?It is more ? practical.?
From the corner sounded the melodious voice of the minister of water affairs and forestry. ?We must remember one thing,? he said.
All the heads turned.
?We are talking about Umzingeli.?
Talking nonstop, Koos Kok had unloaded two chairs from the back of his dilapidated twenty-five-year-old Chevrolet El Camino van, and now they were seated at the table, eating bread and tinned pilchards in rich chili tomato sauce and drinking cheap brandy out of enamel mugs.
?I am the great Griqua troubadour,? he introduced himself in his Griqua dialect, ?the guitar player that David Kramer overlooked,
?I can?t understand what you?re saying,? Thobela said, halting him.
?I don'?t speak Xhosa, my brother,
?You?'re not speaking Afrikaans, either.?
?Dutchman Afrikaans? Well, I can.? And his story emerged on a flood of shamelessly self-centered words, the wrinkled, weathered face animated with the telling in conventional language until he reverted to the tongue of his people and Thobela had to frown and put up his hand to get a translation. Here was the Troubadour of the Northern Cape, the entertainer of the ?townies? who frequented the dance halls, where he sang of the landscape and the people with his guitar and his verses. ?But I don'?t see a chance for the
That morning he had had the radio on in his rusty old Chevy bakkie when he heard the news and later listened to John Modise, so he knew about the big, bad Xhosa biker running around loose in the area, and when he saw the motorbike behind his winter quarters, he knew straightaway. It was the work of the Lord, it was divine guidance, and he was not going to look on with
?You are going to help me?? asked Thobela, his belly properly full and the brandy in his blood.
Tiger Mazibuko called Team Alpha together at the open door of the Oryx helicopter. The rain had diminished; blue cracks shone through the clouds, the drops were fine, and the wind restless.
?This morning I crapped out Little Joe in front of you all and I want to apologize. I was wrong. I was angry. I should have stayed calm. Joe, it wasn'?t your fault.?
Little Joe Moroka nodded silently.
?I just can?t handle it when something happens to one of my men,? Mazibuko said uncomfortably. He could see the fatigue drawn on their faces.
?We are going to Kimberley Anti-Aircraft School. There will be hot food and warm beds. Team Bravo will do first standby. The army and police will do the roadblocks.?
A few faint smiles. He wanted to say more, to restore the bond and minimize the damage. The words would not come.
?Climb up,? he said. ?Let?s get some sleep.?
Allison Healy drove to the southern suburbs, to Johnny Klein-tjes?s house, as it was in the telephone book. She used the hands-free cell-phone attachment to call the office for a photographer and then dialed Absa?s number. She wanted to ask Miriam about Thobela?s alleged drug involvement. She did not believe it. The radio contribution was thin on facts, heavy on insinuation.
?Mrs. Nzululwazi is not here,? said the receptionist.
?Can you tell me where she is??
?They came to fetch her.?
?Who did??
?The police.?
?Police??
?Can I take a message??
?No.? She felt like pulling over but she was on De Waal drive with the Cape stretched spectacularly before her. There was no road shoulder: she had to keep going, but her hands began to tremble. She searched for the number of the SAPS liaison officer and pressed the button.
?Nic, this is Allison. I need to know if you have taken Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi in for questioning.?
?I wondered when you would phone.?
?So you have got her??
?I don'?t know what you?re talking about, Allison.?
?She is the common-law wife of Thobela Mpayipheli, the man on the motorcycle. Her employers said the police fetched her at work.?
?I know about him, but I don'?t know about her.?
