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Niq Mhlongo
Way Back Home
Kwela Books
“I hate purity. I hate goodness. I don’t want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones . . .”
– George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four
“Why write this book? No one has asked me for it, especially those to whom it is directed. Well, well, I reply quite calmly that there are too many idiots in this world. And having said it, I have the burden of proving it . . .”
– Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks
I, Kimathi Fezile Tito, do solemnly declare that I am a soldier of the South African revolution. I am a volunteer fighter, committed to the struggle for justice. I place myself in the service of the people, The Movement and its allies. I take up arms in response to the wishes of the masses. I promise to serve with discipline and dedication at all times, maintaining the integrity and solidarity of the people’s army. Should I violate any of these, I accept that I should be punished by all means, not excluding death. A tooth for a tooth; an eye for an eye; a life for a life.
13 August 1986, Angola
Chapter 1
Amilcar Cabral camp, Kwanza Norte province,
Angola, 1988
“Are you ready to talk, or what?” asked Comrade Pilate as he paced about the interrogation room. The cross-examination had been going on for four hours, and he was beginning to get frustrated.
Comrade Bambata chewed nervously on his fingernails. On the desk next to Comrade Idi were a piece of paper and a pen. All he had to do was tell them what they wanted to know, but he had nothing to disclose.
Suddenly Pilate lunged at Bambata like a hungry lion, hauling him out of his chair and slamming him against the wall. The back of Bambata’s head hit the cement and, disoriented, he fell to his knees. Pilate kicked him in the face with his boot.
“Which one of you betrayed The Movement?” shouted Pilate as Bambata coughed up some blood.
“I swear . . . I-I don’t know, anything.”
“Today you’ll regret the day I ever heard your name,” Pilate said as he jerked Bambata up and punched him in the face.
Bambata staggered backwards, blood coming from his nose, but Idi was behind him, and as he turned to get away from Pilate, Idi hit him in the face again. Bambata fell backwards, his head banging hard against the floor.
“We are not done with you yet,” said Pilate to the unconscious Bambata as he and Idi left the room. “I’m sure you’ll be ready to talk when we come back.”
* * *
Comrade Bambata regained consciousness about an hour later. His mouth was full of blood and his left eye was so swollen that he could hardly see out of it. He rolled on his side and spat onto the floor.
“Stand up, you traitor!” ordered Comrade Pilate. “And take all your clothes off.”
“What?” Confused, Bambata looked up at Pilate. He was standing over him, holding an acacia stick that had some white thorns on it.
“Faster,” shouted Pilate as Bambata struggled to his feet and reluctantly took off his clothes. “Put them down over there and come to the desk.”
“But why are you doing this to me, comrades?” asked Bambata, starting to sob violently, his eyes filled with fear and surprise.
“Stop asking stupid questions,” barked Pilate as Comrade Idi took hold of Bambata and dragged him towards the desk.
With Bambata pinned firmly against the desk by Idi, Pilate raised the stick and aimed for his penis. Bambata hunched his shoulders, trying to break free, but Idi was too strong.
There was a loud scream as Pilate brought the acacia stick down. It was one of those blows that a man remembers to the grave.
Pilate gave Bambata a furious glance. “If you don’t talk I will hit this thing of yours until it comes off,” he said sadistically, pointing at Bambata’s manhood.
“No, please!” Bambata cried as Pilate raised the stick again. “It . . . It was her . . . She did it.”
“Who is this ‘her’?” asked Idi. “Does she have a name?”
“Lady Comrade . . . Lady Comrade Mkabayi,” Bambata said slowly, nodding his head.
“What did she do?”
“She . . . she gave information to the Boers and U-UNITA.”
“What else did she do?”
“She . . . she . . . she agitated us to turn against The Move-Movement.”
“I want you to write that down,” said Pilate, pointing at the pen and paper, which had fallen to the floor. “Write an affidavit and say exactly what she said to you, word for word.”
Bambata could only nod; the pain and the idea of betraying his innocent comrade were too much to bear.
“We’ll be back within an hour to collect the affidavit,” said Idi as he let Bambata slump to the floor, clutching his groin.
“You must remember one thing,” said Pilate as he opened the door of the interrogation room. “This Lady Comrade Mkabayi of yours is the darkness to your light. She is very dangerous. You believed in her lies without thinking.” He paused, watching as Bambata crawled towards the pen and the piece of paper. “But, if you correct your mind now, the rest will fall into place. It’s never too late to do that. Change doesn’t just happen; it is created by dedicated people like us, people who love The Movement.”
Chapter 2
“Shut up! Shut up!”
Kimathi woke up from the nightmare screaming. It was already eleven, on a Sunday morning. He found himself sprawled on the bedroom floor of his Bassonia mansion. After rubbing his eyes several times, he became conscious of the fact that he was still fully clothed in his suit, shoes and tie. An empty whisky glass lay on the floor next to him, where he had obviously dropped it the night before.
This was the third time in a row that he’d had the same dream. Its terrifying detail had made him afraid to go to bed alone. Shit! No matter how strong you are, the memory of something frightening always comes back to you in a bad dream, he thought as he sat up. Not much of it made sense to him now. It had all happened more than two decades ago, while he was still in exile, and he could not even recall most of the faces, or what had happened to them.
Kimathi stood up and removed his tie, jacket and shoes. He staggered, aware that he was still drunk from the previous night’s binge at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Rosebank. He couldn’t even remember what time he had arrived home. Around two or three in the morning, he thought as a burning tide of bile rose in his throat. With his hand on his mouth, he walked to the bathroom, feeling the cold tiles underfoot. At the sink, he closed his eyes and started retching and heaving repeatedly, but only a bitter, yellowish liquid came out. His head was heavy and felt ready to split open. Even when he drank water directly from the tap, the pounding in his head went on. He held on to the sink for support, and then remembered that he hadn’t taken his medication. The prescription said two tablets in the morning and three in the evening.
Lurching back to the bedroom, Kimathi opened the bottom drawer and took out two pills. After popping them in his mouth, he went back to the bathroom to wash them down. The headache did not stop, so he dragged his body to the bar, where he poured a double tot of Rémy Martin, hoping it would chase away the hangover. He swallowed the cognac in one go, studied the empty glass for a moment and then poured a second one. With the glass in his hand, he opened the front door and went outside.
His chest heaving with the freshness of morning life, Kimathi sat down on a white lounger next to the swimming pool. From a distance, he looked like a bull seal basking on the rocks of Duiker Island. He took a sip from his glass, put it down, and