Way Back Home. Niq Mhlongo

the moment an apology came from his mouth.

      “Okay, guys, I admit I’m in the wrong,” he started in a softened tone. “Can we solve this matter peacefully?”

      “What do you mean?” enquired the taller officer.

      “How much will my freedom cost me?”

      “A lot,” responded the officer with the onion breath. “Especially now that we have already gone to all the trouble of breathalysing you.”

      “How about a thousand rand, and we forget this ever happened?”

      “Bribery is a serious offence, do you know that?” said the officer with the onion breath. “It is called defeating the ends of justice, and you can go to jail for it.”

      “Please, guys. I’m begging you. My career is at stake here.”

      The two police officers remained quiet for a moment, as if they hadn’t heard Kimathi speak. They then looked at each other and nodded in agreement. After a few seconds, they turned their heads in unison and looked hard at Kimathi. The taller officer took out his gun and played with it as if it was a toy. “If you fuck with us, you’ll die,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

      “I will never, sir,” Kimathi replied, his heart gripped with fear. “Please forgive me. And yes, I’d had a few glasses to drink when you met me. I’m guilty as charged. I swear it will never happen again.”

      “You bet it will never happen again. Do you have the cash with you?” asked the officer with the onion breath.

      “Yes, I do.”

      “Okay, then. You give us the cash and disappear. But you’ll have to add another five hundred for wasting our time.”

      “That’s fine,” Kimathi said, taking out his wallet. “I’m prepared to do that for my freedom.”

      The taller officer narrowed his eyes. “The girl remains with us,” he commanded as Kimathi handed the cash to him. “We’ll take very good care of her,” he continued, splaying the bills out between his fingers. “She’s in good hands.”

      Kimathi looked at Lakeisha and then nodded at the police officers. He didn’t care if they took her away. She was a liability to him. Lakeisha started to cry like a child, as if pleading with Kimathi to rescue her. Kimathi watched the tears trickling down her cheeks.

      “No,” she protested feebly.

      “She’s all yours, officers,” Kimathi affirmed in a tone that let them know he didn’t care.

      “Of course she is,” said the officer with the onion breath, tossing Kimathi his car keys. “By the way, I saw a pack of cigars in your car. Can I have one?”

      “With pleasure,” said Kimathi, opening the car.

      “Please don’t leave me here,” pleaded Lakeisha. “Take me with you. I beg you. Please.”

      Kimathi ignored her and handed the wooden Cohiba Behike cigar box to the tall officer. “Here, take the whole box,” he said, climbing into his car – there were only three cigars left in the box and he had four boxes left at home.

      Lakeisha started to sob. Kimathi looked at her briefly as he started his car. The tear he saw on her left cheek lingered in his mind as he drove away, but any feeling of guilt lasted just a few minutes.

      Chapter 7

      8:45 am, Mafukuzela camp, Kwanza Sul province,

      Angola, 20 August 1987

      “Take cover, comrades!” Comrade Pilate shouted, looking upwards in an attempt to locate the origin of the roaring sound that filled the air around him. “The Boers are attacking us! Take cover!”

      People came sprinting from all corners of the camp, dust rising up as five South African Air Force Puma helicopters, each with a white letter painted on its belly, descended on the camp.

      Pilate screwed his eyes shut, opened them again and then blinked several times as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “It’s a raid!” he shouted over the sound of the engines. “Run to the trenches!”

      Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

      The sound of gunfire came from the helicopters as they came in to land. Three people behind Pilate fell to the ground. One of them had been shot in the neck, and he began to kick both his legs as the blood spurted from his wound.

      Ducking close to the ground, Pilate ran towards the escape trench. Two metres deep, it was surrounded by tall trees and thick bushes and ended in a dry riverbed that lay on the other side of the large maize field behind the camp. It had been dug for a moment exactly like this.

      Boom!

      A grenade exploded a few metres away, showering Pilate with dirt and throwing him to the ground. Climbing to his feet, he looked around in confusion. People were frantically running for cover, but very few of them were carrying their AKs, even though their lives were at stake. As Pilate watched, a woman clad in fatigues fell to the ground just outside Soshangane block. Another woman tried to help her to get up, but she was tripped by two men who were trying to get away.

      It was already too late for the comrades in Ndlela ka Sompisi block. The building was on fire, smoke billowing from the shattered windows. High-pitched screams filled the air as burning debris began to fall on those inside.

      Pilate tasted blood. Looking down, he saw two bodies at his feet. He touched his face. Blood from his two fallen comrades was congealing around his nose and mouth. “Shit,” he whispered, his teeth clattering against each other as if it was a cold day. “We’re dead people.”

      Chapter 8

      It was almost a done deal; there was every reason for Kimathi and his business partners to celebrate their achievement with Johnnie Walker Blue Label King George V whisky at six hundred and fifty rand a tot. Money was not the issue here, not with the multi-million rand government tender that they were about to land for their company, Mandulo Construction.

      Since five o’clock that afternoon, Kimathi and his three business partners, Se­chaba, George and Ganyani had been drinking with Ludwe Khakhaza, the director-general of the Department of Public Works, in the bar of the Park Hyatt hotel in Rosebank.

      “So, what’s my role in this whole thing?” asked Ganyani of his long-time exile friend Kimathi. Ganyani’s dark, round face and his big stomach gave him an aged look although he was only forty-seven.

      “Relax, comrade, you don’t have to do much here, but I promise you that we’ll all make good currency.” Kimathi smiled, forking at his plate of grilled tenderloin strips served over greens and dressed with crumbled Gorgonzola and tomatoes.

      “Com, you can’t call me all the way from Limpopo and book me into this expensive hotel for doing nothing much, as you say. Remember, I was also once a politician.” Ganyani paused and looked across the table at Kimathi and Ludwe. “I know when somebody is promising a bridge where there is no river. What inspired this kindness? That’s what I’m interested in.”

      “But isn’t it great, chief, to be remembered when you are far away in sleepy Elim?” asked Kimathi after a short, mocking laugh. “All we ask of you is to bring your very sharp knife, not a sickle. The fat cow has finally fallen and we don’t want you to complain later when you only see its horns and skin. We are the ones who know the secret jungle where this fat cow is, but we require your expertise in skinning beasts. That’s all.”

      They all laughed, except Ganyani, who looked up and cupped his chin in his hands. He gave his face a vigorous rub, as if he hoped it would help to clear the fog in his brain.

      Ganyani Novela had been a member of The Movement’s military wing, although he had never held any prominent position. Like Kimathi, he was a comrade who’d got involved in business. He was not interested in running a company, but he had gained financially from doing so. Because of their strong political connections, both Ganyani and Kimathi