Terror in the Night

By Gideon Botes

Dumisani Maluti and his family must escape from a flooding house in the middle of the night. All that stands between them and certain death is their half-submerged, sturdy Ford Ranger pickup truck as it takes them through ever-rising floodwater. Deadly snakes and scorpions only add to their dire situation and terror in the night.

Domestic violence, rape and male dominance, rife in South Africa, turns the once admirable and lovable Dumisani Maluti into the super villain of this novel. Meanwhile Rosina, his intelligent and sensible wife, must battle with logistical problems to earn a living as a domestic worker and feed and clothe her family.

Johnny Bothma is an opinionated, know-it-all official. Mischievous, witty and, at times, slightly uncouth, he provides for informative and comical reading. New in a manager's position, he inherits a nest of governmental corruption and malpractice. Implementing a strict turnaround strategy, he becomes the target of criminally minded colleagues and tycoons that want him dead. In the volatile, rural areas, where killing a person by the "necklace" method is still a reality, he exposes himself regularly without fear.

Deplorably crooked and racist, Koobie the builder and Gregory the developer, represent thousands of rogues in the industry – more villains in the mix of this interesting and entertaining novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gideon Botes
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005889173

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Terror in the Night

Terror in the Night

Gideon Botes

Copyright © 2021 Gideon Botes

First edition 2021

Published by Gideon Botes Publishing at Smashwords

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 any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Gideon Botes using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Christa Rheeder for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Gideon Botes

[e-mail]

DECLARATION

(1) All characters, officials, workers and residents portrayed in this NOVEL, are entirely fictional. Names were chosen haphazardly.

(2) The facts of the catastrophic floods in February 2000, 21 years before this novel was conceived, are a matter of history. It caused havoc and tremendous damage to infrastructure in the provinces of Mpumalanga and Limpopo. Taking some liberties concerning the chronology, some events, political and other, happened either earlier or later than the floods. Different environs concerning flooded areas were used to suit the story. The author intertwines fiction with fact. The demanding, riotous behaviour of crowds in South Africa are facts, reported daily in news media.

(3) The crucial importance of planning and executing human habitations are depicted herein.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my late, dearly beloved wife, Rita.

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Rapist

Chain-Smoker

Wily Rosina

Rainwater Illegal Into Sewer

From Comfort to Distress

How to buy a House With Little Money

Nsikazi, Making Your Own Building Blocks

Rogue Builder

Accountability and Impotence

The Deluge STARTED - Nsikazi

White River, Collapsing Boundary Walls

Getaway Truck

Avoiding Death by a Hair’s Breadth

Mother, Eaten by Crocodile

Benefactor to be Necklaced?

Dicing With Crocodiles

Picking Up the Pieces

Prologue

Escaping from a half flooded house, in the middle of the night of the devastating floods of February 2000, the fictional Dumisani Maluti and his family’s epic adventures, through ever-rising flood water, provides the theme for the name of this novel. Battling to remain heads-up above the rapidly rising flood water, they try to escape death by driving away, half-submerged in a Ford Ranger pickup truck towards higher ground. They plough over and through collapsed rubble, fences, ditches and other obstacles. All that stands between them and certain death is the sturdy Ford. Can it withstand the punishing ordeal? Deadly snakes, scorpions and other biting and stinging critters, teeming in the water, increase their risks. Can they make it out alive? Despite their peril, they make time to rescue others. This book ends, after the floods abated.

In post-apartheid South Africa, the gap between rich and poor is substantial. Some, struggling to survive, craves appropriate housing. They will go to any length to have a roof of even the most rudimentary material, over their heads. The intrigue, of those craving riches at all cost, traditionalist male domination, domestic violence and rape provides for exciting reading.

To limit the number of characters, all the above vice and political malice that makes up daily media coverage, is heaped on the once admirable and lovable, Dumisani Maluti, turning him into the super villain. His wild dreams of opulence, of living in a mansion above his income, keep him in financial trouble with the ruthless loan-sharks, who after defaulting at the regular financial institutions, remains his only option for credit. He is exposed to their merciless collecting modus-operandi.

The fate of millions of women is personified in Rosina, wife of Dumisani. She is intelligent and ever-sensible and opposes her husband’s irresponsibility without success. She lives under poignant circumstances and battles with logistical problems to earn a living as a domestic worker. Each day, a large chunk of her time is spent on public transport to reach her place of employment. She keeps food on the table and clothing for her family.

The fictional Johnny Bothma is the opinionated, dogged, know-it-all, workaholic official. Too non-diplomatically minded to be scared to air his views, his exploits and antics provide, at times comical, but very informative reading. Any prospective house owner or owner-builder, should contemplate the question of why the floors in a house or building get inundated during rain, even with all doors and windows closed? You will find the answer from Johnny, by reading this novel.

This novel will open your eyes as to what enduring problems could be easily avoided by, at the early stages, looking past beautiful appearances. Rather concern yourself with the most important, oft-forgotten things such as foundations, floor heights and storm water disposal. Mischievous, witty and at times, slightly uncouth, he is a handful to be managed by his good wife, Martie. Elevated to a manager’s position for the area where the novel takes place, he inherits a nest of governmental corruption and malpractice. Implementing a strict turnaround strategy, he becomes the target of criminally minded colleagues and tycoons that want him dead. In the volatile rural areas, where killing a person by the necklace method is still a reality, he exposes himself regularly without fear.

Not all the developers and building contractors are as deplorably crooked as the fictional Koos and Gregory Meister, but they represent thousands of rogues in the industry. Racism was rife at the time and Koos has to bear the brunt of it in this novel.

ENJOY THE READING.

Chapter One

The Rapist

It was nine-thirty on a Saturday morning early February, the year 2000. Dumisani Maluti, a tall, powerfully built Swazi, in his early thirties, was sweating profusely in the scorching Lowveld heat. Sweat-runnels coursed down through the dust, on his finely muscled, shiny black torso. He was two metres tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. He weighed a healthy, muscles only, 118 kilograms.

Dumisani’s late father, Gideon Maluti, was an Induna to the Maluti Tribal Authority. Dumisani Maluti viewed himself as of royal descent, and did not like it at all when the residents of Makokko outvoted him as their new Induna, after his father passed away.

It rankled with him that the residents did not want to entrust him with their communal affairs. That was the reason, or rather excuse, why he applied for a piece of land in Phameni, five kilometres away from Makokko.

Dressed only in his trousers and running shoes, his torso bare, Dumisani was at the bottom of a two and a half metre deep pit, loading sand onto the borrowed pickup truck, parked high above him on the very edge of the borrow-pit. It was in a bend of the Nsikazi River, near their house. He was showing off his powerfully built body.

‘Dad, how many more shovels of sand must we load, before we can go home and eat?’ his ten-year-old son, Sipho asked. He was on the rim of the pit, next to the vehicle. He had a smaller spade and was helping, or rather, trying to help load sand. He was the image of his father. There could be no doubt as to who sired him. Still a school kid, one could see that he was going to grow into a strong man one day.

‘Oh, only about, let me see, 9 999 and one half-shovels before the Ford has enough of a load,’ Dumisani teased.

‘Oh Dad, it will take all day. I will faint from hunger soon,’ Sipho wailed.

Dumisani chortled, ‘no son, only about fifty more. Let’s say five to ten minutes,’ he said as he shot the next spade-full, up in a parabolic arc, to land high above his head on the centre of the load in the back of the truck.

‘It is a fine art to manage what I am doing now,’ Dumisani said in a self-important manner. He was repeating the words of Johnny Bothma, spoken when he demonstrated the trick one day. ‘Though I hate to admit it, my nemesis teaches all of us a great many tricks,’ he told Sipho.

‘How so, Dad, and who is your, ne, ne ...’ Sipho struggled to pronounce the word.

‘Nemesis,’ he helped Sipho, ‘meaning, opponent or enemy.’

‘While we were building high retaining walls, at the on-ramp to a bridge, Johnny demonstrated this with building-mortar. He did it so well that each spade-full of it plopped neatly into the board, up high, without spilling a drop.

‘The conceited bastard had this to say at the time,’ Dumisani impersonated resentfully.

‘Whenever lesser people try this trick, everything around looks as if it is covered with cow dung.’

In his mind’s eye, Sipho could see the green, shiny heaps of fresh cow dung splattering down behind their neighbour’s cow, even covering their own bums with it. He imagined a cow flying over, showering a green storm, all over the walls and windows of their house. He giggled coyly at his father’s crude, but clear description.

‘He is our new boss, appointed in charge of all of us working here in Nsikazi for the regional municipality. I should have been in that position.’

‘Is he a bad man, Dad?’

‘To me he is. The bastard is forever striving to teach and train everybody, as if we were born morons. Furthermore, he is never afraid to lead by example, dirtying his hands and clothes, inadvertently belittling me.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Sipho answered, not knowing that his father was only using him as a sounding board for his own frustrated thoughts.

‘Johnny grew up in the building trade, spending his childhood holidays working shoulder to shoulder with the black workers of his late father’s building consortium. It must have been them who taught him all his tricks, now he acts as if he is the originator of it.

‘A true leader should not lower himself to the level of the ones below him. Like a King or a Chief, one should only issue orders. His underlings ought to do as told and they must do it well,’ Dumisani continued.

‘But, Dad, how is the King or Chief going to check the work if they do not know it themselves or how to look at it?’ Sipho asked, confused.

‘Don’t ask so many difficult questions,’ Dumisani growled.

‘Yes Dad. I can see that you do not like him.’

‘Everybody idolises him, making me appear the incompetent fool. It irks me enormously that Johnny enjoys so much admiration and respect. All the councillors, community-members, bosses, workers and everybody else thinks the sun shines from his bum,’ Dumisani said.

Sipho giggled, imagining a man, walking with the very strong beam from a spotlight emitting from his posterior.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Dumisani glowered at his son, ‘let’s stop nattering and get the truck loaded. I will teach you how,’ he told Sipho. The rhythmic cadence of Johnny’s instructions still echoed in his head as he repeated it to Sipho.

‘After you have scooped up the spade-full,’ he thrust the head of the shovel into the sand at his feet, filling it to capacity, and stood up. ‘With your left hand gripping the shaft near the head and the right hand the handle, you hold the spade horizontally, next to your right hip,’ he demonstrated.

‘Your left shoulder, arm and hand will bear the weight of the sand. Your right hand will do the steering and driving upwards,’ Dumisani continued, ‘to begin with, you must twist your body to the right, as far as it will go. Then you bend your knees a little, turn your back slightly towards your intended target and hold like that.’

Dumisani emulated the moves of a discus-throwing athlete, with the spade in both hands. ‘Bend your knees at an angle, your whole body poised to explode with power,’ he mimed.

On the bank above, behind the pickup, some loose sand has heaped up, spilt there by others.

‘I am doing the same as you, Dad.’ Sipho scooped his small spade half-full of sand. ‘I have my back turned to the target, over the tailgate of the pickup. It is about level with my head.’

‘You have to bring your full body power into the back-swing, swivelling on your left foot. As you twist, you straighten up your legs, adding momentum to the whole effort. At the same time, you accelerate, shove and steer the spade upwards with your right arm. The thrust must go half over your left shoulder. With the load fully committed on its flightpath, you jerk the shovel downwards and away.’

Dumisani let loose the power of his body. He pivoted, on the ball of his left foot, in a swinging, arching thrust. That way, utilising all the muscles in his legs, back, shoulders and arms, simultaneously exploiting the momentum of the swing. The tremendous power generated by the combination, caused the sand to fly up, out of the pit. It went up, past the side of the pickup, soared to a total height of more than four metres, from where he stood, stopped ascending, then came down, and plopped into the same spot as before.

There followed a loud metallic clang. Sipho had swung his tiny spade full tilt into the top edge of the tailgate. ‘Oh no,’ he wailed. Without the power and coordination, he could not get it any higher. All the sand cascaded over his head and shoulders. Some of it found its way down the front and back of his shirt.

‘Ha-ha-ha-ha...’ Dumisani laughed heartily at his son’s mishap and said, ‘Sorry, son, it takes a lot of practice and much more strength.’ He liked to tutor his son. Sipho had to strip his shirt off to rid himself of the sand.

Dumisani’s bulging muscles rippled each time he bent down or came up to throw the sand upwards. He was brimming with energy, no doubt boosted by the joint of cannabis he smoked before leaving home. Declared an illegal drug in South Africa, cannabis is smoked by a lot of South Africans. Some taking an occasional puff or two, most users smoked it daily.

‘It must be already 30 to 35 degrees centigrade. No doubt, it will go up to the normal midday average of 40 plus, for this time of year,’ Dumisani called up to Sipho. ‘The humidity is very high as well, must be at least 98%, sweat do not evaporate from your body to cool you down.’

Phameni is a little village or settlement, at the north-eastern corner of Nsikazi, near the Numbi entrance gate to the world renowned Kruger National park, in the east of Mpumalanga, South Africa. The natural beauty of the vicinity, had undeniably been destroyed. In the villages, the locals had cut down all the trees, riverine bush and shrubs to create streets and stands. Along the river, there were open borrow-pits, exposing swaths of bare sandbanks. This was done for the firewood and to expose the usable building sand.

The area was mostly undulating land with scattered hills of varying height in Nsikazi. White River, on a medium-sized escarp to the southwest, was only 35 kilometres away, but still in the Lowveld.

There were no paved or tarred roads in Phameni or in most of the surrounding villages. In informally settled villages in the Tribal Trust areas, there are no neat tree-lined streets or walkways as in towns and cities elsewhere. The general state of the settlements are neglected, dusty, and downright dismal.

The soil of the area is mostly sandy earth, covered with grass and majestic Lowveld trees, shrubs and plants. In its undisturbed status, it is beautiful countryside. Colossal Wild-ficus trees; Acasia trees; Maroela trees; Kiaat trees and Vaalbos trees abound. That is, except along the rivers and in the villages. The communities had torn most of the trees down in order to mark out stands and to erect their homes as well as streets. With no natural covering, soil erosion is prevalent and inevitable.

Rainwater during each downpour excavates deeper and deeper ravines, called dongas locally. Most parts of Phameni slopes gradually down to the Nsikazi River. However, where Dumisani is building his house, nearer the river, it is flatter and not much higher in elevation than the riverbed itself.

He relocated his family out of his mother’s house in Makokko, to his dream-house, as soon as part of it was semi liveable. However, it was far from habitable in the conventional sense.

Their squatter-like abode has caused real nasty fights with his wife, Rosina. Disgruntled because he has torn them away from the rudimentary, but comfortable accommodation at his mother’s house in Makokko. That was almost six years before and it has not become any more liveable since the day he moved them there. As the wife of an Nguni male, Rosina just had to fall in with her husband’s wishes, end of the story.

Her continuous nagging was extremely annoying. She was always going on about the half-completed house and their poor living conditions. She never forgave him for the move from Makokko to this, the furthest edge of Phameni.

It caused her the very complicated headache of day-care arrangements for their two children. She paid him back by snubbing his sexual advances, which infuriated him.

He loaded the sand mechanically. He was still smarting from the insult and hurt of the previous evening’s tussle with Rosina in bed. He, anticipating some hanky-panky with his wife, got into bed, naked. She however, was dressed and buttoned up tight in her nightie, despite the heat.

‘Good night,’ she said and immediately turned her back on him. She moved to her side of the bed, lying right on the edge. It was as cold a shoulder as any husband could ever get from his spouse.

Feeling frisky, he moved over and rolled against her back, thrusting his hips against her buttocks. ‘How do you like this, dear wife’ he bragged, as usual. He hoped that the heat exuding from him would start his wife’s libido. He put his arm over her and grabbed her bosom. Though he felt the nipple extend and harden, she grabbed his wrist and shoved it away.

‘Please stop that Dumisani,’ she said. ‘My back aches and my head bursts with a headache.’ She moved still further away from him, to the edge of the bed.

Dumisani was immediately infuriated, to the point of assaulting her into submission. It was unheard of that a wife of the tribe has the right to refuse her husband’s desires. ‘You will let me have my way tonight. It is almost four months now, that you have been sulking and pleading headaches,’ he barked furiously, barely keeping his voice below a bellow.

‘Dumisani, I will not have intercourse with you tonight,’ Rosina hissed at him. ‘My back hurts and my heart is not in it any longer.’ She wanted to say more, but he grabbed her shoulder and jerked her over on her back. She struggled furiously to fend him off, but he was too strong.

He pinned her down and rolling over on his knees, he straddled her. The euphoria of forcefully subjugating her was, for one like him, the best aphrodisiac. He became fervent with lust.

He struck her, an openhanded