his perfectly tailored Savile Row suit with natural authority. And when he spoke, his precise, well-modulated voice reflected an accent acquired during several years of advanced study at the London School of Economics. He sat comfortably in a chair, framed by a plain, pale-blue studio backdrop-apparently un flustered by the knowledge that his words and picture were being broadcast to several million television sets all across the United
States. As the leader of Inkatha, one of South Africa’s largest black political organizations, Mantizima was used to the exercise of power in all its forms.
The screen split, showing “Nightline” ‘s New Yorkbased anchor. Polite skepticism tinged the anchor’s own precise voice.
“As you know, Chief
Mantizima, many leaders of the ANC and other anti apartheid organizations have said that you’re nothing more than an apologist for Pretoria’s racial policies. Surely your continued opposition to Western economic sanctions seems likely to reinforce those charges?”
Mantizima shook his head vigorously.
“Your information is out-of-date,
Mr. Thorgood. It is true that I once opposed
sanctions as counterproductive-as bound to hurt our own people while discouraging constructive talks on South Africa’s future. But that was before this madman Vorster came to power. I had hoped that the Haymans government would someday see reason. I have no such hope for this new government dominated by thugs and murderers.”
The anchorman sat forward, visibly interested.
“Are you suggesting that you now support tighter economic sanctions?”
Mantizinia nodded once, his jaw firm.
“Yes, Mr. Thorgood. That is exactly what I am saying. And that is the message I intend to carry to both your
Congress and your president. In fact, I now believe that sanctions alone will not suffice. “
For once, “Nightline” ‘s top-rated moderator looked confused.
“But what other…”
Mantizima’s once-smiling eyes grew cold.
“Direct intervention. Only the full application of all the power in the hands of the Western democracies can put an end to this man Vorster’s genocidal reign of terror. “
Silence filled the airwaves for what seemed an eternity. Gideon Mantizima had done what no other politician or pundit had ever been able to do. He’d left “Nightline” ‘s veteran anchorman speechless.
“Off! I want that verdomde machine off! Now!” Vorster’s shout echoed around the wood-paneled walls of his office. From one corner, a pale, visibly frightened aide scurried to obey. The other men clustered around the television set shrank back into their chairs.
Mantizima’s image vanished in mid-sentence.
Vorster rose from behind his desk, his face grim.
“Treason! Treason so black that it stinks in my nostrils. ” His hands balled into fists.
“We’ve treated this, this skepsel—he used the Afrikaans word meaning “creature –almost as if he were a man for years. Allowed him to administer his own tribe land even. And this is how we are repaid!”
He turned to face the foreign minister.
“I want Mantizima’s passport revoked immediately, Jaap. “
The foreign minister, more skeletal than ever, sat wrapped in a heavy overcoat. He looked troubled. “is that wise, Mr. President? Why not simply arrest him on his return?”
Vorster shook his head decisively.
“No. Imprisonment or execution would only make him a martyr for Zulu hotheads. ” He smiled unpleasantly.
“By cutting him off from his followers, from his base of power, we will make this Mantizima just another wandering black beggar without a voice. He’ll wither away without troubling us further.”
Jowly Marius van der Heijden looked up, an ambitious gleam in his eye.
“And what of KwaZulu, Mr. President? Which black will you appoint to rule the homeland in Mantizima’s place?”
The others nodded. Van der Heijden had a good question. KwaZulu consisted of patches of separate territory scattered throughout Natal Province-most on or near the road and rail lines linking the province with the rest of
South Africa. And that meant Pretoria could not risk prolonged disorder in the homeland. Someone would have to fill the leadership vacuum left by Mantizima’s de facto exile.
“None! As of this moment, KwaZulu’s special status is ended. All administrative and police matters in the area will come under our direct supervision.
“This socalled warrior tribe will again learn to fear the lash, the gun, and our righteous anger-as they did in the days of our forefathers.”
His advisors murmured their approval.
South Africa’s 6 million Zulus would pay in blood for their chief ‘s arrant treachery.
SEPTEMBER 4-NEAR RICHARDS BAY, NATAL PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA
The Uys family farmhouse lay sheltered in a small valley meandering southeast from the Drakensberg Mountains toward the Indian Ocean. A shallow, gravel-bottomed creek bur bled gently past a large, one-story stone house, attached
garage, and shearing pens. Sheep wandered the hillsides above the valley, moving with docile stupidity from one patch of tall, green grass to the next.
It seemed the very picture of peace and tranquillity. But that was an illusion.
Piet Uys held the phone in shaking, work-gnarled hands, listening to the first three unanswered rings with mounting panic.
“Richards Bay police station. ” The voice on the other end was dry and businesslike-almost disinterested.
Uys took a quavering breath.
“This is Piet Uys of two Freeling Road. I want to report a theft in progress.”
The voice grew more interested.
“What kind of theft, Meneer Uys?”
“I have seen several blacks prowling around my sheep pens. They want my sheep!” Fear crept into the elderly farmer’s voice.
“We need the police here, as quick as you can. Please! “
“Calm down now, meneer. We’ll have a patrol on the way up there in minutes. Just stay in your house and don’t get in the way. We’ll deal with those blacks for you.”
“Yes, yes, I will stay inside. Hurry, please.” Uys hung up and stepped back from the phone, hands held away from his sides.
“That was very good, Mr. Uys. Very good, indeed. You’ve been most cooperative.”
The Afrikaner farmer looked up into the sardonic eyes of the tall, muscled Zulu leaning negligently against his kitchen countertop.
“You will not harm us then … as you promised?”
The Zulu smiled wryly and shook his head.
“Of course not. We do not make war on women, children, or old men. We leave that to your government.”
The black man stood up straight, suddenly seeming even taller.
“But the police are another matter entirely. They are fair game.”
He stroked the R4 assault rifle cradled in his hands.
“A beautiful weapon, Mr. Uys. Another reason we owe you our thanks. It will make our task this morning much easier.”
Uys’s leathery, weather-worn face crumpled. He’d been issued the rifle as a member of the neighborhood Commando-one of South
