Sometimes There Is a Void (13 page)
Read Sometimes There Is a Void Online
Authors: Zakes Mda
After giving me a lecture about âService, Sacrifice and Suffering' which was the PAC motto, and after a harangue about my father who he accused of âsitting on the fence' since arriving in Lesotho, Potlako Leballo asked me to raise my hand and, in the presence of the three witnesses, swore me into the PAC. From then on I was a card-carrying member of the party, and not just a person who supported its ideals by virtue of being my father's son.
I enjoyed my brief stay in Maseru, especially hanging out at Sipho Shabalala's house and listening to him analyse our struggle in a manner that was reminiscent of my father. I enjoyed meeting other PAC refugees and seeing how our movement was the dominant factor both in local politics and the South African liberation struggle. The ANC's presence
in Lesotho was very low-key at the time â represented by the likes of Joe Matthews and Robin Cranko, both of whom were attorneys practising in Maseru â which some of us mistook for the ANC's universal weakness. On the other hand, our presence as the PAC and its military wing Poqo was quite robust; we strutted around bloviating and showing off, as if we owned the country. And this, by the way, was one of the major things that my father criticised about the PAC's behaviour in Lesotho. He felt that they were being arrogant towards their hosts and were treating them with disdain and disrespect.
in Lesotho was very low-key at the time â represented by the likes of Joe Matthews and Robin Cranko, both of whom were attorneys practising in Maseru â which some of us mistook for the ANC's universal weakness. On the other hand, our presence as the PAC and its military wing Poqo was quite robust; we strutted around bloviating and showing off, as if we owned the country. And this, by the way, was one of the major things that my father criticised about the PAC's behaviour in Lesotho. He felt that they were being arrogant towards their hosts and were treating them with disdain and disrespect.
The highlight of my visit to Maseru was the discovery of Maseru Café on Kingsway where Ntlabathi Mbuli and I had gone to buy South African newspapers â the
Rand Daily Mail
, the
Sunday Times
and
The Star
. There were some paperbacks on the shelves and this was my opportunity to buy James Hadley Chase's latest potboiler,
Tell It to the Birds
, which would surely make me the man of the moment when I returned to Mohale's Hoek. I was certain that not even Willie and Sabata, who between them had read every James Hadley Chase novel, had read this one since it had only been published a few months back. Oh, yes, at that point James Hadley Chase had crept into our lives and we had become obsessed with his leggy, smart and wily women who manipulated men and made them commit murder. We always knew who the killer was right from the beginning, but what sustained our interest was how the killer would be caught. So, we read and exchanged such titles as
No Orchids for Miss Blandish
,
You Never Know with Women
and
When You Are Dead
. Since we also liked Peter Cheyney's hard-boiled fiction, I bought titles featuring his famous protagonists: Lemmy Caution, an FBI agent, and Slim Callaghan, a British private eye.
Rand Daily Mail
, the
Sunday Times
and
The Star
. There were some paperbacks on the shelves and this was my opportunity to buy James Hadley Chase's latest potboiler,
Tell It to the Birds
, which would surely make me the man of the moment when I returned to Mohale's Hoek. I was certain that not even Willie and Sabata, who between them had read every James Hadley Chase novel, had read this one since it had only been published a few months back. Oh, yes, at that point James Hadley Chase had crept into our lives and we had become obsessed with his leggy, smart and wily women who manipulated men and made them commit murder. We always knew who the killer was right from the beginning, but what sustained our interest was how the killer would be caught. So, we read and exchanged such titles as
No Orchids for Miss Blandish
,
You Never Know with Women
and
When You Are Dead
. Since we also liked Peter Cheyney's hard-boiled fiction, I bought titles featuring his famous protagonists: Lemmy Caution, an FBI agent, and Slim Callaghan, a British private eye.
We were about to walk out of Maseru Café when something very colourful and familiar attracted my attention. Comic books! My favourites were all there:
Richie Rich
,
Spooky
,
Casper the Friendly Ghost
and all the other Harvey Comics titles. And some DC Comics too. Alas! I didn't have enough money to buy the shelf. Instead I had to make do with one
Richie Rich
and one
Batman and Robin
. I was going to read them over and over again when I got to Mohale's Hoek. Ntlabathi Mbuli was astounded that I had not outgrown such stuff.
Richie Rich
,
Spooky
,
Casper the Friendly Ghost
and all the other Harvey Comics titles. And some DC Comics too. Alas! I didn't have enough money to buy the shelf. Instead I had to make do with one
Richie Rich
and one
Batman and Robin
. I was going to read them over and over again when I got to Mohale's Hoek. Ntlabathi Mbuli was astounded that I had not outgrown such stuff.
âWe are in the middle of a revolution and this is what you read?' he asked.
âHow is it different from
Jude the Obscure
which you are always reading?' I asked. âHardy has nothing to do with the revolution either.'
Jude the Obscure
which you are always reading?' I asked. âHardy has nothing to do with the revolution either.'
I was being flippant; he was reading Thomas Hardy for his University of London exams. He only chuckled as we left the shop.
I was just happy that at least I knew now where comic books were sold in Lesotho.
Back in Mohale's Hoek I found that Willie and Sabata had a new hangout: a three-roomed red-brick house on a hill in the woods. This was Dlamini's house. He was a puny balding man who worked as a teller at the Standard Bank and was one of the local activists of the BCP. I don't know why I have forgotten his first name, even though I recall the full names of people who were less significant. I remember vaguely that it was something like Letsema or Leteba.
Dlamini became like a big brother to all of us and we spent a lot of time at his place. We ate many a meal there, spent the evenings playing Crazy Eight and Casino Royale or discussing girls and politics. Marake Makhetha was a regular visitor and there would be a twinkle in his eye as he led us in freedom songs.
At about this time a big conflict was brewing between the BCP and the Communist Party of Lesotho, led in Mohale's Hoek by A S Makhele whose daughter Mphokho had taken my fancy â as usual, nothing came of it because I was afraid to approach her.
The differences between the parties were as much about personalities as they were about ideology. The Communist Party received its financial and diplomatic support from the Soviet Union. But it was quite minuscule in Lesotho although its impact was large because of its resources. The BCP professed to be socialist as well, but in the Maoist vein. Their focus was on mobilising the peasants rather than the working class. There was, after all, no working class in Lesotho except for the small civil service, they argued. Lesotho was pretty much a pre-industrial, almost feudal, state with only one small factory in the whole country â a candle-making and petroleum jelly manufacturing outfit in a small village called Kolonyama. The major export was labour to the
mines and farms of South Africa. But as soon as these workers returned to Lesotho they resumed their role as peasants.
mines and farms of South Africa. But as soon as these workers returned to Lesotho they resumed their role as peasants.
The conflict between the two parties, a proxy war between the People's Republic of China and Russia (as we often called the Soviet Union), assumed such proportions that we had to arm ourselves. There were rumours of assassination squads who were roaming the streets of Mohale's Hoek in the guise of respectable citizens ready to eliminate our leaders. People were suspicious of one another. And of their own shadows. Soon a trunk full of handguns was delivered to Dlamini's house. It was a whole assortment of revolvers, derringers and seven-chambered pistols. We looked at them, eyes agog. There was another box full of assorted ammunition. I wondered how anyone would know which bullets belonged to which gun.
These arms and ammunition were kept in a small room that was never locked. We had access to them, but strangely enough none of us boys stole any even though it was obvious that if we took some no one would be the wiser. I don't think even Dlamini or Marake Makhetha ever counted them.
For days on end the trunk just sat there and no one found any use for its contents. Until Tholoana Moshoeshoe came from the BCP headquarters in Maseru. She was a tall woman with a big afro and the long legs of a model. Her face was marred a bit by
chubabas
â the dark spots where the skin had been burnt by the hydroquinone of skin lightening creams. It was nevertheless a pretty face. I thought it would have been more beautiful if she smiled a bit. She seemed to be moping over something all the time.
chubabas
â the dark spots where the skin had been burnt by the hydroquinone of skin lightening creams. It was nevertheless a pretty face. I thought it would have been more beautiful if she smiled a bit. She seemed to be moping over something all the time.
Tholoana Moshoeshoe spent most of her time in bed. We would arrive at the camp â we had taken to calling Dlamini's house âthe camp' â at midday and she would be sitting in her nightie reading a book, her long legs curled on the bed. We could only imagine what was happening between her and Dlamini at night when we were all gone back to our homes. We envied him the gift that the BCP headquarters had placed on his undeserving bed.
âDo you think she will give us if we ask nicely?' asked Sabata one day. By âgive us' of course he meant âallow us to have sex with her'. By
that time Tholoana Moshoeshoe had been there for almost a month. It was December, schools were closed and our heads were full of nothing but mischief. And this included carnal desire for the much older woman who spent her life in bed. But we dared not approach her with a request for a bout of love-making even though there were only three of us in the house. That would have been disrespectful. So we did the next best thing; we covertly leered at her legs while browsing through Sabata's catalogue of a Durban mail order company flogging love potions. Those days you could trust mail order houses in Durban to sell all sorts of snake-oil â ranging from Mahomedy's who sold cheap clothes and trinkets with magical powers to apothecaries that boasted joint Indian and Zulu ownership, âtribes well-known for their strong
muti
(potions)'. We wondered which of the potions would be effective on Tholoana Moshoeshoe. Among those we found most attractive were
zamlandela
, a perfume that made girls follow you everywhere at the slightest whiff, or
bhekaminangedwa
, a root that you chewed which compelled girls to pay attention only to you and no one else, or perhaps
velabahleke
, a cream that you dabbed on your skin to make yourself so lovable that when you appeared girls laughed with joy. Alas, we had no money for any of these wonderful concoctions; otherwise we wouldn't have hesitated to order them. If it were not for want of money, Tholoana Moshoeshoe would have been my first experience, if you don't count what happened to me at KwaGcina with Nontonje.
that time Tholoana Moshoeshoe had been there for almost a month. It was December, schools were closed and our heads were full of nothing but mischief. And this included carnal desire for the much older woman who spent her life in bed. But we dared not approach her with a request for a bout of love-making even though there were only three of us in the house. That would have been disrespectful. So we did the next best thing; we covertly leered at her legs while browsing through Sabata's catalogue of a Durban mail order company flogging love potions. Those days you could trust mail order houses in Durban to sell all sorts of snake-oil â ranging from Mahomedy's who sold cheap clothes and trinkets with magical powers to apothecaries that boasted joint Indian and Zulu ownership, âtribes well-known for their strong
muti
(potions)'. We wondered which of the potions would be effective on Tholoana Moshoeshoe. Among those we found most attractive were
zamlandela
, a perfume that made girls follow you everywhere at the slightest whiff, or
bhekaminangedwa
, a root that you chewed which compelled girls to pay attention only to you and no one else, or perhaps
velabahleke
, a cream that you dabbed on your skin to make yourself so lovable that when you appeared girls laughed with joy. Alas, we had no money for any of these wonderful concoctions; otherwise we wouldn't have hesitated to order them. If it were not for want of money, Tholoana Moshoeshoe would have been my first experience, if you don't count what happened to me at KwaGcina with Nontonje.
We were sitting at the table whispering and giggling about what we would do to Tholoana Moshoeshoe and all the other girls we fancied if we had the potions.
âMaybe they don't work,' whispered Sabata. âMaybe it's just a scam.'
âFor sure they do,' I said. âI have seen them work.'
âYou have actually seen these wonderful medicines with your own eyes?
âI have actually touched them.'
This was not a lie. I knew of their efficacy from Sterkspruit; Cousin Mlungisi used to order them from Durban, and Cousin Mlungisi was very popular with girls. He used to get small parcels wrapped in brown paper from the post office and he would let me touch the potions as
soon as he had unwrapped them. Some were in tiny bottles and smelled like some cheap perfume, others were foul-smelling ointments or herbs. He never shared any of these mixtures with me, though; he said the herbalists who sold them insisted that they worked only for the person who bought them. If he were to let someone else use them their power flew away and returned to the Indian Ocean whence it came.
soon as he had unwrapped them. Some were in tiny bottles and smelled like some cheap perfume, others were foul-smelling ointments or herbs. He never shared any of these mixtures with me, though; he said the herbalists who sold them insisted that they worked only for the person who bought them. If he were to let someone else use them their power flew away and returned to the Indian Ocean whence it came.
Tholoana Moshoeshoe broke up our conspiratorial giggles. âYou must be having fun there, boys,' she said and smiled. She had never smiled at us before, so we fidgeted uneasily.
She stood up from the bed and walked to the table. This caught us by surprise and it was too late for us to hide the catalogue. But that was not what she was interested in; she didn't even give it a second look. She wanted to talk to us about a very serious matter, she said.
âDo you know anything about Marake Makhetha?' she asked.
Of course we knew Marake Makhetha. He was like an older brother to us. He was our political mentor. He was the man who sang freedom songs with such a beautiful voice.
Tholoana Moshoeshoe told us Marake Makhetha was not the person we thought he was. He was in fact a spy of the Communist Party who had been planted in our midst to destroy the BCP. She had been sent by Ntsu Mokhehle himself to come to Mohale's Hoek, observe Marake Makhetha closely and then eliminate him. That was her sole mission here, from
Moetapele
â the Leader â himself. It was therefore our patriotic duty to kill Marake Makhetha.
Moetapele
â the Leader â himself. It was therefore our patriotic duty to kill Marake Makhetha.
At first we thought she was joking, but she was in earnest. It had to be done that night. There was great urgency because he was planning something that very moment that would destroy the Leader and plunge the country into turmoil. We were the heroes who could save Lesotho. She asked us to select two guns from the trunk and she would help find suitable ammunition for them. Sabata picked a Browning pistol and I opted for a derringer with a white handle.
âThat's a lady's gun,' said Tholoana Moshoeshoe, smiling. âBut it will kill him just as well.'
She took our weapons and went into the gun room. We remained behind, debating if we really wanted to kill Marake Makhetha who
never harmed us and treated us like his own little brothers. Sabata said that in a revolution one had to suppress all personal emotions about people and do what was right for the good of the country. I had never known Sabata to talk so much political sense before and I agreed with him totally. We were going to accomplish our mission; we were not going to let
Moetapele
down. After all, I knew Ntsu Mokhehle personally. I had toured the Quthing district with him trying to convince the Bathepu people to change from their reactionary ways. He was an avuncular guy with the unruly hair of a revolutionary and a broad dark face that was always ready with a smile. He was dedicated to the freedom of his people from the yoke of the British government and the Boers of South Africa. If Marake Makhetha wanted to harm him, then Marake Makhetha was our enemy. Marake Makhetha must die!
never harmed us and treated us like his own little brothers. Sabata said that in a revolution one had to suppress all personal emotions about people and do what was right for the good of the country. I had never known Sabata to talk so much political sense before and I agreed with him totally. We were going to accomplish our mission; we were not going to let
Moetapele
down. After all, I knew Ntsu Mokhehle personally. I had toured the Quthing district with him trying to convince the Bathepu people to change from their reactionary ways. He was an avuncular guy with the unruly hair of a revolutionary and a broad dark face that was always ready with a smile. He was dedicated to the freedom of his people from the yoke of the British government and the Boers of South Africa. If Marake Makhetha wanted to harm him, then Marake Makhetha was our enemy. Marake Makhetha must die!
After a few minutes Tholoana Moshoeshoe came back with the bullets and showed us how to load them in the guns. I had touched these guns before, but I had never held in my hand a loaded gun. No one had ever taught us how to shoot. Of course we knew that any fool could aim and pull the trigger. We had seen it all in the movies. That was what we would do. That was all that was required of us. The only lesson she gave us was how to release the safety catch for Sabata's handgun. Mine had an internal safety.
Marake Makhetha's home was at Lithoteng, a township that was about four miles away from our camp. Sabata and I walked silently in the middle of the night to waylay him at a wide donga which he had to cross to get to his home. This was an ideal place because it had rocks and boulders and at that time there would be no witnesses. Before we took our positions behind two boulders Sabata said, âMaybe after this she will give us.' Trust Sabata to think of carnal pleasures at a time like this. âDon't you think?' he asked desperately. I didn't give a damn if she gave us or not. I just wanted this thing to be over with so that I could go back to my comfortable bed at Mafoso's. The sooner Marake Makhetha appeared and we blasted his head off, saving Lesotho from calamity, the better. So, who the hell cared if Tholoana Moshoeshoe gave us or not?
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