when he had started courting her. When he had first seen her, that time in the investment consultant?s office, her hands? such deft, slim hands? her grace and pride, had been like a beacon to him. She wasn'?t even aware of him, but he could barely hear what the man was saying, she had consumed him so. He had been in love before, now and then, sometimes lust, sometimes more than that, but never absolutely right, never the way it was with Miriam, and she wanted nothing to do with him at first. The father of her child had put her off men, but he couldn'?t think of anything but her? Lord, to be in love like a teenager at his age, sweaty palms and heart beating haywire when he sat with her in Thibault Square in the bright sun and watched the cloud on the mountain grow and shrink and grow and he tried to hide the longing, afraid to scare her, his desire to touch her, to hold her hand, to press her against him and say, ?I love you, you belong to me, let me keep you safe, I will chase away your fears like an evil spirit, I will cherish you, hold you and honor you.?
He had to wait a year before he could make love to her, a year, twelve months of sighs and dreams, not at all what he had expected, soft and slow, quenching, and later his fingers on her body, no longer a young woman?s body, found the traces of motherhood and he was overwhelmed with compassion, his hands traced the marks in awe at this thing that she had accomplished, the life she had created and carried and borne; in her and on her she carried the fullness of her vocation, and he could only trace it with his fingertips, so conscious of his incompleteness, so filled with the urge to find his own.
How would he tell her of the land he had bought? He already knew how she would react, how she clung to the things she had control over, because there was so much she could not control. The battle she had fought to get where she was, in her house with her son, had been so long, so hard in a world of poverty and violence. Her work, her house, her daily routine? it was her sanctum, her shield, her very survival.
One Saturday he had looked up from the mathematics textbook he was studying and decided that today was the day. She had her needlework in her hands, he had turned down the radio and told her that in that time when he had stared into his own eyes, his urge had been to get away, to go back to where he came from, to continue his life?s journey back to the source, to begin again, a new life. To build something with his own hands? hands that had broken? perhaps a house, with his sweat and muscle and concentration, a place to live. To dig his fingers into the ground, to turn the earth and to plant and grow. He began to search, and weeks later he found it in the Cala valley, a beautiful place where the mist rose up against the mountain slopes in winter, where as far as the eye could see, the veld was an undulating green of fertility, Xhosa country, the landscape of his youth and his people.
He was on his way, busy with the final arrangements, when Miriam had crossed his path, and now, months later, the urge remained. But he could no longer do it alone, for he was no longer alone. He asked her to come with him. Her and Pakamile. They would take the child out of this harsh world and show him his heritage, let him learn other values, give him a carefree youth. There were schools there, in town, where he would get his education. She wouldn'?t have to work. It would be just the three of them; he could provide, he would provide, he would build this new life for them.
She was quiet for a long time, the needle and thread moving rhythmically in her hands. Then she said she needed to think about it? it was a big decision? and he nodded, grateful that she would at least consider it, that her first answer had not been no.
The lightning brought him back. It seemed there was rain up ahead. He looked at the odometer, another sixty to Beaufort West. The fuel was below half. The eastern horizon was changing color, he had to make town before daybreak to refuel. He opened the throttle, 160, feeling the tiredness in his body, 170, he checked the figures on his digital watch, 04:43, the night was nearly over, he had not come very far and there was a long way to go today. Kimberley? if he could get there, he could get a plane, 180, perhaps to Durban, to break the pattern, from Durban to Maputo, Maputo to Lusaka or something, but keeping flexible, 190, be adaptable, get this thing over and then go back, so Miriam would see he would never desert her, 200, the white lines on the road flew past, too fast, he had never gone so fast. Yes, the new day was a red ribbon in the east.
Two more vehicles arrived, an Opel Corsa and an Izuzu bakkie, policemen climbing out stiff-legged, pulling their raincoats tight around their bodies, irritated by the early call out and the rain. They walked over to Mazibuko.
?The sergeant called over the radio to say he has dropped off your men.?
?I know. We have radio contact. Where?s the sergeant now??
?They have gone home. Their shift is over.?
?Oh.?
?The road will get very busy once it?s light. Are you stopping everything??
?Just the necessary. Are you here to help??
?Yes.?
?Then you must move your vehicles.?
?How??
He directed them. He wanted a formation that would make running the roadblock impossible. They followed his instructions, pulling their vehicles into the road while he waded through puddles to the helicopter and pulled open the door. The flight engineer lay asleep in the back with mouth agape. The pilot was up front, awake.
?Do you have a weather report?? asked Mazibuko.
?Yes,? said the pilot. ?Rain. Any minute now.? He smiled broadly at his own joke.
?The rest of the day??
?The system will move east. It will clear in the afternoon.?
?Fuck.?
?You can say that again.?
Mazibuko pulled his cell phone from under his jacket and punched in a number.
?How far are you?? he asked.
?Just beyond Richmond,? said Lieutenant Penrose, second in command of the Reaction Unit.
?You must move.?
?We are driving as fast as we can, Captain.?
