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 had become successful businessmen upon their return to South Africa. In fact, when the ruling party promised to build one million new homes for the poor during its first term in office, Ganyani’s construction company, GAZA, had benefited by closing a thirty million rand deal to construct houses in the Elim area of Limpopo province. Ganyani had long forgotten his past as a primary school teacher in Elim; his huge stomach dominated the corner of the Hyatt hotel bar.
Kimathi put all three of his cellphones on the table, including the one he had just taken from his cream Dunhill jacket. Ganyani sipped his whisky without talking. Kimathi winked at him joyously, and held up his glass. “Relax and enjoy your whisky, com,” he said, studying the amber-coloured liquid before sipping it. “You Shanganese like to complain a lot, just like you did in exile.”
There was mild laughter from the others, including George, who was the only qualified engineer among them. George worked for TTZ, one of the country’s “big five” construction companies, which had in the past benefited from government tenders of more than one billion rand. Ludwe, Ganyani, Sechaba and Kimathi had known each other since exile days, but George’s link to this group of comrades was his company’s need for a recognised BEE partner in order to be considered for tender applications. This was the only reason TTZ was interested in Mandulo, which belonged to Kimathi and Sechaba.
“Point of correction, comrade,” interjected Ganyani after the laughter had subsided. “It’s actually Shangaan, not Shanganese. You mean to tell me that since you came back from Angola you haven’t learned anything about our country? You don’t even know how to pronounce the word ‘Shangaan’? You are pathetic, comrade.”
“You can’t blame me for being born in exile, com,” Kimathi said defensively. “It was not my choice, but the revolution’s. Anyway, there is only one language in this world, and that is what brought us together here. Currency, comrade! Money!”
There were nods of approval around the table at the mention of the word “currency”. Kimathi sipped from his glass again, popped an olive in his mouth, removed the pit and put it on the plate in front of him.
“All right, this is what your role is, Mr Novela,” said George to Ganyani.
George was the only white man in the group. A Greek-American, originally from Ames, Iowa, had grown up on the banks of the Skunk River, and had studied engineering at Iowa State University. He wore a cheap blue shirt, a beltless pair of old blue jeans and his beard needed trimming.
George retrieved a file from the table and opened it. He paged through to a map. “There are about thirty farms in this area of Soutpansberg Coal Reef
