cannabis. They harvest the dagga in the secret places in the hills and send it by the truckload to Cape Town and Johannesburg and Durban. He has twenty-five wives and is very rich.' They left the crumbling surface of the old road for the smooth blue asphalt expanse of the newly laid boulevard. The driver accelerated down between the green lawns and high brick walls of Nobs Hill, officially designated Drake's Farm Extension IV.
Suddenly he braked and turned off to pause before the steel gates of one of the more luxurious mansions. The electric gates slid aside silently and then closed again behind them as they drove through into a garden of planted shrubs and green lawns. There was a free-form swimming-pool below the terrace with a rock fountain at the centre. Sprink-
lers played upon the lawns, and Michael noticed two black gardeners in overalls working amongst the flowering plants.
The building was of ultra-modern design with plate-glass picture-windows and exposed woodwork. The roof was split into various levels and planes.
The driver parked below the main terrace, and a tall figure came down the steps to welcome Michael as he stepped out of the van.
'Michael!' Raleigh Tabaka's greeting took him unprepared, as did the friendly smile and hand-clasp. It was so different from the spirit of their last meeting in London.
Raleigh wore casual slacks and a white open-necked shirt which emphasized his fine unblemished skin and his romantic African features. Michael felt a charge of sexual electricity ripple across his fingertips as they shook hands. Raleigh was still one of the most impressive and attractive men that he had ever met.
'You are welcome,' he said, and Michael looked around him and lifted an eyebrow.
'Not bad, Raleigh. You are still keeping fine style.' 'This does not belong to me.' Raleigh shook his head. 'I own nothing other than the clothes on my back.' 'Who does all this belong to, then?' 'Questions, always questions,' Raleigh chided him with an edge to his voice.
'I am a journalist,' Michael pointed out. 'Questions are my meat and drink.' 'Of course. This house was built by the Trans Africa Foundation of America for the lady you are about to meet.' 'Trans Africa - that's an American civil rights group?' Michael asked.
'Isn't it run by the coloured evangelist preacher from Chicago, Doctor Rondall?' 'You are well informed.' Raleigh took his arm and led him up on to the wide terrace.
'It must have cost half a million dollars,' Michael persisted, and Raleigh shrugged and changed the subject.
'I promised to show you the children of apartheid, Michael, but first I want you to meet their mother, the mother of the nation.'
2ohe led Michael across the terrace. There were beach umbrellas spread in the sunshine, like a field of brightly coloured mushrooms. A dozen black children sat at the white plastic tables drinking Coca-Cola from the cans and listening to one of the ubiquitous portable transistor radios from which blared the driving rhythms of African jazz.
They were boys ranging in age from eight or nine years to the late teens.
All of them wore canary-yellow T-shirts with the legend 'Gama Athletics Club' printed across the chest. None of them stood up as Michael passed, but they watched him with flat incurious stares.
The glass doors of the main building stood open to the terrace, and Raleigh led the way into a split-level living-room whose walls were decorated with carved wooden masks and fetish statuettes. The stone floor was covered with animal-skin rugs.
'Something to drink, Michael?' Raleigh asked. 'Coffee or tea?' Michael shook his head. 'Nothing, but do you mind if I smoke?' 'I remember your habit,' Raleigh smiled. 'Go ahead. I'm sorry I can't offer you a match.' Michael paused with the lighter in his hand and glanced towards the upper level of the spacious room.
A woman came down the steps towards them. Michael took the unlit cigarette from his lips and stared at her. He knew who she was, of course. They called her the black Evita, the mother of the nation. However, none of the photographs had been able to capture her particular dark beauty and regal presence.
'Victoria Gama,' Raleigh introduced them. 'This is Michael Courtney, the newspaperman I told you about.' 'Yes,' Vicky Gama said. 'I know who Michael Courtney is. , She swept towards him with a stately dignity. She wore a full ankle-length caftan in striking green and yellow and 209 black, the colours of the banned African National Congress. Around her head was an emerald-green turban; the caftan and the turban were her trademarks.
She held out her hand to Michael. It was fine-boned, but the grip of her long tapered fingers was firm and cool, almost cold. Her skin was velvety smooth and the colour of dark amber.
-'Your mother was my husband's second wife,' she told Michael softly. 'She bore Moses Gama a son, as I did. Your mother is a fine woman, one of us.' Michael was always astounded by the total lack of jealousy between the wives of an African man. His wives regarded each other not as rivals, but rather as sisters with family ties and loyalties.
'How is Tara?' Vicky persisted, as she led Michael to one of the sofas and seated him comfortably. 'I have not seen her for many years. Is she still living in England? And how is Moses's son, Benjamin?' 'Yes, they are living in England,' Michael told her. 'I saw them both in London recently. Benjamin is a big lad now. He is doing very well. He is studying chemical engineering at Leeds University.' 'I wonder if he will ever return to Africa.' Vicky sat down beside him.
They chatted easily for a while, and Michael found himself coming under the spell of her charming personality.
At last she asked: 'So you want to meet some of my children, the children of apartheid?' It struck Michael that this was the only title for his article or perhaps series of articles that he would write.
'The children of apartheid,' he repeated. 'Yes, Mrs. Gama, I would like to meet your children.' 'Please call me Vicky. We are of the same family, Michael. Dare I also hope that our dreams and hopes are the same?' 'Yes, I think that we have a great deal in common, Vicky.' She led him back to the terrace and she called the children and youths around her and introduced them to Michael.
'He is our friend,' she told them. 'You may speak freely to him. Answer his questions. Tell him whatever he wants to know.' Michael threw off his jacket and tie and sat under one of the umbrellas.
The boys crowded around him. With Vicky Gama's endorsement and assurance they seemed to accept him immediately and were delighted that Michael spoke their language. Michael knew how to draw them out. Soon they were competing for his attention. He did not use his notepad to write down what they told him, for he knew that would inhibit them. He valued their spontaneity and frankness. Besides which, he did not need notes. He would not forget their words, and the sound of their young voices.
They told him stories that were funny and others that were harrowing. One of the boys had been at Sharpeville on that fateful day. As an infant he had been strapped to his mother's back. The same police bullet that had killed her had shattered one of his legs. The bone had set crookedly, and the other children called him 'Cripple Pete'. Michael wanted to weep as he listened to his story.
The afternoon passed too swiftly. Some of the boys left the group to swim in the pool. They stripped naked and plunged into the clear bright waters.
They shrieked with laughter and splashed each other as they played.
Raleigh sat aside with Vicky Gama and watched the scene. He saw the way that Michael looked at the naked children and he said to Vicky: 'I want you to keep him here tonight.' She nodded, and he went on: 'He likes boys. Do you have one for him?' She laughed softly. 'He can take his pick. My boys will do whatever I tell them to do.' She stood up and walked across to where Michael sat and placed her hand on his shoulder.
'Why don't you write your articles here? Stay with us tonight. I have a typewriter upstairs that you can use. Spend tomorrow with us also. The boys like you, and there are so many stories to hear...' Michael's fingers flew over the typewriter keys in an exuberant allegro, and the words appeared on the blank white page in serried ranks like warriors of the mind, ready to charge into the battle. The story wrote itself It was not the smoke that spiralled up from the cigarette between his lips that made Michael's eyelids prickle as he read what he was writing. Very seldom did he have this conviction of the vital worth and weight of his own composition. He knew, deep in his guts, that this was good, really good. This was the story of the 'children' as the world should hear it.
He finished the article which he knew now was only the first of a triumphant series and found that he was trembling with excitement. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was a few minutes before midnight, but he knew he could not sleep. The story still fizzed in his blood and seethed in his brain like some heady champagne.
There was a demure tap on the door that startled him. He called softly in Xhosa: 'It is open. Enter!' And one of the boys slipped into the bedroom.
He was dressed only in a pair of blue soccer- shorts.
'I heard you typing,' he said. 'I thought that you might like me to bring you some tea.' He was the youth whom Michael had most admired in the swimn-thing-pool. He had told Michael that he was sixteen years old. His body was sleek and inviting to stroke as a black cat.
'Thank you.' Michael found that his voice was husky. 'I would like that very much.' 'What are
