuff from garages, that type of thing.”

Mrs Dlamini, understanding enough of the conversation, chipped in and Thabo translated. “Mama says she tried to stop him, tried to show him it was the wrong way to go about things, but his heart was full of hatred.” A few tears tracked down the woman’s cheek, and Sarah felt her own eyes filling. “From there he graduated to house breaking and armed robberies. He was part of a well organised gang and they got away with a fortune in goods.”

Sarah turned to Thabo. “How did you end up in the police force?”

The young man leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “I wanted to make a positive difference. To try and counteract what my brother was doing. I hope to make the areas I work in better; to make the men and women accountable to someone.”

Joel put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “When did Sipho get involved with hijackings?”

“We didn’t see that much of him in recent years. He came home occasionally to sleep and would try and give Mama cash or goods. She never accepted a thing. I don’t know when he got involved in hijackings, but probably a year or so before …” His voice trailed off.

“Before he hijacked us.” Sarah finished the sentence for him.

“He seemed to thrive on it,” Thabo said. “It was as though it gave him power over the whites. I think that was why he did it, more than for financial gain.”

Sarah closed her eyes and saw Luke lying on the ground, the dusky lights of Soweto in the distance. Dlamini hauling her up and thrusting her into the boot; the overwhelming fear; the stench of oil rags. His probing fingers and the raw pain in her shoulder. She opened her eyes. “Please—go on.”

“We begged him to stop. I told him he was going to end up in jail but he just laughed at me. I was at home when he was arrested.” He placed a comforting hand on his mother’s arm. “A police buddy called me and said they had Sipho in custody. Mama and I went straight to the station, but we weren’t allowed to see him.”

Tears were flowing freely down Mrs Dlamini’s face now. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “sorry, sorry.”

To her surprise, Sarah heard David clear his throat in that way he had when he was emotional and wanted to cover it. She turned to Thabo, while searching for Joel’s hand.

“Please tell your mother I’m sorry, too. Sorry for what my people have done to yours over the years. I never realised until today.” Thabo translated and they sat silently for a long while, each consumed with their own thoughts.

Joel was the first to speak. “Could we please pray together?” He stood up, one hand in Sarah’s, and they all followed suit. Joel extended his other hand to Thabo. Sarah held out hers to Mrs Dlamini, who in turn reached out to David—who surprised his daughter yet again by taking the black woman’s tiny hand in his own, and closing his eyes.

They formed a tight circle in the middle of the room. Stale air hung between them, a mixture of deodorant, sweat and heat as Joel prayed.