Restless Throne

By MaQueen Lawrence

A few kilometers northwest of Johannesburg, South Africa, is the Cradle of Humankind caves. This UNESCO-declared world heritage site is full of anthropological, genealogical, and mystical clues about the evolution of mankind. She heard the caves arent a mere tourist attraction, but rather a realm believed to have powers that can unlock the lost facets of ones destiny.

Trudging along the cave trek with Europeans dressed in safari gear, clicking their digital cameras at every fossil in site, she entered the caves without a camera, but only instinctive driven hope that she will find something that will help her navigate through life with ease.

Indeed, she does find something in the caves other than rocks and bones. She is certain she locked eyes with something hidden in the caves crevices. She is certain it is a living being, an elderly man perhaps. He tried to communicate with her, but she couldnt engage him as she had to move swiftly along with the rest of the tourist crowd.

Since the cave visit, her dreams are dominated by this mans piercing gaze. Who is he? How long has he been in there? With time, she learns to communicate with him, harnessing a sincere friendship not bounded by time, physicality, or age. He requests her to record her observations about life outside the cave, trusting that her findings about a changing South African sociopolitical landscape he is estranged from, will enable him to survive and rule the land he has been exiled from for more than four hundred years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496988096

MaQueen Lawrence

MaQueen was born in South Africa (1982), against the back drop of an Apartheid-ensued State of Emergency. She was raised within two worlds; a home-life in a township characterized by poverty and violent insurgence; and a private school-life epitomized by religious dogma, wealth and suburban serenity. Educated by the Marist Brothers at Sacred Heart College, she left high school with intentions to teach high school Fine Art. She completed her first year of a BA Fine Arts degree at UCT’s Michaelis School of Art in 2001, however upon realizing that she enjoyed writing about the Arts more than create it, she decided to abandon the canvas and pick up a pen, pursuing a career as a Writer. She completed a BA degree with majors in English Literature and History of Art in 2004 and in 2008, graduated from the University of the Witwatersrand with a Honours degree in Media Studies.  She has shadow-taught high school English literature, free lanced for The Mail & Guardian newspaper as a literature reviewer, ghost written speeches and developed communication strategies for corporate executives and CEOs from the African continent and Europe. She has met two statesmen at under 30 years old and hopes to meet more in future. She is married, with children.

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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© 2014 MaQueen Lawrence. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/15/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8808-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8805-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8809-6 (e)

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

8th May 2005: The test

10th May 2004: The weather

11th May 2004: Story telling

12th May 2004: Reconciling Truth

13th May 2004: A dildo

14th May 2004: Siblings

15th May 2004: Fame!

16th May 2004: Enlightenment

17th May 2004: Coca Cola

18th May 2004: Ambition

19th May 2004: Food fight

20th May 2004: Roses are…

22 May 2004: Open Vacancy

23 May 2004: The Yellow Dress

24th May 2004: Loss

26th May 2004: Raising a nation

27th May 2004: Hide and Seek

28th May 2004: Working Late

8th June 2004: The secretary

10th June 2004: Murder

14th June 2004: Tiramisu Orgy

15th June 2004: Seeing Love

18th June 2004: Mirror-Mirror

19th June 2004: Welcome Home

20th June 2004: Knowledge Gown

21st June 2004: Relax

22nd June 2004: gods at war

23rd June 2004: Steamed Guava

25th June 2004: Positively Negative

2nd July 2004: Confidence

18th July 2004: Give ’em cake

20th July 2004: Naked Business

22nd July: gods still at war

23rd July 2004: Picture Perfect

25th July 2004: Chasing Shadows

25rd July 2004: Alumni

5th August 2004: Root of all evil

10th August 2004: Garden of Eden

15th August 2004: Party in da club

For my brother, Lebogang Orlando ‘Ali Mohammed’

Acknowledgements

Thank you God Almighty. To my husband Rakhim, thank you for the love, support and being the epitome of Hope. To my parents, Aupa le Nduku, thank you for the magnitude of sacrifices made in order for me to have a fighting chance. To Nthabi, thank you always. To Malome Nando, thank you for teaching me the power of servant leadership. To Uncle Matlaku Motuba, thank you for taking me on the many rides in your VW Golf while we enjoyed Chicken Licken. To Stephen Lowry, Father Dryden, Father Harry Wilkinson, Father Ronan Byrne, Julian Cameron, Sue Rees, Lorraine Marneweck, Mrs Groome, Ivanka Acquisto, Tessa Fairbairn, Karien Van Skoor, Richard Mathepike and Lisa Benning- Kaplan, thank you immensely for pushing me forward.

To KG Kagiso Motshoane and Bebe Mothopeng, thank you for pushing me to strive for all things beautiful and good. To Uncle Vusi ‘Taurus’ Moloi, can you believe in His name, Allaah, this project got this far?

To Vanessa Matthee, my sister from another mother, thank you for cheering me on, praying with me, laughing at me and showing me the power of God’s love for us all. To Charmaine Pullen thank you so much for the role you played in this. To Mamela Kgoale, thank you ausi. To Tebogo Ngoma, Lebo Mautloa and Dickson thank you for being awesome friends.

To Bodo Donaer thank you for making our engagement more than an interview for a gig at BWM. For me, it was a continental collision between Europe and Africa. Enough said. To Bertha Dlamini, thank you believing in me. To Given Mkhari, thank you for reminding me that the god(s) we pray to will always matter. To Linda Buthelezi, Mr & Mrs B, Thuli and Kgatli, thank you for your love and prayers. To Andile and the community of Spruitview, thank you for roofing me while I wrote these words. To Sifiso Khanyile and Tshego Molete, thank you for being catalysts to positive change.

To my old granny, Manyana, thank you for subtly showing me how to exude grace during a time of war. To my young granny Mummie, thank you. To Ausi Bongi, thank you.

To my neighbour-sister Refiloe Ralihodi, gangster love girl and many thanks to you.

To the women who formed the ‘Africa Unites Wealthy Women’ Society, formed at Standard Bank PBB, your investment in me allowed me to write this story. I hope you will all enjoy it, because you all Moved Me Forward.

To all the ‘Maverick’ women of South Africa Lauren Beukes introduced me to- You are amazing!

To Nothando Moleketi, thank you for seeing in me what I could not see in myself. To the Writing Co, thank you for showing me that there will always be a need for our stories to be told. To Zoya Sisulu, thank you for helping me find the missing piece to my then lost identity. Hanna Pool’s ‘My Father’s Daughter’ thoroughly messed up my life, for the better. To Hloni Ngatane, honey, I’ve made a promise to myself to ensure that if ever I send my children to a whites only school, I must be certain they can at the least articulate in this beautiful language, their need to use the bathroom. Lord knows what would have happened to your bladder had it not been for my command of the language and our friendship- mouthful ne!? To Lakheni Build it Ntshingila, You are what real friends are made of. To Nthabi Molahloe and Naledi Mabuse, thank you and mad love always.

To Mambila Mageza, thank you. To Thato Mapule, thank you for literally opening the Brunswick door for me- that meant a lot to me. To Nthabiseng Mofokeng thank you for opening the UCT door for me- that meant a lot to me ausi.

To Professor Tawana Kupe, Dr Ashleigh Harris and Kevin Bloom, thank you. Your force in my life was bigger than you can imagine. To Professor Benjamin Anderson, Belinda Goddard, Thabo Shole-Mashoa, thank you for allowing yourselves to be used in matters big and small. To Shaun Du Waal, Matthew Krous and Ferial Haffajee; is my ‘thank you’ really enough? You are amazing people!

To Zola Mkumla, my Quarter Back, thank you always. To Sipho Mzolo and Bobo Mngxali thank you for fighting my battles when I could not fight them myself. To François Hugo and Marelie Ehlers – dankie baie julle. To Jennifer Chester, mad love. To Louise Hendey, thank you, thank you, thank you. To Bronwyn Price, thanks girl. To Deanne Kahn- Thank you! To Zwelibanzi Manyathi, mad love, mad respect- always. To Renee and Ezra from Global Access, thank you for making me feel like a Super Star- the light bulbs around my mirror never flickered when you two were around. To Carolyn Perrie and Enrico Barbaglia thank you for showing me just special Africa, South Africa is, it’s worth fighting for and protecting. To Vincent Kempkes and Anne Fauconier, merci to you both. To His Excellency President Hifikipunye Pohamba, thank you for that life changing experience. To Anne Lauvergeon, thank you for showing me that it is absolutely possible and quite alright to boldly be a woman, a nurturing mother, while wielding influence and power in a world supposedly belonging to men.

To Andrew Ballantine thank for everything. To the entire Missing Link team, thank you!

To all those who quietly championed my cause, celebrated my success and mentioned me during their dinner table discussions- Thank you. To those who prayed for me and with me – Thank you.

To all those who encouraged me when I failed- Thank you. To all those who closed the door on me, worked against my cause, sued me, didn’t renew my contract, didn’t give me a contract, didn’t read my resume, didn’t hire me, didn’t give me an increase or a bonus and in fact fired – Thank you.

To all those who stole a piece of me, withheld a piece of me and what was due to me-Thank you.

To all those who passed me over because I didn’t shine bright enough or turned off my light because it shined too bright – Thank you. To all those who broke my heart and healed my heart, thank you. To all those who hated me openly and in secrete - Thank you. To all those I didn’t mention by name, you are not forgotten – Thank you. To all those I have forgotten, forgive me.

With blessings,

MaQueen

Prologue

Tomorrow’s sun shall rise and it shall flood these dark koppies with light, and the rocks shall glint in it. Not more certain is that rising than the coming of day…here on the spot where now we stand shall be raised a temple. Man shall not gather in it to worship that which divides; but they shall stand in it shoulder to shoulder, white man with black and stranger with inhabitant of the land; and the place shall be holy for men shall say, ‘Are we not brethren and sons of one Father?’

Olive Schreiner, Trooper Peter Halkette

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8th May 2005: The test

Royal One, Kgosi

The rhythms of life have in the past few years seemed to test me most during the winter season. With each bitterly cold season ushered in by the year, the tests I’ve had to endure have reached the highest levels of extremity. What will winter dish out to me this year? What will my soul be tested with while I freeze? Will it be money? Money earned, stolen, given or taken? Will the test have more to do with Love? Love for self. Love for other. Love for the abstract. Or perhaps I will be tested with Power?

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10th May 2004: The weather

Royal One

It is so cold I cannot think. I’m convinced there are parts of my brain which have frozen. I’m intensely holding onto my hot-water bottle. The heater is doing what it needs to. I have leggings and thermals on; the whole toot. I’m still cold. We are just half way through the year and I can’t help but ask this silly, yet very philosophical question; can there be a beginning without an ending?

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11th May 2004: Story telling

Royal One

Where do I start and when will it all end? I keep thinking it’s going to happen soon. Like if this was biblical, we would be in Revelations now. If this was a great Victorian novel, the protagonist would die or Jane Austen would say something about how Mrs Dashwood was finally victorious. If this were a good film, like The Hours, the credits would begin rolling right about now. Are good story tellers defined by their ability to tell their own stories well or other people’s stories so well it sounds as if the stories were their own? I don’t know what spurred me to begin calling you, Your Highness, I was in search of knowledge. In search of a lost identity; in search of an identity that does not only exist as a backdrop to their supremacy but instead, is just as powerful and significant on its own in this world. A force beyond me, led me here, to this cave. I am in search of knowledge because no one seems to search for it any more. No one heeds the calls or notes observations with the intent to act. So I thought, this Winter, I will heed the calls. I will be observant and act if I can. I will disclose to you what takes place here at the Southern tip of Africa. I am aware that there are others that may call upon you to tell you their accounts of our events. But that’s their perspective, not mine, My Lord. It is my view you need at this moment Royal One. It is not the South African politician’s view you need. It is not the view of the man of the cloth you need. It is not the view of the rich or of the poor you need. It is just mine you need at this juncture. It is my obligation to tell you these accounts while I pass away the time I have here.

Your Highness, please don’t think these are strictly my stories though. There is probably a House or Rock song titled ‘My Story’ and I dislike House music. Okay, I loathe the genre thoroughly and I’m not going to do anyone a favour by being diplomatic about my likes and dislikes when I’ve already caught your attention My Lord, so I should therefore use the time I have with you effectively.

These accounts I will share; these conversations you and will have, are meant to set us both free in a world that has us captive. You Kgosi, My Lord, are held captive by your power. It’s all about perspective you see; or so you seemingly don’t? Power is somewhat blinding My Lord. It makes you think there is so much you can do. Then a force, greater than you, makes you realise, the real power never lay with you at all; that your power is limited, and is in fact a delusion. Kgosi, My Lord I am held captive by so many things, but mostly by what I see and hear but can’t express, except to you. I’m in search of truth My Lord. I seek to share the truth; my version of the truth. Truth will be the most pivotal ingredient in this alchemy of words.

The truth is My Lord, from what I’ve experienced of House music, it is much like Rave or Rock. One has to be utterly smashed in order to confidently sway any part of their torso to the rhythm of this music. People always seem to enjoy House music most when in groups and behaving in a zombie like fashion, as if in a trance. At least the Sharmans were calling upon gods when in their trance. When most people are in this House music trance, myself included, there lacks in me that ethereal experience that everyone else seems stoned by. I don’t feel spiritually lifted. I just simply feel drunk and stupid. I don’t think the genre is an art form. Shoot me. I don’t.

Why would any form of Art, if it is art, at its finest, require one to be completely intoxicated in order for it to be appreciated? Why does the genre require an intoxicated mob in order to be listened to and enjoyed? Whenever I’ve found myself shouting at the top of my voice, the hook of any House or indeed Rock song, and very few of them have good timeless hooks; okay a few Rock songs actually do; anyway the few that do, at the end of the shouting and trance, I’ve ended up doing the most irresponsible and totally idiotic thing. I’ve ended up doing things which threaten to obliterate my life trajectory, which is meant to be epitomised by moet & chandon. I don’t mean the expensive champagne Your Highness. I mean success and glamour literally. Too often after I’ve been listening to too much House music and consumed too much alcohol, as expected to by the avid listeners of this genre, I’ve found myself having sex without a condom, with a guy I hardly know and clearly don’t love nor respect. Too often I have found myself doing it in the back seat of an old VW golf that has a malfunctioning heater during a bitterly cold winter such as this one. Not only will the car’s heat system fail me, my five minute lover will, during his volcanic climax confess to me that his car is also running from a stolen engine and has a carburettor that is by all accounts suspect. Once we have done our business, I don’t wait for him to lie to me about the love he will one day feel for me. I’ve often just pulled my panties up, then gone back into the club, danced some more to this shameful House music, and therefore be authentic to the zombie I am, at the time. All these actions are done in a robotic fashion, without a wince of reason or emotion; all thanks to House music. This has happened to me too many times in the name of House music. So I’ve figured that my life trajectory will be comprised of failure, and more failure if I don’t quit acting as if I like what this genre has to dish out to me. Despite the fact that House music seems to be the only music my peers listen to lately, I have decided to shut my ears from it and rather switch to Classical, because if I don’t, I will not only become a connoisseur in the genre, so too will I become an expert in healing STDs, creating remedies from my mother’s kitchen. So Royal One, I’m going to be truthful with you always. No matter how uncomfortable the journey of truth may be, I will remain honest. From House music, family secretes, politics and the arts; only the truth will lace the words expressed by my lips. I will give you the accounts of what it has been like playing in the playground called earth, at the Southern tip of Africa, while you My Lord, have been out of action, stuck in there.

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12th May 2004: Reconciling Truth

Royal One,

I say it again for it is important you understand. When I call upon you to be present for my account of what has taken place at the playground, please do not assume the course of events are entirely about me. I’m not a narcissist and therefore not always the star of the show. The accounts could indeed be about me but more so about the characters whose paths I’ve crossed. I’m just going to keep calling you Royal One when the time comes. I will call upon you when I need you to grace me with your presence and listen to what I have to say. Please listen attentively Royal One for you are as important to the life of the story as the story itself. A story cannot say it has reached its fullest potential unless it has been listened to and absorbed by someone, by something that can pass it on. I will keep on storytelling like my forefathers, eternally reflecting back and forth like my friend Talib. I will keep on reflecting on the truth of the past so that I can better reconcile with the future; like Desmond Tutu and Madiba’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, asked of me. Did they divulge to you what the TRC was really about? Oh, you don’t remember it? Let me jog your memory My Lord. It was a national confession listened to; by not the High Priests of the land, but rather, the Commissioners and a world hungry for political entertainment. After Apartheid collapsed, our sins weighed heavy on us, well some of us. So we were advised to confess them all, release them in god’s name. You see, with The TRC, forgiveness was the intent but show business became the product. I would call our TRC, South Africa’s first forgiveness show; aimed at entertaining the world at our people’s expense. Is that not the irony of entertainment; whether it is comedy, thriller or drama; it is always at the expense of someone else’s journey; or rather trauma? We are use to being the entertainers though. Everywhere in the world, we keep entertaining them; them who can afford to be our audience. Them who can afford to sit and watch, as opposed to work. We are the Athletes, the Amusers, the Performers and of course, the Slaves.

Yes, Your Highness, even slavery is a form of entertainment. What did you think the master does while the slave labours? Intensely watch. Eat popcorn, make notes and watch the slave again.

The master sips tea, or wine makes notes and watches some more. The masters own their time. That’s why they are observers and slave owners. But our time is always spent working, while they monitor and watch. The master makes notes about how amusing their slave is, then watches some more. He writes more notes about how intelligent their slave is and then watches some more. I think we should have been paid for that TRC nonsense. I think we allowed ourselves to simply be duped by them again My Lord. They pretended to be imbued with benevolent intent to reconcile with us, and while we were story telling with no camp fire, telling sordid stories about how we brutally killed them, I mean killed Apartheid’s cannons and beneficiaries, killed them at any chance we got, they quite simply continued to be true to their nature and carried on making more money and taking more land in very cunning and sophisticated ways. They continued to formulate more policies, while we confessed on confessional rooms and stages they own. As the world listened and watched us, the focus was off them, but on us, the Entertainers. While we confessed, they planned how to continue separating black from white, rich from poor, this from that. They did this without being seen, without signs that say ‘blacks only’ or ‘whites only’. They changed the rules of the game, but not the game itself. They said to us, The truth will set you free. It will set us free, to be the Rainbow Nation Madiba wants us to be. But the truth we told set no one free, but them. It did not reconcile us. It only ensured that no one is held accountable for the deaths, poverty, displacement and inherent hatred caused by Apartheid. While we confessed the truth we knew and reconciled with in our minds, with our hearts and conscience, they wrote counter policies that would screw us over in the Apartheid-free South Africa. They sneered at us, some peering at us behind closed doors, while others gawked at our nativity. Can they be really that stupid? Do they honestly believe that being the grand tattle-talers of their own sins will end the game between good and evil; white master and black servant? Oh how they sniggered. Yes, My Lord, we ratted on ourselves to a Commission that knew full well, that justice and truth would never find a home in our land for as long as Ubuntu, Humanness, was dead. It is they who killed Ubuntu and now it can’t be resuscitated or resurrected like Jesus. I don’t know how we got duped into that TRC show. It was probably a bunch of liberals, but in actuality, inwardly pro-Apartheid psychologists, that were a tad too cordial with the clergy. The analysts say it was a lethal combination to begin with: An English, Male Psychologist and an African Man of the cloth. Why was this combination lethal for us you ask My Lord? Well, because jointly, these powerful men knew how to get an individual or a whole nation to rationalise systematic oppression and spiritualise the accountability thereof. ‘We don’t want our men to go to jail in the new South Africa Dessie. How do we make sure our men don’t land up in jail for what they did? Dessie? There are so many of you people and only a few of us. If our men are incarcerated for what they did, for the horrific things they did during Apartheid, we, as a nation, will surely become extinct. Dessie, our men are not strong enough to withstand incarceration. They will surely die in South African prisons. South African prisons are too brutal to a man’s soul, body and mind. That’s why we applaud Mandela Dessie. Despite what our men did to him in prison, he is alive, well and talking of forgiveness. Your men are cut from a different cloth Dessie. Besides, there are so many of you. Even if some of you are incarcerated, you will still multiply and never become extinct. If the law takes its course, we will be hung in numbers and we will surely, all die." Dessie you must help us in god’s name.

The social engineers of the Commission claimed to be lovers of the native people, lovers of the land and lovers of peace. They claimed to want to help us. Help us through the trauma of being enslaved for hundreds of years through continental colonisation, and then Apartheid. The clergy and his psychologist friends; somehow convinced us, that we need to release our pain, mainly caused by