Shades of Africa: Kwasuka Sukela

By Toko Loshe

This is a story about a white girl, Shirley Schreiber, and her family. Growing up in South Africa and Rhodesia during the early years of racial discrimination including the apartheid years: 19441972.

Shirley grows up during the years of racism and apartheid and the black power push for communism; when both sides are right, both are wrong. The betrayal by blacks and whites, each with a fierce passion for this cruel, unforgiving land where to trust could mean death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503503670

Toko Loshe

Toko Loshe was born in South Africa on January 1944. The family moved to Southern Rhodesia then Northern Rhodesia during the years that those countries were fighting for freedom and independence. Caught up in the violence and terror that evolved and the Congo Revolution spillover, they returned to South Africa the day before Zambia’s independence. Toko now lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband, four married children, nine grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.

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Copyright © 2015 by Toko Loshe.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015903958

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-0365-6

                  Softcover        978-1-5035-0366-3

                  eBook              978-1-5035-0367-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/19/2015

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter One: Cold Touch

Chapter Two: Bones

Chapter Three: Music and Crabs

Chapter Four: Hamba Gashle

Chapter Five: Dark Passage

Chapter Six: A Decent Bloody Life

Chapter Seven: Sinners and Saints

Chapter Eight: The Boers and the Bloody British

Chapter Nine: Dutchmen and Ja Ja

Chapter Ten: Stupid Little Bitch

Chapter Eleven: Crossing the Limpopo

Chapter Twelve: The Farm

Chapter Thirteen: African Drumbeat

Chapter Fourteen: Bloody Missionaries

Chapter Fifteen: Tamasai

Chapter Sixteen: Spirit of Ndawu

Chapter Seventeen: Kaffir Lover Todd

Chapter Eighteen: Terror Strikes

Chapter Nineteen: Murder of Hendriek Swartz

Chapter Twenty: Call to the Ancestors

Chapter Twenty-One: Gogo Mama

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Great North Road

Chapter Twenty-Three: Stupid Bastards

Chapter Twenty-Four: Choma

Chapter Twenty-Five: Manda Hill to Kapiri Mposhi

Chapter Twenty-Six: Rain and Red Ants

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Copper Towns and Mine Dust

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Belgium Congo Crisis

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kwacha

Chapter Thirty: Cha-Cha-Cha

Chapter Thirty-One: Liar, Liar, Rifle May Fire

Chapter Thirty-Two: Taking the Gap

Chapter Thirty-Three: Zambezi and Limpopo Crossing

Chapter Thirty-Four: Josh

Chapter Thirty-Five: A New Beginning

Chapter Thirty-Six: Broken Necklace Dreams

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Legal Action

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Big Bogey Man

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Dreaming

Chapter Forty: Fear of the Dead

Chapter Forty-One: Here Was a Man– The Cleansing

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To Nelson Mandela

Thank you our Madiba, Tata (father) of the Nation. Held in deep respect for your courage and fight for freedom against great odds.

To Kathryn Coughran

Thank you for your patience as I struggled to complete this story. Your belief in me and encouragement as I stopped and started time and time again. Dragging me back relentlessly chapter after chapter. You are my true friend and mentor. I could not have done this without you.

PROLOGUE

Suddenly, she turned and faced me; shaking the horn and its powder, she poured it at my feet and around where I stood. This was the way she called the spirits of the ancestors to also protect and guard me for life. I could not move standing rigid, arms hanging at my side, but I was not afraid of her.

She took the turquoise-beaded necklace she wore as a witch doctor for protection against evil spirits – her guardian and talisman, handing it to me, she whispered, her face close to mine. ‘Mukiwa,’ this is the name she called me that meaning white African child, it was a name of respect. ‘Mukiwa, remember this day. It is not over and you must go from this place of evil. Take this and keep it close to you always.’

CHAPTER ONE

Cold Touch

S HOE MARKS OUTLINED, smudged, blotched and bloody, smeared in and out of the cell. Shadows of dark energy closing around had a heavy evil presence. Many had died here. Souls that were never to be free; I felt them, heard cries from the shades of ancestors never to be found and brought home. The cold touch of death, icy breath against my face knew I could never escape my fear.

Dirty whitewashed walls and cold concrete floor were stained with old blood. The police station had cheap wooden desks and chairs placed in no order, facing the entrance under a single bare globe hanging from a cord.

Fear still immediate, I started to shake, mind racing, heart pounding. Whispering, ‘O God, no, no, no.’ I pulled at my clothes to remove the blood, while sinking on to my haunches. My eyes focused on a large cockroach making its way around the pool of drying blood, then crawling up the wall, leaving a spotted trail.

‘What is your name?’ The strong South African accent was firm but soft. He repeated, ‘Your name?’ The police badge on his chest now level with my eyes as he knelt beside me.

I hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You know my name, you bastards, you see me here every bloody week. Look what has happened now. Are you happy? This is your fault. You have done nothing to help us.’

‘Just answer the question, this is routine.’

‘Shirley, Shirley Brookes, you have a file with all my details.’

‘We need your address please.’

‘Jesus Christ, you visit my house all the time, you know where I bloody live.’

The constable, now agitated, said, ‘Look, I have to get all these details down, tonight. I don’t care about your file. I have to do my job.’

Giving my address, I begged. ‘Find him. While you are asking these stupid questions, he’s murdering my mother and children.’

‘We are sending a car to the house now. Did this happen at this address? It’s no good swearing at me.’

‘Yes, yes at the house, go quickly.’

The ambulance men ran to me first, my clothes and body covered in blood. Apart from a few cuts to my arms, I was unharmed. The river of blood came from the young man standing motionless in the centre of the room; they quickly went to his aid.

I slid in slow motion until my bottom rested on the ground; the wall against my back left a bloody smear behind me.

A quick concerned glance from the ambulance men caused me to raise my hand waving them away. My feet were bare, with blood between my toes and on the bottom of my jeans. I wondered where I had lost my shoes, probably in the kitchen during the fight.

I floated and watched the scene from above, eerie and trance-like a play in silence. Then back, my body heaved with the need to vomit, dry retching, and rumbling from deep inside, rolling up in spasms with great gasps. I sucked the air back in strange whooping sounds; nothing came out; the ambulance men kept a close watch as they tried to stop the flow of blood from Ryan.

They helped Ryan to walk, giving support under his arms. Blood squelched in his shoes. God, how could he still be standing? I thought. He had said nothing since the fight. I could see the dark stain where the knife went into his back through his shirt. Blood was running down as it clung to his strong young body, down his legs and into his shoes.

The look on his face as he left said it all: shock, disbelief. Nobody had believed me before, any men anyway. They didn’t know. He had laughed at my fear, they all had, even the bloody policemen.

Silence and misty dreams of a life long ago, snapshots of faces and past life filled my head. Drifting in and out of time, I heard the soft sound of African drums in the still night and the face of Tamasai, my sangoma spirit guide, appeared with sadness and tears as she saw what I, her Mukiwa, had done with my life. Turquoise beads lay scattered before me on the floor. I tried to gather them up, but they were not there. With strange moaning sounds, I panicked and looked for them, spreading blood with my hands.

CHAPTER TWO

Bones

S OFT, YELLOW, BABY chickens, I wanted to touch the soft feathers. The large wooden crate on the back veranda was deep with a sheet of glass over the top that gave light and kept them warm and safe. Leaning over a little more, I could see the very small one in the corner that was making the most noise.

Crack! Crack! The sharp sound of breaking glass was heard as my weight shifted and the glass gave way; my screams brought my brother John running out of the house. The final crack as I slid down into the crate sent a shattering of glass on top of the chickens. Sharp points of broken glass jutted from the sides, and I screamed in agony. Glass ripped into the back of my thigh; first digging, then tearing, my bare feet landing amongst the splinters. Looking down, I saw my blood dripping over the chickens. My screams had also brought my father, who came running from the yard on to the veranda. He grabbed my arms that still protruded out of the top and lifted my skinny five-year-old body out and away from the crate. With glass cuts in my feet, a deep gash in my leg, and scratches everywhere, I could not stand and sat on the sand, more fearful of my father’s rage than my pain.

‘Jesus Christ, what have you done, Shirley?’ his voice was angry. ‘I’ve told you not to go near the chickens, look at the mess. Why don’t you bloody listen to me?’

My brother John looked on with that ‘now you’re in trouble’ look on his face. John tried not to laugh, while my mother brought towels to clean me and stop the bleeding.

‘Christ, Esther!’ She flinched as he yelled at her. ‘What the hell was she doing?’

Esther, my mother, ignored him as he pulled on his gum boots; her head held high, she stared back. I knew she was afraid of him. I had seen her cower when he raised his hand to hit her. He shoved us both to one side.

‘Get out of the bloody way.’ I felt her tense as she gripped my hand firmer.

Rose, the Zulu housemaid, was sent down the road to the policeman’s house. It was the only house on the hill with a phone connection to the police station and the only way to get the doctor to come, as my mother was sure that I needed stitches. Feeling very sorry for the little chickens, I watched as my father lifted them out and brushed them with a paint brush before placing them in a cardboard box.

‘This one is dead,’ he said, holding it up, its little head dangling down.

I started howling again, I had killed it; I had killed the little chicken. He gave me no sympathy and carried on cleaning them, leaving the little dead one where I could see it. I sat there; staring at the pathetic little body placed on the edge of the box; its head flopped over backwards. I could see the eyes, half closed, now glazed and staring.

Rose came running, her lanky thin body staggering all over the path from the exertion; the hill was steep and she would need a drink by now, but it was Saturday, and my parents were home.

‘Baas! Baas!’ (Boss, Boss) She screeched in her raspy Zulu accent. ‘The doctor, he is coming.’

She fell exhausted on to the ground; her torn raggedy dress was a throwaway from my mother. Very happy with herself, she tried to smile, her one and only long stained tooth stuck out between her dry old lips. Her skin, more a dusty grey than black and her feet rough and cracked.

‘Useless black bitch,’ he muttered.

Dan Schreiber, my father, was a tall thin man; his skin, brown and leathery from too much sun. Six foot two in his bare feet, legs muscled but thin from soft sand marching as a life saver and years in the army and air force. A strict German father, he was one of six children, born in 1912 and raised on a farm near Umtata in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa. He walked over now and stood in front of me.

‘Perhaps this will help you remember to do what you are told,’ he snarled dropping the dead chicken into my lap.

I froze, my back jerked as my breath sucked in. I was petrified, my first thought was to jump up and throw it on to the ground, but I knew that I dared not. My eyes, head pulled up and away, stared down to see where it was, my mouth pulled down at the corners, with teeth clenched. I could feel it touching my bare leg as he said, ‘You will have to bury it now, pick it up, Shirley.’

I tried to control my hand as it hovered shakily over the bird. ‘No, no, I can’t touch it,’ I cried.

‘Yes, you can touch it.’ I stared at his gum boots in front of me but couldn’t look him in the face.

I looked at the sweet little chicken; there was blood on its back, I must have squashed it. Slowly I picked it up, putting both my hands around, cradling the soft warmth as not to hurt it any more.

‘I am sorry, little chicken.’ Getting up on to my feet, the pain from my cut thigh stabbing sharply as my muscle tensed, I tried not to drop it.

His eyes were piercing; they were the same colour as John’s. Violet. I had heard my mother say that their eyes were violet.

Slowly, the straggly line made its way down the yard towards the bush; even the grey monkeys that always chased us ran away when he approached. First, my father, marching in his baggy, khaki army shorts that he wore since he returned from North Africa and the war in 1943, the year before I was born. He had dropped off on visits home enough times to produce us all. It was 1949, and the pleats at the front of the shorts were crushed and the hems worn and shredded. The waistband hung low on his thin hips, belt loops broken and hanging. No shirt, he never wore a shirt, just his old military khaki hat with a narrow strip of leopard skin wound around and knotted on one side. The cigarette in his right hand as he marched was burning, dropping ash as he flicked it before hanging from the side of his mouth.

Turning, he surveyed the trail behind him: first, there was me with the little chicken, limping, blood running down my legs. Then John, two year older than me, who was walking a little further behind, tried not to laugh as he poked me in the back with a stick. Our sandy blond, sun-scorched hair shone in the sun. My curls tumbled over my face in ringlets as I hung my head in shame while John’s hair was whiter and scruffy, a little too long with no particular style.

John giggled, unable to control himself, always laughing.

‘Well, this is as good a spot as any,’ my father said, pointing at a spot on the ground. ‘Dig a grave right here, Shirley.’

The ground was soft beach sand and not difficult to dig, but John stepped forward to help me only to be pushed away.

‘Leave her alone, this is all her bloody fault, she must dig the hole.’

Placing the little chicken on the ground, I knelt down, the pain stabbing my leg. I dug with my hands, just a small hole first.

‘Deeper, I don’t want the cats dragging the thing all over the yard.’ Finally the hole was deep enough. ‘Put the chicken in the hole and cover it up again with the sand and put some rocks on the top.’

He turned and marched away. Now I could cry, John took over and covered the hole.

‘That was very silly. You know what he is like, now the chicken is dead.’

I started to howl again. ‘Stop it, or he will come back.’

I watched the edge of the bush as he marched away expecting the grey monkeys to come leaping out at us, but there was no sign of them. They wouldn’t be far away watching from the safety of the trees. The hill fell away, and the bush ran all the way down to the beach and the Isipingo River mouth.

‘Shirley! Shirley!’ My mother called from the veranda. ‘The doctor’s here.’

Slowly, I hobbled up to the veranda and let the doctor clean up the wound and dress it. He used four stitches to hold it together, each one triggering more screams. Exhausted with pain and grief, I went inside to lie on my bed; face down, the silent tears saturated the pillow as the vision of the dead chicken and my guilt overwhelmed me.

Dinner was silent, and we were in bed early, but I was restless as my leg hurt and could not sleep with lightning flashing around the room. The large old wooden double-storey house was built on top of a grave yard that had been used before the First World War; the grave yard was smoothed over with only dirt and scrub between the front of the house and the sandy road. John always teased us about the ghosts. The storm grabbed the house now and shook it almost lifting it off the ground, but by morning the sky had cleared.

John investigated the broken fence battered by the storm later and noticed bones that had washed up with the wind and rain.

Collecting a few of the bones, he placed them on the veranda steps to show my father when he came home. Rose had been in the bush, probably to go to the toilet, but when she returned and saw the bones on the steps, she screamed and ran out into the yard. Chanting and moaning with eyes rolling, she swayed as she drew a circle around her in the sand.

John and I sat on the steps, beside the bones, watching fascinated as she sat down cross legged. Removing a piece of scrunched-up fabric from her bosom, she unravelled it spreading bits of bark, stones, and fine powder around her in the circle.

Hands on her lap, she went into a trance, not moving, with only an occasional moan; her eyes stayed fixed on the ground in front of her. This went on for about an hour even with John’s failed attempts to get a reaction from her as he prodded her with a stick, giggling and laughing. She never moved.

My father returned home first and took in the scene instantly. ‘Christ, what is she doing?’ he whispered, understanding that the bones on the step were the cause of her despair.

Striding up to the steps, he demanded, ‘Where the hell did you get these?’

John explained about the bones down the side of the house.

My father picked up the bones and took them back to the fence where Rose couldn’t see them. Slowly, she lifted her head, and stepping out of the circle, she walked, jerking and shaking back through the bush to go home, with no intention of going back into the house. John and my father buried the bones, warning us not to play around that side of the house.

That night, I was sure that there were ghostly faces drifting around my bed. I could see their shadows and the glow of red eyes shining in the dark. Slowly, I got out of bed and made my way in the dark across the dining room to the stairs. I had never done this before and was afraid as I slowly crawled sideways on my bottom up the stairs step by step, my leg stabbing in pain with every move. I sat on the top step; it was darker down the passage as I tried to see their door, wishing that I was back in my bed. I stood up slowly and made my way dragging my leg down the dark passage passing my two-year-old sister Emily’s bedroom. I eased my way sideways down the passage. The sliding noise of my body against the wall and drag of my leg must have alerted my father.

I peered around the corner of my parents’ bedroom, then stepped into the doorway.

My mother screamed. ‘It’s Shirley! It’s Shirley!’ as she flicked on the light.

My father stood, with one knee on the bed and the other leg bent, his foot on the floor. He was stark naked, and his rifle pointed straight at my chest.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing here?’

I started to cry as my mother, who had jumped out of bed, turned me around and took me back down the stairs.

‘I nearly shot her,’ he yelled behind us. ‘What is the matter with these bloody kids?’

My mother walked me back downstairs to my bed and told me to go back to sleep; after she left, I climbed into John’s bed to sleep with him. After all, he was much older as he was nearly eight and not afraid of the dark. The shadows were gone as I drifted back to sleep, with the vision of my naked father, I must remember to tell John as I had never seen him naked before.

CHAPTER THREE

Music and Crabs

‘H URRY, ROSE,’ MY mother shouted.

Rose had to carry Emily, because she walked slowly and the road was already hot on her little feet, down the hill to the bend where she was left with Mrs Wagner for the day. My mother didn’t want to crease or dirty her homemade city work clothes by carrying her.

‘Don’t be late for school,’ she shouted, running in her high heels down the hill to the train station. Rose running, carrying Emily, was not far behind her.

My father had already left, we never saw him in the morning as he went early to get to the building site where he worked as a brick layer.

‘My leg hurts,’ I whimpered, ‘I can’t walk.’

‘Well, you have to, you know you can’t stay here, we will walk slowly.’

‘Come on, Shirley.’ John took my hand as we passed Rose at the top of the road. She watched us walk away, shaking her head.

‘Sorry, sorry, Miss Shirley,’ I heard her say, still shaking her old head.

The doek (scarf) tied around her head was slipping down over one ear as I smiled and waved back at her. There were no monkeys in the morning. They were in the wild banana trees at the top of the hill, having breakfast. John helped me walk, half carrying me on the three-mile journey to the school. He dropped me off a few blocks from his school at the kindergarten, and I found it easier to walk by the time we reached there.

‘I will be back after school,’ he whispered, ushering me through the gate, and hurried on.

My bare feet found comfort in the soft grass of the school grounds. It never worried us that we had no shoes as most children had no shoes; we could borrow shoes from the school. They kept a few pairs for group photo days, and if you were in the front row, the photos were never clear and no one noticed if the shoes were too big or small.

‘Shirley! Shirley!’ I heard John shout from the gate on his return, and I hobbled out.

‘The teacher said that I didn’t have to do sports today,’ I told him, proud that I had been made special. ‘She looked at my leg and called the doctor, and he put more muti (medicine) and another bandage on my leg.’

The hot sun burned down on our already tanned skin. With blistered shoulders and noses from the sun and the sea, we were permanently peeling and never wore hats or shirts. Stripping on the way home, John took off his shirt; I was already in my shorts when I left the kindergarten, the top stuffed in my little cardboard case. It was hot and sticky; the humidity caused the perspiration to trickle down, burning into our eyes from our dripping wet hair.

The tar road was hot, and we preferred to walk on the rough sandy gravel alongside until we reached the hill. The soles under our feet were rough and hard as nails. Hillside Road went up at a steep angle, bending half way at Mrs Moore’s house. Then up again to the old house sitting on the top, surrounded by the dense African bush that wound around the coastline. We rested at the bottom of the road under a