the land from us without paying for it. We can, in a similar way, take it back from you without paying for it.”
“Can’t there be peace in this country?” Mr Adams had exclaimed.
“You can’t separate peace from land. No white person will be at peace until the land is returned to the people.”
By that time Mr Adams’s sons had arrived.
“What’s going on, Pops?” George had asked.
“We all have the right to live here,” Mr Adams had said, ignoring his son. “Historically, there were no black people here when white people arrived in the early sixteen hundreds. The Ngunis were all in northern KwaZulu, Mpumalanga, Swaziland and Mozambique. The Xhosas were in the Eastern Cape, across the Fish River. And the Pedis were all living in caves around Sekhukhuneland. You have no right to claim this land. Just because you are black doesn’t mean that you have a blank cheque for this entire region.”
“This is the land of our ancestors and we farmed here before you whites came.”
“You can’t blame us for what our ancestors did to your ancestors,” James had said. “We …”
The sound of a car passing on the main road to Bela-Bela interrupted Mr Adams’s daydream. Birds had settled in the tree above him and his two ridgebacks had curled up at his feet. As a breeze began to blow the birds took off, filling the air with their carolling, and the two ridgebacks burst out barking. Filled with fear, Mr Adams stood and brought his rifle to his shoulder.
“Come get me, you cowards! This is my farm!” His voice was loud and the words tumbled out. “You’re not getting shit out of it!”
The sun was at its height when Mr Adams reached the dam. His breathing sounded forced and the combination of anger and heat had made his face as red as an overripe tomato.
“The bastards were here last night,” Mr Adams said, throwing the sign he had taken down at his sons’ feet, his skin glistening with sweat.
“Are you okay, Pops?” asked Ben with concern on his face.
“I will be fine.” His lips quivered a little. “I told you: they’re all cowards, these bastards! They must come during the day and fight like men.”
Mr Adams joined his sons where they were standing at the fence by the dam, watching the crocodiles. The water was muddy and brown.
“Bloody kaffirs!” Mr Adams swore as he looked down on the crocodiles, writhing and tumbling in the dam.
That afternoon George called the police. They promised to come and investigate, but by eight in the evening they still hadn’t arrived at the house. After trying to get through to the station several times, Mr Adams was told that the police were understaffed and had twenty or more similar cases around the Bela-Bela area. Fifteen farms had already been occupied.
That night, around eleven, Grace was woken by muffled screams. Opening her curtain, she saw three figures dragging Knowledge’s wife, Memory, from her quarters.
At about five the following morning Mr Adams was woken by the bark of a jackal. Sitting up, he looked quickly around him, then reached for his rifle that was standing next to his bed.
Outside, the trees were swaying menacingly in the wind and the moon was covered by low-hanging clouds. The black wall of the forest seemed closer than Mr Adams remembered, as he peered from his window, but otherwise everything was quiet.
Mr Adams whistled to his sons.
“What is it, Pops?” George asked.
“Something is going on,” Mr Adams replied. “Take your positions, boys.”
As if on cue, the dogs began to bark. Men and women were surrounding the farmhouse, chanting slogans.
All the veins on Mr Adams’s neck stood out as soon as he heard the noise, fear beginning to brew in the pit of his stomach. As the crowd continued to approach the perimeter fence he opened the window and fired off a warning shot.
“Over my dead body! You people cannot take my farm!” His voice was full of forced bravery. “We have title deeds.”
Meanwhile George was busy trying to call the police – his cell phone in one hand and his gun in the other – and James was loading his rifle.
As Ben took his position at the back of the house two shots rang out, one of them smashing the kitchen window. He bravely kicked open the back door and started randomly shooting into the crowd. A woman went down, shot in the shoulder. She screamed, rolling her eyes and tearing at the earth in pain.
In response several shots cracked out, one after the other. One of the bullets pierced George’s chest and Mr Adams looked on in horror as his second born fell to the floor bleeding. Clutching his wound, George tried to reach his cell phone, which he had dropped when the bullet had hit him, but he slipped into unconsciousness before he could wrap his hand around it.
The sky was already bright when the police finally arrived. Mr Adams’s face was as white as chalk and his hair was caked with blood, which had also stained his khaki shirt. All his sons were lying face down, dead. A trail of blood led from the kitchen, down the passageway and into the lounge, showing the path Ben had taken before he finally collapsed next to his dying father. Meanwhile, outside, the comrades were tending to their wounded and dead, of which there were many. None of the comrades had tried to call the police as they were aware of how the latter operated. They knew that the police deliberately took their time whenever guns were involved.
Yellow police tape fluttered in the hot breeze, the colour lurid against the house’s ivy-clad walls. The police had found Mr Adams’s arsenal – explosives and automatic weapons – after questioning Patience and Grace. They had also found the human bones at the dam – Mr Adams had never been able to work out why the crocodiles grew so big so fast.
GOLIWOOD DRAMA
Soweto
The time was 16:00, according to the big clock at the Mangalani BP garage. If you were not from around Chiawelo you would think the time shown was correct, but the locals were aware that the “BP watch” was ahead of time by almost thirty minutes. That Saturday, 15 March, 16:30, the sky above Soweto was about to be ripped apart by fireworks. It was a day that would remind many Sowetans of the day Mandela was released from jail after spending twenty-seven years behind bars.
Thirty-nine-year-old Thami ducked involuntarily as the first set of explosions went off. His friend Vusi also flinched. They had been sitting on the balcony of their favourite Chiawelo shebeen – 24HOURS – since two o’clock that afternoon. They were not drunk yet, just tipsy, although Vusi had bulging, bloodshot eyes that could easily be mistaken for those of a drunken man. He was a lawyer by profession and had offices in Joburg. Thami worked as one of the cabinet minister’s bodyguards. Many people in the township called him “The Bull” because of his massive body.
24HOURS was filled with people and all eyes were glued to the TV that was mounted on the wall above the bar. There was no music playing. Everyone was waiting eagerly. Some people were biting their nails in anticipation. A very important announcement was about to be made by the FIFA President, Sepp Blatter. Everyone was hoping that South Africa would be selected ahead of Tunisia to host the World Cup in 2010.
Thami,
