Way Back Home. Niq Mhlongo

initially refused to move here to Dimbaza.” She stopped to wipe away a tear.

      “Was Grandfather also a politician?” asked Kimathi.

      “No.” Yoli shook her head. “He had big land where we planted maize, beans and potatoes. He also had many goats, pigs, and sheep. When he was taken to jail, we were brought here to Dimbaza, to this house, which was initially a wooden shack with a zinc roof. My father only joined us here six months later, but when he came, he decided to go and check his farm in Middelburg. There he found out that it was now owned by some Boer called Viljoen, who had also inherited our livestock. That’s when my father joined The Movement.”

      She paused and then continued, “One day, during the night, he went back to Middelburg and killed Viljoen. After that incident, our family was constantly harassed by the Boers, and that’s when your father left for exile. My father was caught in 1972 and hanged. We were never given his body to bury.”

      They shared a second of eye contact and Kimathi saw a spasm of hatred pass across Yoli’s face – she was obviously not the forgiving type.

      “This house was improved by my mother, Nomakhaya,” Yoli continued. “When we came here in 1967, it was just a leaking structure, but as you see now, it is a beautiful four-bedroom house. She used to work in King William’s Town, making dresses in a factory until she passed away of cancer three years ago.”

      “That’s not long ago,” said Kimathi.

      “Amabhunu ayizinja, mntanami. They are dogs,” Yoli concluded. “When we were forcibly removed, our six-year-old brother passed away in the back of the truck because of the cold. Now they want to reconcile? Reconciliation se voet! I’m glad my brother Lunga taught you politics. You and me must go back to Middelburg and claim our ancestral land from the Viljoens. Our great-grandparents’ graves are there. Now we cannot go and perform our traditional rituals because of those white bastards.”

      Yoli paused for breath, and then continued, “I went to the council to reclaim that land and they say I must come with title deeds. Where do they think I’ll get that paper, huh, mntanami? When I told them that our farm stretched from the two tall fig trees to the stream, they didn’t believe me because those trees are gone now. The Boers have chopped them down to hide the evidence. Those trees separated our farm from the Bacelas, who were also evicted.”

      She stopped and looked at her fingernails as if to examine the dirt beneath them. “Those council people looked at me as if I was a mad woman when I told them that those trees were our title deeds before the Viljoens occupied our farm. I’m no longer voting for any political party because they are failing to solve our problem of land.”

      At that point, a lady with an oval face entered the house. She was wearing a beige floral-print dress, a multi-strand necklace and brown showstopper heels. Ludwe’s eyes settled on her for a very long moment. Her face was flawless.

      “This is my daughter Unathi,” said Aunt Yoli.

      That night, before they slept, Ludwe spent some time talking to Unathi. She was interested in knowing more about her Uncle Lunga, and he seemed to be the right man to talk to. They exchanged contacts and Ludwe promised to use his network to try and get her a job in Joburg.

      The following day, the family prepared a great feast for Kimathi and Ludwe. A goat was slaughtered to welcome Kimathi home. After the party, they went with Nakho, Kimathi’s stepbrother, to the cemetery where their grandmother was buried. Nakho looked exactly like their father. However, despite everything, Kimathi felt no connection with his father’s home. Unathi and Ludwe, however, continued to talk, and on that day he was even able to put his arms around her. She agreed to visit Kimathi in Johannesburg, and she and Ludwe were married a year later.

      Chapter 6

      Kimathi sat silently in the back of the police van with a faraway look on his face. He bit his lip; he was filled with nervous expectation, and he remained silent for a while as if hunting for options in his mind. He could not bear the thought of sleeping in a police cell.

      When they reached Hillbrow police station, Kimathi was taken to an office where there were four female police officers.

      “It seems you have netted a big one today, officers,” said one of the female officers, who was sitting at a table writing something in a book. She had a smallish oval face.

      “Yes,” the officer with the onion breath responded, “a rich BEE.”

      “Where did you get him?” she asked.

      “From between a prostitute’s legs,” said the taller officer.

      There was laughter, and Kimathi looked embarrassed.

      “Did you take the picture of his thing?” asked the flat-chested female officer who was sitting in the corner. “I want to see how big he is.”

      “It’s all in my cellphone, but you’ll have to pay to see the bioscope,” teased the taller officer. “And he is a celebrity. He knows the Police Commissioner.”

      “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see his friend’s porn movie.”

      There was another ripple of laughter.

      “What’s your name, sir?” asked the officer standing next to a small machine that looked like a till.

      “You can’t charge me with anything,” protested Kimathi, staring at the breathalyser. “I’m not under the influence of alcohol.”

      “Yhooo!” said the fourth officer sarcastically. “This one seems to know a lot.”

      “But I’m not drunk,” Kimathi insisted. “Why should I tell you my name?”

      “Whether you want to tell us or not is irrelevant, mister,” said the lady behind the desk. “One way or another you’ll have to tell the magistrate.”

      Standing up, she opened a drawer and took out a tube that she connected to the breathalyser. She then demonstrated to Kimathi how he should blow into the device.

      “Just so that you know, sir,” started the female police officer before handing Kimathi the tube. “It is illegal to drive with an alcohol concentration of more than the limit of 0,24 milligrams.”

      She handed the device to Kimathi, but instead of doing as the officer had demonstrated, Kimathi started sucking air into his mouth and breathing it out so that the device could not read his level. This angered all the officers in the room.

      “You have three chances to blow into this breathalyser properly, mister,” said the female police officer with the oval face. “You must not waste our time.”

      “I told you, I didn’t drink any alcohol,” said Kimathi with obvious irritation in his voice. “And your German device concurs with me.”

      After failing to blow into the device correctly for the third time, the officer with the onion breath ordered Kimathi to stop.

      “Well, sir,” said the taller officer with a look of utmost hostility, “we’ll have to go to the clinic to take your blood.”

      “What does that mean?” asked Kimathi with a frightened look on his face.

      “Hawu, I thought you knew it all, mister,” answered the taller officer in a sarcastic tone. “But, for your information, we are going to check the alcohol concentration in your bloodstream; it will prove that you are drunk.”

      “Let’s go!” said the officer with the onion breath.

      “Don’t forget to show us his thing before the video hits the cinemas,” said the flat-chested female officer as they exited the office.

      “This one belongs to Hollywood,” said the taller officer. “The South African movie houses won’t be able to afford it.”

      “Don’t forget us when you make those millions,” she replied.

      A few minutes later Kimathi and the two police officers arrived back