?Safe,? he said. ?Where is Pakamile??
?In the car back here. If you want the child, you will have to give it to Tiger.?
?You don'?t understand your alternatives.?
?That is what you don'?t understand. The child for the hard drive. Non-negotiable.?
?Watch me carefully. I am going to take a cell phone out of my pocket. And then I am going to phone a reporter from the
?
Mazibuko stood before him, watching his every move, but his eyes had changed. The wildness had gone, and there was something else growing.
He took out the cell phone, held it in front of him, and keyed in the number.
?It?s ringing,? he said.
?Wait!? screamed Mentz.
?I have waited enough,? he said.
?I will get the boy.?
?Please hold on,? he said over the phone, and then to Mentz: ?I am waiting.?
He saw Mazibuko turn away from him.
?You stay here,? he said, but Mazibuko did not hear. He was walking toward the exit, and Thobela saw something in the set of the shoulders that he understood.
?You have two choices in life,? he said so only he could hear it. ?You can be a victim. Or not.?
Then he saw Pakamile and the child saw him, and the moment threatened to overcome him completely.
The white Mercedes-Benz stopped at the traffic lights and one of the street hawkers with packs of white plastic clothes hangers and sunshades for cars and little brown teddy bears knocked on the window and the driver let it slide down electronically.
?The hard drive is safe,? said the driver, not in his natI've Zulu tongue but in English. ?Not in our possession, but I believe it is absolutely secure.?
?I will pass it on,? said the hawker.
?Allah Akhbar,? said the small man, his delicate fingers relaxed on the steering wheel, and then the light changed to green up ahead and he put the car in gear.
?Allah Akhbar,? said the hawker, ?God is great,? and watched the car drive away.
The driver switched on the radio as the announcer said, ?And here is the new one from David Kramer, singing with his new find, Koos Kok, ?The Ballad of the Lonely Motorbike Rider? ??
He smiled and ran a finger under the snow-white shirt collar to relieve the pressure a fraction against the small hump.
Reverend Lawrence Mpayipheli was busy searching for the ripest tomatoes and snipping them loose with the pruning shears, the scent of the cut stems full in his nose, the plump firmness of the red fruit under his fingers, when he heard the engine before the door and stood up stiffly from behind the high green bushes. There were two of them on the motorbike, a big man and a little boy and he thought,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As usual, I am indebted to so many people and sources who contributed to this book. I can never thank you enough.
The Afrikaans Language and Culture Society?s grant made it possible to take the GS on most of the routes described in the book and do a motorcycle tour of the Kat river valley and research in Grahamstown.
Lisa Ncetani and the long, long list of Xhosa, Zulu, Tswana, Sotho, and Ndebele copassengers on business flights between Cape Town and Johannesburg, shop attendants, shoeshine men, taxi drivers, and porters: thank you for answering my questions so patiently and helping a white Afrikaner understand a little better.
One of the more unsettling discoveries during the research was how little material is available about the more recent Xhosa lifestyle, culture, and history? especially on the Internet. But Timothy Stapleton?s
Dr. Julia C. Wells, historian at the University of Grahamstown, provided insightful information and comments on the history and development of the short stabbing spear, or
Muneer Manie helped with the Arabic, and Ronnie Kasrils?s book
Intriguing and stimulating conversations with the late Reverend Harwood Dixon, who was a missionary in the Eastern Cape for many years, and the enigmatic Professor Dap Louw from the University of the Free State?s Psychology Department had a great influence on the characters in the book. Similarly, I am indebted to Stephen Pinker?s
I constantly made use of the Internet archI'ves of
