No Greater Love

  Endorsements

  “In the pages of No Greater Love, as I ran, hid, fought, escaped virtually through apartheid-era South Africa, I caught a glimpse of God’s heart. His hatred of injustice. His compassion for the oppressed and grieving. His forgiveness for the repentant. And, oh, such love! No greater expression is there of heaven’s own immeasurable love than that a man lay down his life for another. This read is far more than just a great fiction plot!”—Jeanette Windle, author of Betrayed and Veiled Freedom

  “With raw truth and gritty realism, Kathi Macias has once again written a riveting fiction masterpiece that tackles a difficult societal issue … your heart will be drawn into this amazing story of God’s transforming grace.”—Kelly Kiggins-Lund, Philadelphia Christian Books Examiner

  “In this first book of her “Extreme Devotion” series, Macias proves herself to be a masterful storyteller, mixing complex characters with a riveting plot, and showing how God calls each of us to be closer to Him.”—Cheryl C. Malandrinos, The Book Connection

  “A gripping book that will challenge your thinking and move your heart.”—Shelly Beach, Christy Award—winning author of Hallie’s Heart and the sequel, Morningsong

  “Macias has created a heart-wrenching tale of prejudice, racial battles, and fear during the South African apartheid. Delicately woven into the story is the theme of love’s ultimate sacrifice….”—MaryLu Tyndall, author of The Red Siren, The Blue Enchantress, and The Raven Saint

  “Kathi Macias has created a sweeping epic about a land alien to too many, but more important is the crucial nature of the story and its monumental implications. You’ll feel as if you were there.”—Jerry B. Jenkins, coauthor of the “Left Behind” series

  More New Hope books by Kathi Macias

  More than Conquerors

  Mothers of the Bible Speak to Mothers of Today

  How Can I Run a Tight Ship When I’m Surrounded by Loose Cannons? Proverbs 31 Discoveries for Yielding to the Master of the Seas

  Beyond Me: Living a You-First Life in a Me-First World

  No Greater

  Love

  Book 1 in

  the “Extreme Devotion” series

  Kathi Macias

  New Hope® Publishers

  P. O. Box 12065

  Birmingham, AL 35202-2065

  www.newhopepublishers.com

  New Hope Publishers is a division of WMU®

  © 2010 by Kathi Macias

  All rights reserved. First printing 2010.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mills-Macias, Kathi, 1948-

  No greater love / by Kathi Macias.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59669-277-0 (sc)

  1. Race relations--South Africa--Fiction. 2. Interracial marriage--South Africa--Fiction. 3. South Africa--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.I42319N6 2010

  813’.54--dc22

  2009043829

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1-59669-277-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59669-277-0

  N114126 • 0410 • 5M1

  To my Savior, whose great love for me is beyond my comprehending;

  To my husband, Al, with whom I share a lifelong love;

  And to those throughout history and around the world even today who exhibit the greatest love by laying down their lives for others—thank you.

  Multiplied thanks and blessings to Alan Lester of South Africa (http://www.graceunlimited.co.za/), whose advice/input on this manuscript was invaluable to its completion and authenticity. Thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Prologue

  1989WAS N0T A G00D YEAR T0 FALL IN L0VE—at least not in South Africa, and certainly not with a white man. Chioma had fought it with every ounce of her being, but there it was, literally, in black and white.

  Chioma hated whites, and that included Andrew—except that Chioma also feared she was falling in love with him. And that made her dilemma even worse.

  But at least she had never admitted to him—or anyone else—how she felt, nor did she have any intention of doing so. And yet, the way he looked at her, she couldn’t help but wonder if he knew—and if he felt the same about her.

  It was ridiculous, of course, even to think such a thing about a white man, someone who represented everything she despised. But if it were true, she could only hope he would never be foolish enough to say anything about his feelings—to her or anyone else. Not only would a relationship between them be nearly impossible, but it would be dangerous as well. And Chioma already had enough danger in her life; she certainly didn’t need to look for more.

  Though the family still clung to many of their ancestral apartheid beliefs, they had been willing to give work to two young orphans.

  Chapter 1

  I T WAS HOTTER THAN USUAL THAT SUNDAY AFTERNOON in January 1989, as Chioma and her younger brother, I Masozi, trudged home on the last leg of their rare excursion into town, toting their sparse purchases in knapsacks thrown over their shoulders. It had taken the siblings months to save enough out of their meager wages to make the all-day trip worthwhile, and even then Chioma wondered at the wisdom of venturing away from the farm and its relative safety. For the city of Pretoria, despite its original name of Pretoria Philadelphia, showed little brotherly love to anyone with skin the color of Chioma’s or Masozi’s. Chioma had long believed that the city whose streets were lined with royal purple jacarandas, which bloomed every spring and thrived in the valley’s fertile land, had rightfully earned its reputation as the capital of apartheid South Africa, a beautiful land marred by the ugliness of a system that enforced a cruel and unequal separation of the races.

  Chioma cut her eyes sideways, too hot to expend any more energy than necessary by turning her head but wanting to see how Masozi was holding up. Since disembarking the crowded, noisy bus, they had already walked for nearly an hour, and they still had at least that much longer ahead of them. And though the blistering sun had finally begun its slow descent behind the Magaliesberg hills, it had not yet offered them any respite from its punishing rays.

  Masozi’s pace was steady and measured, as was Chioma’s. She could see where the road dust had settled on his partially bare, muscular legs, clinging to the sweat that oozed from his pores. Chioma had collected her own layer of dirt, but her calf-length dress, made of coarse, cheap cotton, covered
much of it.

  “Are you okay, brother?” she asked. “Do you want to stop and rest?”

  Chioma could not see Masozi’s head without lifting her own, but she could imagine its curt, side-to-side shake as he answered. “I’m fine. I’m fifteen now, remember? Nearly a grown man. I’m strong, and I don’t need to rest.”

  Chioma stifled a smile. She had anticipated his answer, but his determination to be her protector, though a year younger than she, served only to endear him to her even more. Masozi had been forced to grow up far too soon. But then, she reasoned, nearly everyone she knew had been forced to accept responsibility beyond their years in an effort to survive. Without father or mother, Chioma and Masozi’s situation would have been more difficult than most, had they not stumbled upon their live-in jobs at a large dairy farm owned by an Afrikaner family named Vorster. Though the family still clung to many of their ancestral apartheid beliefs, they had been willing to give work to two young orphans and thankfully treated their employees as decently as most and better than some. They also paid their workers what was considered to be more than a fair wage, though Chioma doubted any of the whites in South Africa would want to try living on such an income.

  We have no one but each other, Chioma reminded herself, clenching her jaw to obliterate the memory and its accompanying pain. Just Masozi and me—and the cause. That’s all we have left…

  The thought reinforced her need to stop and rest—for both of their sakes. They still had more than two hours before they would be considered late in returning to the farm and in danger of being out after dark, so a fifteen-minute respite couldn’t hurt.

  She spotted a small stand of trees, interspersed with spurts of bright yellow King Proteas, less than a hundred yards ahead, and set her course to lead her brother there and convince him to stop amongst the national flower. Ironically, the same country that enforced the laws of apartheid also had a law protecting this lovely plant.

  “Maybe you don’t need to rest,” she said, her eyes fixed on her destination, “but I do. Fifteen minutes under one of those acacias, and I’ll be ready to go again.”

  Masozi grunted his agreement, and Chioma knew her carefully worded suggestion had kept his fragile masculine pride intact. Neither said anything more until they had thoroughly checked the area below the acacia karoo’s branches for thorns, then dropped to the ground in the welcome shade and deposited their knapsacks beside them.

  Masozi removed the water bottle he wore on a leather thong around his neck and offered it to Chioma. She took a long, welcome drink and handed it back to him, then leaned her head against the rough bark and closed her eyes. She sensed Masozi had done the same, as the high-pitched hum of the sonbesies, or beetles, an ongoing South African phenomenon throughout the month of January, lured her to slumber.

  Chioma sighed. For as long as she could remember, she and Masozi had been inseparable, even when they were children, living in their parents’ shanty, listening to their father’s stories of Nelson Mandela, the ANC, and the massacre at Sharpeville. The one thing Chioma couldn’t understand was why Masozi wasn’t as passionate about the cause as she. Her father’s stories had birthed the fire in her; his murder, as well as her mother’s, had sealed it to her heart. But for now, revenge was only a dream. Unless their situation changed drastically, survival was the best they could hope for.

  Chioma had not meant to fall asleep, but the anxious nudge from her brother and the loud, angry voices snapped her back to attention.

  Where had they come from, these three young white men who stumbled around Chioma and Masozi’s resting place in what was obviously a drunken state, cursing them and accusing them of stealing the contents in their knapsacks from good, honest, hard-working Christians like themselves?

  The reference to Christians made Chioma want to spit in defiance, as she had heard many references to the white man’s God from the Afrikaner dominee who owned the farm where she and Masozi lived and worked. But wisdom and experience told her to hold her tongue, even as she lowered her eyes to avoid their gaze and berated herself for having fallen into such a deep sleep that she had not sensed the approaching danger.

  Sneaking a peek from her downcast stance, her eyes moved from the ranting trio to their truck, just as a fourth man emerged from the passenger side of the cab. The tall figure stepped out and moved quickly in their direction. Chioma’s heart caught as she recognized the familiar face, and she dared to breathe a tentative sigh of relief. Andrew Vorster, the only son and heir of the farm where she and Masozi were employed, would certainly not allow any harm to come to his servants.

  “What’s going on here?” Andrew asked, the question coming across as more of a demand than an inquiry.

  In the four years Chioma and Masozi had been with the Vorsters, they had become quite familiar with and even fluent in the Afrikaner tongue. Chioma had seen Andrew many times during those years, though she had never spoken directly to him—and she had never heard him speak in such a tone. He had, in fact, always been polite yet firm with his employees and had never allowed any of them to be mistreated. She wondered now how much of the tone he exhibited in his speech at this moment was as authoritative as it sounded, and how much was merely bravado. Her life and Masozi’s might well depend on the answer to that question.

  At the sound of Andrew’s voice, his companions stopped their swaying and cursing, and looked at him blankly, as if wondering who he was and where he had come from. To his credit, Andrew stood his ground and kept his gaze steady, though he moved it from one man to the next with slow precision.

  The three men, however, were not so easily cowed. Inebriated though they might be, they slowly regained their limited wits and rose to counter Andrew’s challenge.

  “What business is it of yours, Vorster?” demanded the largest of the three, his eyes glinting as he took a step in Andrew’s direction. “What do you care what’s going on? You thinking of sticking up for these no-good thieves?”

  Chioma detected only a flash of indecision before Andrew responded. “Who said I was sticking up for them?” he asked, his voice a bit less confrontational now. “And who says they’re thieves?” He shrugged. “Looks like a couple of kids taking a nap along the side of the road. Why should that concern us?”

  The big man spoke up again, taking another step toward Andrew. “Kids? You call them kids? Look at them. They’re no kids, and they were doing more than taking a nap if you ask me. I say they’re thieves, on the run from the law. And they got no business out here. None.”

  Before Andrew could respond, the other two chimed in with their agreement.

  “That’s right,” said the one with a beard. He spat on the ground and leveled his eyes on Masozi. “Thieves, they are! You can tell by looking at them. No-good thieves, I’m telling you.”

  “Oughta be hung,” said the third man, his voice slurred. “Up to no good, and that’s a fact.”

  “We are not thieves!”

  Chioma stiffened, a cold chill snaking up her spine despite the lingering heat. Why had Masozi opened his mouth? He knew better, knew that to contradict a white man in a situation like this was like poking a deadly viper. What was he thinking? When would he learn to keep his mouth shut, the way she’d had to when—

  The big man turned and glared down at them, as the other two approached Masozi and yanked him to his feet.

  “What did you say, boy?” demanded the bearded man. “Were you talking to us?”

  The flash of terror on Masozi’s face as Chioma lifted her head enough to look directly at him told her he had come to his senses, though it might well be too late. If she didn’t move quickly, her brother wouldn’t have a chance.

  “Mr. Vorster,” she cried, jumping to her feet and daring to look directly at the man who was her only hope. “Please, you know us! Tell them we work for you, that we wouldn’t steal, that we were coming home from town with our purchases, that we had permission. Please, baas, please!”

  Andrew turned to her, shock reg
istering on his face, as he squinted his eyes in an obvious effort to identify Chioma.

  He doesn’t know me, Chioma thought, stunned. Four years Masozi and I have lived and worked on his farm—in his house!—and he doesn’t even recognize us. Her sense of terror returned, as all hope of deliverance evaporated under her employer’s confused gaze.

  “Chioma?” Andrew’s voice scarcely registered in her brain as he said her name. All she knew was that he had spoken it—her name. Chioma. He knew who she was! They were going to be all right.

  She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Vorster. Yes, baas. It’s me, Chioma. And my brother, Masozi. We work for you, remember? For your pa. For your family. It’s our day off, and we have permission to go to town, so long as we’re home before dusk.”

  Andrew held her gaze for a moment, then turned to his cohorts. “Let him go,” he said, his tone of authority having returned as he fixed his eyes on the two who held Masozi. “Now.”

  Masozi’s captors hesitated, while the big man took yet another step in Andrew’s direction and glared as he spoke. “Why should we listen to you, Vorster? They might work for you, but we don’t. We’re free men.”

  Chioma saw Masozi’s jaw twitch, but he said nothing, nor did she. This was no time to lose control. She could only hold her breath and hope that Andrew’s will was stronger than his companions’.

  At last the big man broke the silent gaze that had locked between him and Andrew Vorster. He stepped back and turned toward Chioma’s brother, nodded at the two who held Masozi, and said, “Let him go. He’s not worth the effort.”

  The bearded man complied, but the other one appeared angrier than before, as he gripped Masozi’s arm with both hands and threw him against the acacia’s trunk. Even at fifteen, Masozi was taller and more muscular than his assailant, but it happened too fast for the teenager to be able to fight back or even to brace himself before being slammed into the tree.