can’t do that,” Kimathi protested. “I’m calling my lawyer.” He took his cellphone from the dashboard and held it in his right hand. “I will sue your asses for defamation.”
Before he could dial, the taller officer opened the car door. “Have you been drinking, sir?” he probed, looking at both Kimathi and Lakeisha accusingly.
“No,” Kimathi replied, his face tensing with anger. “Do I look like I have been drinking?”
“You have to come with us to the police station so we can breathalyse you,” said the taller officer with malicious delight.
“Why?” enquired Kimathi, rearranging his facial muscles into a frown. “I think you are now violating my rights, gentlemen, and that is against the constitution of this country.”
“You are coming with us in the van,” said the officer with the onion breath. “I will drive your car while you sit in the back of the van.”
“No way,” Kimathi said, his anger nearly choking him. “You are not arresting my car, are you? I will drive it myself.”
“Not when you have been drinking,” said the taller officer. “You can’t drive the car.”
“I told you, I’m not drunk,” Kimathi insisted.
“Well, we now have three charges against you,” responded the officer with the onion breath, shaking a warning finger at Kimathi. “One, resisting arrest; two, interfering with police duties; three, buying sex from a prostitute. How about that?”
“Do you know who I am?” asked Kimathi. “I know people in high places. I will call the Commissioner of Police, and you’ll both lose your jobs.”
“We don’t care who you are,” said the taller officer. “This is not Holland. Prostitution is still illegal in South Africa.”
“Who said I was buying sex?” Kimathi responded, sounding offended. “I was just asking for directions.”
“Yes, we know, with your zip open,” the officer with the onion breath responded sarcastically.
“Fuck off! You imbeciles! You will all pay for this!” Kimathi threatened as the two officers dragged him out of his car and began to force him into the back of the police van.
The two officers didn’t answer him. Instead the officer with the onion breath dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the taller officer gave him a look that said: don’t fuck with us. He then got into Kimathi’s BMW with Lakeisha.
As they drove in the direction of Hillbrow police station, Kimathi’s eyes bulged with terror as the reality of the situation started to dawn on him. His libido was diverted, there was a more pressing matter at hand – the possibility of sleeping in a police cell. He was already imagining the embarrassing headlines in the newspapers, and the damage they would do to his chances of winning the tender he was about to apply for. The last time his reputation had been at stake was when he had been working in the Presidency and a female colleague had accused him of sexual harassment. Although the case had been dismissed, due to a lack of evidence, it had done a lot of damage to his relationship with Anele.
Chapter 5
It was Ludwe who reunited Kimathi with his family in Dimbaza in February 1992, six months after he had arrived from Angola. This was the happiest day in Kimathi’s life. His father had told him a lot about his aunt, Yoli, and seeing her for the first time was a great thing.
Kimathi had carried with him two old photos of his father, taken at SOMAFCO when he was still a commissar for The Movement. In both photos, Lunga wore two-tone Florsheim shoes, khaki bell-bottom trousers and a floral shirt that hung open to expose his hairy chest. He also sported a huge Afro.
Yoli was unable to conceal her joy. “Oh, God is alive. He left here in August 1968. In fact, he just disappeared.” His aunt smiled as she looked at the pictures. “He only wrote to us once, saying that he was in exile, but did not specify where.” She paused and expelled her breath through stiffened lips. “I assume he is no longer alive.”
Yoli looked at Kimathi for a reply, but instead it was Ludwe who spoke. They had agreed that he would do all the talking, especially in relation to Lunga’s death.
“He died in Tanzania from gunshot wounds in 1985,” Ludwe said with exaggerated grief. “He was my father figure in Tanzania. I left to go into exile in 1977, at the age of twenty. Comrade Lunga was already known as mgwenya, a veteran, when I arrived in Tanzania. He made sure I was well fed and clothed. He was my teacher.”
“Was he shot by the Boers?”
“Yes,” answered Ludwe, wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “He asked me to bring his son back before he died. He talked so much about you.”
“Is your mother still alive?” Yoli asked, addressing Kimathi directly.
“No, she passed away in 1986,” Kimathi answered.
Yoli spat on the ground to express her sympathy. “Shame, what was her name?”
“Akila.”
“Were they married?”
“No, they were never married,” Kimathi said, smiling sourly.
Yoli wiped her nose and then pinched it. Her eyes closed tightly, then opened and focused on Kimathi. “Don’t worry, this is your home. I’m your mother and your aunt now.”
“Thank you,” said Kimathi, licking his lips.
“When were you born?”
“October 1969.”
“How come you know Xhosa so well?”
“My father used to teach me, and there were lots of South Africans in Tanzania.”
“Do you have a Xhosa name?”
“I’m Fezile.”
Yoli hid her surprise with a satisfied smile. “That was your grandfather’s name,” she said, nodding energetically. “I’ll take you to your grandmother’s grave tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Kimathi. “And Grandfather, is he still alive?”
“Unfortunately we did not bury your grandfather. But tomorrow we will slaughter a goat, and I’ll introduce you to your stepbrother as well.”
Kimathi looked confused.
“Oh, didn’t my brother tell you that he had a son while still in high school?” Yoli asked. “When he left in 1968, in August, his high school girlfriend, Bulelwa, who was also my friend, was six months pregnant. The two families were planning to meet and negotiate the damages when my brother disappeared. Nakho was born in November of that year.”
“Where does he live?” Kimathi asked.
“He is in Dikeni.” Yoli paused. “That’s where his mother was originally from. In fact, my daughter Unathi stayed at their place when she was studying at Fort Hare. I’ll call him later.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“He is a very sweet boy.” She paused. “We are originally from Middelburg. I was thirteen years old, going on fourteen, when we were forcibly removed to this place. Your father was two and half years older than me. We came here by truck in 1967. The Boers simply asked my father, Fezile, where he originally came from. The next thing, they gave us a day to pack our things. The following day they locked our house and told us to wait for the truck that would take us to our new home.”
“That was very cruel,” said Kimathi.
Yoli lapsed into silence for a while, her eyes filled with tears.
Ludwe palmed his shaven head, then sat back in his chair, flipping one leg over the other.
“I remember it was raining on that day. Your father was about to finish school;