He remembered: Pakamile in the shed above the house milking a cow for the first time, all thumbs, in too much of a hurry. Frustrated that the teats would not respond to the manipulation of his small fingers. And then, at last, the thin white stream shooting off at an angle to spray the shed floor and the triumphant cry from the boy: ?Thobela! Look!?
The small figure in school uniform that waited every afternoon for him, socks at half-mast, shirt-tails hanging, the backpack disproportionately big. The joy every day when he drew up. If he came on the motorbike, Pakamile would first look around to see which of his friends was witness to this exotic event, this unique machine that only he had the right to ride home on.
Sometimes his friends slept over; four, five, six boys tailing Pakamile around the farmyard. ?My father and I planted all these vegetables.? ?This is my father?s motorbike and this is mine.? ?My father planted all this lucerne himself, hey.? A Friday night . . . everyone in a Christmas bed in the sitting room, jammed in like sardines in a flat tin. The house had vibrated with life. The house was full. Full.
The emptiness of the room overwhelmed him. The silence, the contrast. A part of him asked the question: what now? He tried to banish it with memories, but still it echoed. He thought long about it, but he knew in an unformulated way that Miriam and Pakamile had been his life. And now there was nothing.
He got up once to relieve himself and drink water and went back to lie down. The air conditioner hissed and blew under the window. He stared at the ceiling, waited for the night to pass so the trial could begin.
The accused sat alongside each other: Khoza and Ramphele. They looked him in the eyes. Beside them the advocate for the defense stood up: an Indian, tall and athletically lean, flamboyant in a smart black suit and purple tie.
?Mr. Mpayipheli, when the state prosecutor asked you what your profession was, you said you were a farmer.?
He did not answer, because it was not a question.
?Is that correct?? The Indian had a soothing voice, as intimate as if they were old friends.
?It is.?
?But that is not the whole truth, is it??
?I don?t know what . . .?
?How long have you been a so-called farmer, Mr. Mpayipheli??
?Two years.?
?And what was your profession before you began farming??
The state prosecutor, the serious woman with the gold-rimmed spectacles, stood up. ?Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Mpayipheli?s work history is irrelevant to the case before the court.?
?Your Honor, the background of the witness is not only relevant to his reliability as a witness, but also to his behavior at the filling station. The defense has serious doubts about Mr. Mpayipheli?s version of the events.?
?I shall allow you to continue,? said the judge, a middle-aged white man with a double chin and a red complexion. ?Answer the question, Mr. Mpayipheli.?
?What was your profession before you went farming?? repeated the advocate.
?I was a gofer at a motorbike retailer.?
?For how long??
?Two years.?
?And before that??
His heart began to race. He knew he must not hesitate, nor look unsure.
?I was a bodyguard.?
?A bodyguard.?
?Yes.?
?Let us go one step further back, Mr. Mpayipheli, before we return to your answer. What did you do before you, as you say, became a bodyguard??
Where had the man obtained this information? ?I was a soldier.?
?A soldier.?
He did not answer. He felt hot in his suit and tie. He felt sweat trickle down his back.
The Indian shuffled documents on the table before him and came up with a few sheets of paper. He walked to the state prosecutor and gave her a copy. He repeated the process with the judge and placed one before Thobela.
?Mr. Mpayipheli, would it be accurate to say you tend towards euphemism??
?Objection, Your Honor, the defense is intimidating the witness and the direction of questioning is irrelevant.? She had glanced at the document and began to look uncomfortable. Her voice had reached a higher note.
?Overruled. Proceed.?
?Mr. Mpayipheli, you and I can play evasion games all day but I have too much respect for this court to allow that. Let me help you. I have here a newspaper report??he waved the document in the air??that states, and I quote: ?Mpayipheli, a former Umkhonto We Sizwe soldier who received specialist training in Russia and the former East Germany, was connected until recently to a drugs syndicate on the Cape Flats . . .? End of quote. The article refers to a certain Thobela Mpayipheli who was wanted by the authorities two years ago in connection with the disappearance of, and I quote once more, ?government intelligence of a sensitive nature.? ?
