The Smoke That Thunders Page 12

  With tears weaving down his cheeks, Dumisani went on, “I tell you, South Africa shall never be the same. Embers were ignited, and now the flames are unstoppable. These flames will only burn more fiercely as long as the fuel remains. Protests are growing. Young Blacks are realizing the time has come to demand … no, the time has come to bring change.” Dumisani stopped, and more tears trickled down his cheeks.

  Silence enveloped the room. Their guests sat looking down at the table. Chad felt uncomfortable with the silence, with the tears, with the reality of the scene that had been thrust upon his mind’s eye, and uncomfortable with the veiled call to invest in something other than himself. He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

  Roger rose and stood behind Dumisani and put his hands on his shoulders. “Thank you, Dumisani. Ngiyabonga chana.” Roger looked at Peter and said, “Whites, too, have been stirred by June 16, awakened to the tragedy and the ugliness that is apartheid. It is time to join with the Blacks, lest we end up destroying what we – Blacks and Whites together – love. Lest this great country of ours be lost.”

  Chad returned and stood by the window.

  Roger said, “Soweto is a senseless tragedy we must now make sense of … by bringing about the end of apartheid. Next Saturday, some churches are joining together for a workday in Soweto, helping to spruce up one of the schools and deliver some school supplies. How about you two joining us? It would be an experience.”

  Chad answered quickly, “Yeah, that would be great, but we’re booked up. We’ve got—”

  Peter interrupted, “But we can check and see if we can arrange that.”

  Chad shot Peter a quizzical glance.

  Peter ignored Chad’s silent communication and continued, “We’ll let you know. It might be a cool thing to do.”

  Peter’s use of that inane word mortified Chad, given the present company and the substance of the afternoon. He was also surprised and angered by Peter’s rush to accept the invitation.

  Dumisani drove the visitors back to Vanderbijlpark. They rode in silence, avoiding the usual corny jokes, lame puns, and sarcastic remarks they always employed to pass time or avoid the tension of awkward moments. They left Dumisani to himself while they tried to keep the nightmarish images of June 16 out of their own heads.

  ***

  Simon had afternoon tea brewing when Peter and Chad arrived home. “Good God! It’s too hot for tea, Ole Bean,” Chad said as Simon handed him a cup of tea, milk with one sugar.

  “Oh,” Simon winked. “It will help you cool down. You see, the hot water raises your internal temperature, thus enabling your body to adjust to the external temperature.”

  Chad laughed, “That may be one of the most absurd rationalizations I have ever heard. That is a myth your English ancestors created to justify their unnecessary but habitual custom of having an afternoon cup of hot tea in the middle of Africa.”

  Peter said, “Definitely the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

  “Ag. Say what you will. I find it to be true through personal experience.” Simon sipped his steaming tea and gave out a satisfying sigh. “And? How was your day? How did you find the Grace Church? How was your time with good Roger?” The odd inflection Simon used in these questions evoked a feeling in both that they had done something wrong.

  Chad responded, pronouncing each word with finality, indicating he did not wish to elaborate on his day, “Fine … interesting … and tiring.”

  Simon responded, “Annnd?” His look and tone demanded elaboration.

  “Well, I was surprised to see Bantus in the church,” Peter said. “I didn’t think that was … well, legal.”

  Simon laughed. “There are a few White churches that have Bantus in attendance. They would be welcomed by many churches, except perhaps the Dutch Reformed Church, which is very Afrikaner. But it is difficult for most churches to have Blacks among the congregation. Many would find it … well, objectionable. Then again, Africans are more comfortable in their own churches, where they can express themselves in ways that address their culture and their understanding of faith.”

  Peter asked, “This is what puzzles me. Why would Bantus, natives, want to believe in Christianity anyway? Think about it. It’s the colonists, the missionaries who forced it on them. If I was a Black African, I would have nothing to do with the White man’s religion.”

  Simon laughed. Chad looked at Peter with a glare that suggested he was more of a fool than he thought. Simon responded, “Perhaps, Peter, your God is too small. Think about what you just said. That, my dear brother, is actually very – well, I hate to say it – very small minded indeed.”

  “No it’s not,” Peter whined.

  “Think about it, Peter. You have reduced Christian faith to something quite small and frail. You’re suggesting Christianity is simply a White man’s creation. If that were all it is, it would be absolutely useless to us and anyone else. The colonists only passed on what they had embraced about the Hebrew God and the Jewish concept of a Messiah. Our Africans here don’t believe in a White man’s God, but in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Their God, their Messiah is Black. Peter, God transcends the color of skin.”

  Peter shook his head. “More nonsense, Simon. That doesn’t make sense to me. If I was a Bantu, I would have nothing to do with a White man’s—”

  Chad threw his hands up and groaned. “Peter, shut up! Please be quiet. Simon, what is your take on the fallout of June 16? I mean, how do you see it? These riots and stuff, does it worry you?”

  Simon leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and shook his head. “Blacks are, of course, upset and demanding change. However, such anger always subsides. Nothing much can come of such things. The government will handle it. And obviously, any problems are now very isolated.”

  “Roger preached that the Whites should be involved, pushing for the end to apartheid and working for majority rule. What do you think? Should Whites be doing more, working with Bantus more?” Peter asked, leaning closer to Simon to gauge his response carefully.

  Simon finished his cup of tea and filled his cup from a teapot shaped like a cat, which someone had given him as a joke one Christmas. Chad spoke as Simon added milk to his cup, “That, I think is ridiculous. It would be undermining what they have here, what they’ve already built. No one thinks Black rule is a good thing right now.”

  Peter looked at Chad out of the corner of his left eye. “Good God, Chad! You sound like a flipping Afrikaner. Is that what you think, Simon?”

  Simon’s reply was. “I think the Blacks have much learning to do, growing, maturing, in order to accomplish what is desired. I think we have to allow them to do that, and I am happy to do so, but this will take time – a lot of time. Do I believe there is a revolution coming? No. I don’t. And no, I do not believe it is our place to push or encourage such things at this moment in time.”

  “When then? When is the right time for Black rule in your country?” Peter retorted.

  Simon became somewhat incredulous. “Not soon, not soon. We must ensure that the country remains strong and proud. I shall deal with the future when it comes, and I pray it comes in the right way. But soon? No.” He glanced at the time. “Now, it’s getting on. Shouldn’t you two be preparing for tonight’s youth service?”

  Peter and Chad took the hint and went to the bedroom to go over their plans for the Sunday evening youth group. Chad started talking about Sarah. Peter lay on his bed and shut out the inane chatter of his friend. He quickly dozed off.

  CHAPTER 11

  Soweto Revisited

  Late one Sunday night, as Chad lay motionless and sleepless in bed, the words flashed in his mind: It’s time. The friendship can now become what it is destined to be. The time is now. He had no doubt whatsoever that at that very moment, Sarah was lying in her bed experiencing the exact same revelation.

  Chad’s only concern was Johan Van den Berg. Sarah once said in passing, “Dad would go over the top if I married someone who�
�s not an Afrikaner. Marrying a foreigner would mean a family split. Marrying an American would reignite the Boer War.”

  Chad dismissed the comment as hyperbole and nothing more. He simply laughed and assumed her laughter confirmed that she was being ‘over the top.’ After her laughter subsided, he told her, “Soon you’ll turn eighteen. You can make your own decisions then. Yep, when you turn eighteen, that’s the magic day.” In response, she looked down at her feet and allowed a sheepish smile to grow.

  ***

  On Tuesday, Peter decided he would go to Soweto – he should, he must. The haunting images of June 16 urged him to pay homage, tribute, or something to the slaughtered sons and daughters of South Africa.

  When he told Chad they should go, Chad’s response was immediate, with not one second for contemplation: “I know enough. I don’t need to see it.”

  After three further attempts to convince him he should go, Peter told Chad he would go without him. He assumed that would show Chad just how important this was to him and Chad would accompany him simply because he was his friend.

  Chad responded curtly if not cruelly, “That’s cool. You go. I ain’t going! Stop asking.”

  Peter called Roger. He hesitantly stated he was interested in joining the church project. “But I’m not sure how I can get there,” he said, hinting for a lift.

  “That is not a problem, mate,” Roger said, showing no surprise in his interest. He did show some surprise when Peter indicated Chad would not be coming. “Oh,” he said.

  Peter hung up. He had the distinct impression that Roger assumed that they would be joining them on Saturday – both of them. Peter realized Roger had overestimated his and Chad’s concern for and commitment to world affairs. Roger would not have fathomed that both had opted out of caring for anything that required conviction, passion, and selflessness – albeit both for their own reasons. Roger would have taken it for granted that they came to South Africa with a keen awareness of and a deep concern for the atrocity of apartheid and the plight of the Africans. He would have assumed that a desire to stand in solidarity against such oppression drew them to his country. Peter was sorry and embarrassed that neither of these Americans could fulfill that supposed altruism.

  ***

  Peter informed Simon of his Saturday outing. He thought Simon would be pleased and supportive, but Simon instead made a subtle effort to dissuade Peter from going, “That will make quite a long day for you. Have you considered it will not give you much time to prepare for Sunday?” He made a deliberate pause, then added, “And you understand it can be dangerous there. Whites are not particularly welcome in the townships.”

  Peter began to second-guess his decision, and by Friday morning, Peter had convinced himself that it was a foolish venture. Chad’s right. It’s not worth the time, the effort. It’s not anything I need to be worrying about. Why raise my anxiety by doing something I don’t have to do?

  He called Roger’s place, and Dumisani answered. “This is Peter. Is Roger there … Oh, I’m fine … No, no message … Yes, yes I am looking forward to it very much as well … That’s okay … Just checking about tomorrow. It is eight, right? Yes, thank you … No, just tell him I called … No, eight’s no problem … Thank you …Yes, yes, I am too … Thanks.”

  Sleep evaded Peter that Friday night. He berated himself for not speaking up and relaying to Dumisani his intended. As the night wore on, his anxiety kept building. He worked hard to convince his body to relax. He prayed ferociously that a panic attack would not rear its hideous head. By dawn, he was exhausted.

  ***

  “Peter, tell me about your life in America. Tell me the story of your family.” Dumisani invited Peter to share as they began their journey to Soweto.

  Peter looked at the African and saw eager and curious eyes and a smile that seemed so innocent and so accepting. Peter gave prolonged answers at first because he wanted to avoid any probing into his political views, such as his assessment of apartheid and South Africa’s racist government. However, as he continued to talk, he forgot these fears and rambled on about himself and his family with more candor, even intimacy, than he imagined himself capable of offering. He talked about his parents, his sisters, and even his unrequited love. For the first time ever, he talked about his secrets: anxiety, panic attacks, and a darkness that had shrouded his adult life.

  By the time they arrived at their destination, Peter felt oddly comfortable, at ease. He felt connected to this Black man with the harsh face and disarming smile. He also felt disappointed and ashamed that he had made little attempt to learn more about Dumisani and his life. He promised himself that he would ask the questions the next time he had the opportunity to do so.

  ***

  As they drove down the unpaved streets of Soweto, Peter knew he had entered a different world; this was not the South Africa he had grown to love. All he could see were small shanty houses, block after block, mile after mile. Most had tin roofs and flimsy corrugated tin walls, no larger than a two-car garage. Few trees populated the dusty terrain. There were no lawns, no green grass. A few homes had small, but proud flowerbeds, which seemed lonely and out of place.

  Turning down another street with rows of identical, tiny shacks, Dumisani said, “It is sad, but too often two, three, or even four families may reside in one of these homes. See them? Getting water over there? Ten or twelve houses will have to use just one of those water faucets. And electricity is so scarce. Few houses have that luxury.”

  “How many live here in Soweto?”

  “Half a million. Can you believe that? Ten square miles with over half a million African souls.”

  “Why? Why do they live here?”

  Dumisani laughed loudly, causing Peter to feel naïve. When his laughter faded, he said, “They live here because they are told to live here. They are told they may not live in the cities and towns … they are for Whites only. Our dear government cares little about this place or the people in it. It does as little as it can to help them survive. They do not care. They only care that the Blacks do not encroach on their world. They only care that the Blacks do what they are told to do. They only care that Black men and women come to serve them, do the jobs they are too good to do, and then demand they disappear. Look around you, Peter. This is apartheid. That is why they live here.”

  As they drove through the township, Peter took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Soweto. The stench of rotting garbage came when the breeze picked up and overpowered the smell of burning fires cooking fresh poultry. The streets were crowded; laughing children ran back and forth, weary moms worked to corral distracted children as they balanced pots of water, wood, or groceries on their heads. Along back streets, furtive teenagers talked, flirted, and laughed. Young children played soccer in the side streets.

  “Look there, Peter,” Dumisani said, pointing to a house that was indistinguishable among the thousands. “There is the home my family lived in for five years.” A grin grew but then slipped into a frown, “After the events of June, the government told me to move. ‘ You are to go this township,’ they said. ‘You are to live now in the township of Tsakane.’ That is a township east of Johannesburg. My family is now in Temba, a township in Bophuthatswana, north of Pretoria. I am fortunate we are no further apart. They do not think twice about separating families.”

  “But why did they make you move?”

  Dumisani’s eyes widened. He spoke with obvious pride. “I am known to speak my mind, Peter. They are afraid to let us speak our minds. They did not want me in Soweto because I would challenge the young to think for themselves and I would encourage them to hope. They want no more hope in Soweto. I am not to be here today, but I do not care.”

  Arriving at the school, Peter saw dozens of Blacks and a few Whites buzzing around, busy unloading two rented vans crammed with desks, chairs, school supplies, and even brand new school uniforms. Excited children swarmed the vans and their White visitors, helping them unload their new treasur
es, exuberant to see their school upgraded.

  Peter joined the work force, grabbing boxes, desks, and whatever was handed to him. Happy faces surrounded him, welcoming him into their world. When they heard his accent, they were curious about this foreigner from America. They asked all kinds of questions about the cinema, about movie stars, and about life in Oklahoma, “Do you speak English or American there? Are the cowboys and Indians still there?” Many spoke English, but when not talking to the Whites, they spoke their own tongue, largely KwaZulu. More than most townships, Soweto included a mix of tribes with their own languages, though Zulu remained the most used by far.

  After the vans were unloaded, Peter pitched in to help with the cleaning and painting of classrooms. He wondered if the Blacks thought it odd to have these Whites laboring side by side with them. He wondered if it would stir anger and remind them of their forced servitude, remind them that they were being treated as less than equal, even less than human. Peter realized they no doubt lived day to day, moment to moment, in the reality of apartheid and all its ugliness.

  After hours of satisfying, sweat-inducing labor, a bell rang, and they gathered for lunch. All shared the bread and cheese, the ample fruit and squash, brought by many. Then, they called out to God, praying for the church that shared so generously, crying out for their community and their country, and imploring God to grant safety, peace, and change.