No Greater Love, Page 2

  The crack as Masozi’s skull connected with the trunk ripped through Chioma’s heart like jagged lightning. She opened her mouth, but she had no idea if any sound came out, though she thought someone was screaming. Oddly, it sounded like her mother, but she had been dead since just before Chioma and Masozi had found their way to the Vorster farm. Who, then, was screaming? Could it be Masozi himself? Could he have survived the blow that Chioma was sure had cracked his skull? Or was it simply the ongoing cry of the sonbesies, mourning the loss of yet another son of South Africa?

  The questions swirled around her, even as her vision slipped away and the hard earth came up to meet her. Her last conscious thought, as she fell amidst the protected flowers of her beloved country, was a desire to sleep, dreamlessly, with no hope of awakening, to join her ancestors and their gods in peaceful, welcome oblivion …

  Andrew lay in the dark, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see and wondering how any of them would face the impending dawn. How, indeed, had they even survived the previous day? How had so many circumstances come together in just the right configuration at just the right time to have produced such a wrong outcome? And why hadn’t God intervened to stop it?

  He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to stem the seemingly never-ending flow of hot tears that had plagued him since he locked himself away in his room, drawing the heavy drapes and flopping down on his bed without even removing his boots. Surely the Almighty could have prevented the tragic encounter on the roadside; it would have been nothing for Him. Hadn’t He noticed Andrew’s efforts—puny and futile as they were—to rescue the teenagers and diffuse the situation? Why hadn’t God helped him? Why had He allowed things to go so terribly and tragically wrong? Surely God knew Andrew hadn’t meant for it to turn out this way …

  The crack of the boy’s skull against the tree—Andrew would never forget it. Or the look on his sister’s face. Chioma, was it? Yes, Chioma and Masozi. He had seen them around over the last few years, and though they were young, it seemed they were good workers. He had even heard his mother mention once that she suspected they were orphans, and Andrew was glad his family had taken them in and given them jobs and a place to live. But apart from that, he had paid them little mind—until now. Until today. Until it was too late. And the guilt was pressing on his heart until he thought it would burst from the pain.

  Andrew opened his eyes and let the tears flow freely down his face and into his ears, as the girl’s large, dark eyes—astonished, horrified, accusing—swam before his own. What could he say to her? What could he do to make her understand that he hadn’t meant for things to happen as they did, that he was sorry, that he had wanted to help? And why was it so important to him that she know? Why did this young woman, with skin the color of creamy, pale coffee and eyes that appeared as limitless pools of grief, weigh so heavily on his heart?

  He groaned, remembering his father’s assurance that Andrew had done all he could, that sometimes tragedies occurred and they couldn’t be helped. But his father’s words weren’t enough. In fact, they hadn’t been enough for a very long time now, and the sound of Masozi’s skull being split against the tree had forever sealed that fact in Andrew’s conscience. Something at the very core of his father’s apartheid beliefs and his Christian faith was in direct conflict and no longer rang true for Andrew—and he was determined to identify and expose it for the fallacy it was.

  Chioma had thought she knew pain. She was sure she had endured the worst the world had to offer—and survived. Now she realized she had been wrong. Seeing her parents murdered because they dared to fight against the tyranny of apartheid was a nightmare Chioma would carry to her grave, but it didn’t begin to compare to seeing her only brother destroyed before her very eyes.

  True, Masozi was still alive—for now. Breathing, anyway. But he would never walk again—never run or jump or dance; never marry or have children, or fight for the cause; possibly never even speak or cry or laugh. His neck was broken, and the doctors said there was nothing that could be done for him. Nothing. Chioma wondered if those same doctors might have offered a more encouraging prognosis if Masozi were white.

  What would she do now? How would she care for him? Andrew had assured her that his family would take care of Masozi for the rest of his life—such as it was—and that she would always have a job with them. Was she supposed to be grateful for that, grateful to the one whose companions had so cruelly smashed her only living relative into a tree? Though she desperately wanted to keep Masozi alive for as long as possible, simply because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, she knew in her heart that her brother would prefer death over the kind of life he would now live—assuming he awoke and recovered at all.

  For now, all Chioma could do was sit beside his bed, the one Andrew had instructed the other servants to construct in the closed-in shed attached to the back of the main house. True, it was better than the bedroll on the floor of the shack where Masozi had slept before his spinal cord was severed, but at least then he could still get up and move. Now he would never move from this place again, unless someone carried him. And that was the worst kind of existence Chioma could imagine.

  Prior to this day, Chioma had thought her hatred of the white man couldn’t get any deeper. Now she knew otherwise. Despite Andrew’s feeble attempts to stop his friends from hurting her and Masozi, as well as his obvious efforts to assuage his guilt over his failure to stop the assault, Chioma swore she would never trust a white man as long as she lived. She also made herself a promise that if Masozi died, she would spend the rest of her days avenging his death on any white man, woman, or child who dared to cross her path.

  “You mustn’t let it get to you, son.” Anana Vorster’s voice was as soft and gentle as her pale blue eyes, and Andrew wanted desperately to believe her. But he also knew, deep down, that his mother felt nearly as badly as he about what had happened. As strong and unbending a role model as Andrew’s father had been throughout Andrew’s twenty-one years of life, his mother had been just the opposite—not weak, of course, but soft and tender, kind and loving. She was the one Andrew ran to when he was hurt or confused—precisely the reason he had sought her out on this warm Wednesday evening. Now they sat beside each other, in matching wicker chairs, on the sweeping veranda that encircled the front of their home. The sun had nearly set, and a welcoming breeze ruffled their hair as they turned just enough to face one another as they talked.

  “Yes, Ma,” he said, still gazing at her lovely face and wondering, as he often did, if he would ever be as blessed as his father to find such a loving and godly wife. “I know you’re right. But—”

  “But it keeps playing over and over in your mind,” his mother said, interrupting him as she reached out and took his hand in hers, the feel of her skin reinforcing the softness that exemplified her personality. “I know, son. I know. You want to go back in time, to do things differently, to change the outcome … but you can’t.” She sighed, and Andrew thought he saw a mist form in her eyes before she blinked it away. As kind and gentle as she was, Anana Vorster was not one to allow herself to give in to tears easily, though Andrew remembered a time when it seemed she would never stop crying.

  Apparently she was remembering that same time, for she confirmed it with her words. “It was like that for me when Gertie—” Anana’s voice broke for a moment, and Andrew waited while she regained her composure. “When Gertrude died.” She finished her sentence, then sighed again before continuing. “All I could think of, day and night, was ‘If only I had been there,’ ‘If only I had not left her in the first place,’ ‘If only I had been a better mother … ’”

  When her voice broke this time, Andrew leaned across the arm of his chair and pulled her into an embrace, sensing more than feeling the shudder she suppressed. “Oh, Ma, don’t say that. No one could ever be a better mother than you. What happened to Gertie was an accident. It wasn’t your fault—”

  Anana pulled back and locked his eyes into hers, a lone tear t
rickling down her cheek. “Nor was what happened on the roadside on Sunday your fault, Andrew. You must accept that, my son, or the guilt can get you into serious trouble.” She paused, and when he didn’t answer, she added, “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Andrew?”

  He knew he should say yes, though he really wasn’t sure what she meant. Serious trouble? What sort of trouble? But he could hear his father approaching, his heavy boots announcing his arrival as he strode purposely through the kitchen toward the front door.

  “Yes, Ma. I understand. And … thank you.”

  Anana nodded, as the door swung open and Pieter Vorster stepped out onto the veranda to join them.

  Chapter 2

  CHIOMA REFUSED TO CRY, EVEN AS THE LAST shovelful of dirt was dropped onto Masozi’s crude grave. There would be plenty of time for tears later, when she gathered together with the other servants for their own service of mourning throughout the night to come. But not now—not today, here, in the presence of the enemy.

  Far worse even than her brother’s death was seeing and hearing her baas, Pieter Vorster, standing over Masozi’s lifeless body, serving in the capacity of dominee, or preacher, as he prayed to the white man’s God and proclaimed what he called the “gospel,” or “good news,” of Jesus Christ. Pieter Vorster, Andrew’s father, often referred to himself as a “minister of the gospel,” and attendance at his Saturday evening services was mandatory for all employees living on Vorster property—meaning his black and coloured servants, whom he quite obviously considered heathens in need of salvation. Chioma and Masozi hadn’t missed one of the senior Vorster’s sermons since they came to work for him, but Chioma had never found any good news in the many words he preached. The Afrikaner dominee spoke loud and long about love and forgiveness, but Chioma had never experienced anything close to love from anyone of the white race, and she therefore saw no reason to forgive them for their many sins.

  Squinting her eyes against the blazing sun, she lifted her head long enough to catch Andrew staring at her, and the look of pity on his face sickened her. She dropped her eyes quickly, refocusing on the dirt being dropped on her brother’s grave—dirt from the white man’s farm, though on a plot of land specifically set aside by the dominee as a burial spot for his servants. Chioma had heard it said that Pieter Vorster was a kind and thoughtful man to do such a thing, as most Afrikaner farmers did not want blacks buried on their land where the deceased’s family members might later return and lay claim to the property because their ancestors were buried there. But Chioma was convinced the baas had done this thing only to make himself appear generous, and that he had purposely chosen a spot at the far edge of his property to keep the bones of what he considered the inferior blacks and coloureds as far from the main farmhouse as possible.

  Chioma’s blood boiled at the hypocrisy she sensed from this family. How dare Pieter Vorster act as if he were doing her a favor by burying her brother on the outskirts of his land? And how dare his son look at her in pity? How dare either of them act as if he cared that Masozi was dead! Maybe Andrew had stepped in and tried to stop the tragedy, but it hadn’t worked, and it was his friends who had committed the act—his friends who called themselves Christians but considered Chioma and Masozi heathens. If Andrew Vorster thought she was in the least grateful or indebted to him, he couldn’t be more wrong. She decided at that moment that if she ever found herself alone with him and had the chance, she would kill him without the slightest hesitation.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder why Andrew had attempted to stop the confrontation. Was it strictly business, because he didn’t want his father to lose two of his best workers? Or was it possible there was a spark of human kindness within him that spurred him to try to save an innocent life?

  No! She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back the stinging tears that refused to abandon their assault. The white devils had no human kindness; if they performed what appeared to be an act of kindness, there was always an ulterior motive. How many times had Chioma seen that truth proved out? That she stood here alone, every member of her family dead and buried because of the white man and his hypocritical beliefs, was testimony enough to that tragic fact. She couldn’t allow herself to weaken in her commitment to one day be a part of overthrowing the apartheid system, no matter how kind any white man might pretend to be.

  She was, after all, her father’s daughter … and he had taught her well.

  Her chance for revenge presented itself much sooner than she expected. After Masozi’s “Christian burial,” the servants had been sent back to work, having to postpone their customary night of mourning until their duties to the white man were completed. After all, the death of one coloured teenager was certainly not important enough for a full day of lost production. A large farm with crops and dairy cattle required constant attention, and it was enough that the servants were excused from work on Sunday.

  Chioma, however, had been afforded the consideration of a little extra time after the ceremony; it was, after all, her only remaining relative who had been buried. Pieter Vorster had therefore told her to take a few more minutes to “collect herself” before returning to work with the others. And so she had wandered off to a secluded spot behind the one-room shack she shared with her roommates, Mandisa and Mbhali.

  A few minutes to collect myself—another great kindness from the white man, Chioma sneered silently. However will I repay such bountiful blessings?

  Reaching into the large front pocket of her apron, she pulled out the one thing that remained of her former life, the only thing besides Masozi that she’d had with her when she and her brother had watched her parents murdered and then run for their lives. She fingered the small black journal, grateful she had carried it with her since her father had taught her to read; otherwise, it, too, would have been lost.

  Gently she opened the cover, lovingly turning the pages that bore her father’s ragged script, even as those same pages rehearsed the struggle for which he had eventually given his life. As always, the sight of his handwriting and the memory of his voice as he recounted these same stories brought a fresh threat of tears to Chioma’s eyes.

  Sharpeville…

  Chioma closed her eyes, glad her father hadn’t lived long enough to hear of some of the more recent tragedies, as their people continued their struggle to regain the rights that should have been theirs by inheritance. As the daughter of a faithful ANC comrade, she knew what it was like to face resistance on all sides—not only the Afrikaners and, to some degree, the other South African whites, but even people of their own color, such as the hated Zulus …

  She nearly dropped her beloved book when Andrew walked up behind her, shocking her as he touched her elbow to announce his presence. Chioma’s eyes flew open and she spun around, heart racing, fully expecting to join her brother in death at any moment, only to find herself staring into the sky-blue eyes of the tall young man who had attempted—however unsuccessfully and for whatever self-serving purpose—to rescue her and Masozi from his companions. What was he doing? Had he forgotten the apartheid prohibition of even touching someone of another race? In the four years she had worked on the Vorster farm, not once had she had physical contact with one of her employers. Even as she stuffed her journal back into her pocket, she dropped her eyes from his, but not before being struck by his odd yet strangely attractive features—and being disgusted with herself for thinking such a thing.

  “What do you want?” she spat, casting off all caution and lifting her head to glare at him, even as she felt her eyes flash with the anger that emanated from her heart. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Your father has given me permission to take a few extra minutes to ‘collect myself.’”

  The flicker of pain and surprise in Andrew’s eyes appeared genuine, but Chioma closed her mind to the thought. He was there for a purpose, and whatever that purpose might be, it wasn’t for her good. And her words of defiance and disrespect would certainly not help the situation. But at that moment, rage won ou
t over terror, and she held his gaze with contempt.

  “I—” Andrew’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m so sorry, Chioma. So … sorry.”

  Chioma. He had said her name again, as if he had known it all these years. As if he cared about her in some way. But she knew better. She also knew not to further push the boundaries of their relationship, which she fully understood was nothing more than master and servant, baas and hired hand. She had already far overstepped her bounds, but it was too late to undo the damage now.

  Swallowing her pride and diffusing her anger, as she had so many times throughout her relatively short lifetime, she dropped her eyes and spoke in the most contrite tone she could muster.

  “Forgive me, baas. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I appreciate all you’ve … done.”

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Andrew cleared his throat once again. “It wasn’t enough … or your brother would still be alive.”

  Warily, Chioma raised her eyes. She still didn’t trust his motives, but at least his words were true. She wanted to scream at him and tell him that of course it wasn’t enough, but she didn’t. Instead she simply said, “Thank you.” Then she waited, lowering her gaze to just below his eye level.

  She saw the almost imperceptible movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and for a brief instant she was tempted to believe that he truly was sorry about Masozi’s death. But only for an instant.

  Andrew spoke again. “Is there … anything I can do for you? Anything you need, or—?”

  Chioma wondered what it would be like to recite to him a list of the many things he could do for her—for her people—and of the many things they needed to recompense them for the years, the generations, of degradation, disenfranchisement, and cruelty. But she just shook her head, wanting the conversation to end so she could return to work with the others.