Fraternity & Fratricide: A Novel

By Turyahikayo Everest

In this 'Fraternity & Fratricide,' Winston, the State President, lies lifeless in his reading room. He is a victim of a meticulously planned assassination. Detective Chap navigates a web of lies, betrayal, and moral ambiguity as he goes after the elusive killer. Pursuing truth comes at a heavy cost, and redemption may be the ultimate casualty. Will the sins of the past bury the truth forever?
“Fraternity and Fratricide” is a gripping tale of retribution, injustice, and the thin line between the enforcers and the enforced. As the investigation hurtles towards a heart-stopping climax, Chap must confront not only the killer but the very system sworn to uphold justice. Prepare for a riveting journey where the line between ally and adversary blurs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everest Turyahikayo
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9789913970518

Book preview

Dedicated to

Esther, John, Cathy, Michael, Hellen, Irene, and Leticia

I’m so proud of you!

Prologue

Detective Chap sensed something was off as he navigated the complex corridors of justice.

Secrets were bartered like precious commodities. Loyalty was a fleeting notion, easily bought or sold to the highest bidder. And at the heart of it all lay the lifeless body of Winston, the revered State President.

Chap was tasked with finding the killer, but it became clear he was facing more than just a murderer. The very system he believed in was crumbling, corroding trust and truth at every turn. As he delved deeper into the darkness, Chap found himself struggling to hold onto his own morality as he uncovered harsh truths.

The investigation hurtled towards a climactic moment where friends and enemies blurred together in a tangle of lies. Justice seemed like an unattainable goal, and redemption was merely an illusion. Can Chap find the killer in a world where deception reigns supreme, or will their secrets be buried forever?

Get ready for a twisty journey where the price of truth may be too steep. In this sinister tale, no one can be trusted and the true price of justice remains unknown until the very end.

Chapter 1

The thought of ending a life brings tears to my eyes and sorrow to my heart. Just imagine, all that wisdom gathered over eighty-seven years is gone. The dreams the victim never saw come true. The sacrifices he has made for a nation that just turned its back on him. The sorrow is enough to make me feel hopeless and frustrated with this universe.

Even more troubling is the fact that eight-seven years isn’t seen as old when we consider it. The fear and guilt that follow overwhelm us as we consider how easy it could be to take away someone else’s life. Who doesn’t know that one day, our life will also end?

Such were the fears and guilt of whoever assassinated Winston Cruz, the beloved State President of South Africa. The shock engulfed the globe like snow at the Norwegian Nordkapp. Grief spread through the universe like a heavy fog, shrouding in shadows even the brightest stars. It seemed to suffocate the remaining grain of hope, leaving a thick veil of sadness over all corners of existence.

The year was 1965 and Johannesburg, also spiced as Joburg City echoed the complexities of South Africa. Inevitably, sprawling slums and modern skyscrapers juxtaposed against colonial-era architecture. Sounds of Hadeda birds competed with car honking, and the South African liberation music was a symphony of life. The diversity of the population was a source of cultural clashes rather than unity. The city grappled with high rates of crime and political tension. All these mirrored the larger struggle for equality and justice. Indigenous protea flowers struggled to exert their presence amidst the invasive tulips. Luckily, the lively nightlife in jazz clubs and the bustling daytime markets breathed life into the masses whose hope faded day by day. As expected, the dry and cool winter was not always bad enough to inflict misery on the city dwellers already in agony.

The personal residence of Winston Cruz on the northern side of Joburg was a sort of palace. It was a symbol of authority in the prestigious, well-guarded neighbourhood. The urban planners reserved the area only for high-ranking government officials, diplomats, and ministers. Only those who chose to live outside Pretoria. Heavy iron gates enclosed Winston’s residence. Vigilant security personnel who always scrutinised every visitor guarded it. Beyond the gates, a towering perimeter wall fortified with electrified wires at the top encircled the palace. This created an impenetrable fortress. Any intruder attempting to breach this formidable barrier would face insurmountable odds.

Once inside, a vast courtyard paved with elegant cobblestones led to the main house. On either side of the entrance stood the guards’ quarters. The main house was an impressive building, radiating a sense of power. It had sturdy wooden doors with complex designs and a glossy finish. Yale padlocks were placed on the exterior doors, while master locks were attached to the interior doors for added protection. The entrance, surrounded by stately marble columns, displayed the national emblem and led into a large foyer.

Winston’s private door was constructed with reinforced steel to guarantee his security. Incandescent bulbs and fluorescent lighting brightened the palace. The reading room was a sanctuary of knowledge and contemplation. It was filled with leather-bound books and ornate furnishings. A majestic staircase boasted portraits lining up side by side, featuring individuals who supported apartheid alongside activist battlers against it.

As one ascended the staircase, these portraits served as a stark contrast to the overall décor of the house. The stairway eventually led to the State President’s bedroom. The room was a lavish and spacious suite. Where the leader of the nation could rest and reflect on the decisions of the day.

On a Friday, around 8:00 p.m., a light-skinned young man in his late twenties, dressed in a black trouser, canvas shoes, and white tracksuit, came walking gracefully. The man stood at about 5’10 and possessed a small head. You could wonder how his brain fit in such a grapefruit-sized round head. The guards outside the gate saw him advancing. It was raining as the assassin waved at them, and entered the gate. The five-armed guards were already in the police truck, setting off to Winston’s official residence in Pretoria. The assassin entered through the open main gate and saw two guards inside. They were also armed. He waved at them and one waved back with a smile. He felt re-energised and continued towards the private access door of Winston’s reading room.

The assassin pushed the private door, and it was loosely closed. He found Winston deeply reading the book, Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton. Winston looked at him and saw an unfamiliar face. He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Before he could say a word, the assassin moved swiftly, his hand disappearing beneath his belt and reappearing with a long, Dutch-made Veri-sharp knife. He lunged forward with a force that sent Winston stumbling backward. The knife descended four times - twice into Winston’s stomach and twice into his chest just above the heart. The first stab was so strong that the knife almost penetrated through the back. Thunder sounds and strong winds caused panic and the assassin sustained injuries on his left arm as he stabbed Winston a fourth time.

Gently, he scooped up Winston from the floor and laid him in his chair. The assassin adjusted Winston’s head to face forward and then carefully placed the eyeglasses back on his nose. He closed the door as he had found it, dropped the knife gently on the verandah, and walked majestically to the main gate. With an inner mixture of fear and happiness, he waved to the two guards again. Once outside the gate, he took advantage of the darkness and ran towards the city centre.

Liz Cruz, Winston’s wife, arrived home an hour later. A party dress of rich silk hugged her tall frame. Regal green tones and beaded embellishments adorned a high neckline down to a modest knee-length hem. Her skin gleamed a creamy white, and she glowed with a sense of sophistication. Liz’s hair expertly swept up in a whirlwind of perfectly coiled curls. Each curl bounced and shined with life as if it had its own volition. Each strand framed her face perfectly, like a work of art crafted from spun gold.

After the guards opened the gate for Liz and her maids, they returned to the balcony where they were drinking Umqombothi, a local brew. The three maids walked to their rooms in the guest quarter. Liz took a cigarette out of its pack and struck a match. She brought the flame to the tip, then shook her head, quickly extinguished it, and placed it back in the box. She rummaged inside her handbag and pulled out a set of keys that jangled in her hands.

Shortly after accessing the house through the main door, Liz walked straight to the bedroom. She had thought Winston was already sleeping, only to realise she was wrong. Liz walked to Winston’s private balcony and found an empty white sofa set and a depressed tea table. It was as if the sofa and table had missed Winston for a century. She walked to the library and found him seated properly in his reading chair. She noticed drying blood all over and deep wounds. Liz tapped his shoulders but noticed Winston was breathless.

No! Winston! Noooo!!! Liz screamed; her feet frozen to the floor. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at his motionless body. This can’t be true! Please, please no…, she sobbed uncontrollably, her cries echoing throughout the room.

Peter Khu and Daniel Pretori, the guards on duty, heard Liz yell. At first, they thought the couple was fighting. But Khu quickly remembered that Winston was too old to fist and fight. They ran towards the house and found Winston lifeless. Liz gazed at his body as if commanding it to rise and walk to the bedroom. Khu and Pretori stood still speechless, the weight of their failure to protect their leader clear in their downcast eyes. But because of Umqombothi influence, the two men were staggering, viewing Winston’s body as if it had a duplicate.

Liz lit a cigarette and smoked as she gazed at Winston’s lifeless body. She continued smoking and ashing the cigarette using her index finger. Tears from her eyes tripled. After smoking, she walked to the corner of the living room and dialled Sancton Pietersen.

Hello, Prime Minister, Liz said, her voice trembling, my husband has passed away.

What happened? Sancton asked, his voice filled with concern.

My husband, Winston, lies lifeless!

Where are you? Sancton called out, his words carried away by the howling wind.

I’m right here, my hand resting on his lifeless body.

Are there any potential suspects we should consider?

How do you expect me to know? Liz exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

We have to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. We must find out who did this and make sure we bring them to justice.

Can justice breathe new life into my husband’s body? Liz slurred her words as she stumbled, clearly intoxicated.

No. But I’ll send a few people over to investigate and collect more details on what happened.

Thank you so much.

It’s my duty and pleasure.

Immediately, the bad news shattered the tranquillity of the night. The clock on the wall silently ticked away, approaching 10 p.m.

Sancton reached for his rotary phone, his fingers tapping the buttons with a purpose that mirrored the gravity of the situation. He dialled Ricky Grims, the Head of police, for the first time, but the phone stubbornly refused to connect. A knot of tension tightened in Sancton’s stomach.

Thirty minutes passed before he made a second attempt. This time, the call went through, but the ringing echoed into emptiness. Nobody answered. Another half-hour of suspense, and Sancton persisted. The line clicked, and a weary Ricky finally picked up, the raspy quality of his voice hinting at a disturbance.

Ricky, do you have any idea what’s happened?

Ricky, grappling with the news, responded with a terse No, sir. The irritating sound of an owl added an eerie layer to the conversation. Ricky, known for providing tight security to Winston, was left to grapple with the unexpected.

Liz informed me, Sancton continued, Winston’s been assassinated.

Sancton’s voice was tense. Meanwhile, on the other end, Ricky’s panic was palpable. Darkness engulfed Ricky’s bedroom as he talked to Sancton, the absence of light deepening the shadows of uncertainty.

Sir, I’ve always given Winston enough security, Ricky said with a trembling voice.

What do you mean by ‘enough security,’ Ricky? Sancton inquired.

A meaningful silence followed, Ricky, choosing not to answer. The owl’s haunting calls seemed to amplify the gravity of the conversation. As if compelled by an unseen force, Ricky pressed for details.

Sir, where did it happen? he demanded, his voice cutting through the static.

Winston met his demise from the comfort of his home, Sancton revealed, the weight of the words hanging heavily between them.

The line went dead. The eerie silence that followed was punctuated only by Sancton’s repeated attempts to reconnect. His persistence, however, was met with an impenetrable void. In the quiet darkness of Ricky’s bedroom, Sancton listened to what seemed like thunder and felt the ground shake, convincing himself of a tumultuous storm or even an earthquake.

It was only later, when the silence settled, that Sancton realised these were hallucinations, manifestations of the chaos unfolding in his mind as he grappled with the shocking news. The world around him remained undisturbed, yet the echoes of his internal storm lingered in the air.

Chapter 2

A day before the assassination, a local politician met with a Chinese investor at the Diagonal Street restaurant in Joburg. The restaurant hummed with the clatter of coffee cups and low murmurs of patrons.

Welcome to Joburg. It’s a pleasure to have you here, the politician said, gesturing for the investor to take a seat.

Thank you for having me. I appreciate the coffee, replied the investor, settling into the chair with a nod of gratitude. You would think they had met before.

The clink of cups punctuated the beginning of their conversation.

How is South Africa? the investor inquired, taking a sip of the rich, dark coffee.

We’re okay. You might have heard about the protests.

Oh, yes. Why are people up in arms with the government?

Resisting apartheid policies, my brother.

Resistance, you say? The investor raised an eyebrow, prompting the politician to elaborate.

Yes, a pushback against the apartheid policies. There’s a growing movement advocating for change, the politician clarified, the weight of the topic evident in his tone.

The investor nodded, absorbing the information. And how does this affect business in Joburg?

Well, it adds an extra layer of complexity. The political climate influences regulations and social dynamics, but despite the challenges, the city is still a hub for various industries, the politician responded, emphasizing resilience.

The investor leaned forward, intrigued. Tell me more about this city. What’s the pulse of Joburg like?

Dynamic, to say the least. Despite the political tensions, you’ll find a vibrant energy here. The streets are alive with commerce, and the cultural diversity is vivid, the politician shared, with a touch of pride in his voice.

Any particular challenges for investors? The investor probed.

Navigating the racial divisions can be delicate. Understanding the cultural nuances is key. However, Joburg offers opportunities across sectors, from mining to emerging industries, the politician explained.

And what about everyday life for the people here?

People are resilient. They find joy in cultural events, like the Sophiatown Jazz Festival, that transcend the challenges. It’s a city that thrives on the strength and spirit of its people, the politician replied.

Interesting. What other good things can be found here in Joburg? the investor asked, genuinely curious.

Skyscrapers are rising, streets like this one and Commissioner Street are bustling with energy, and there’s the eclectic Brixton market and the vibrant Indian Quarter, the politician responded, his hands illustrating the vibrancy of the city.

As the conversation flowed, the Chinese investor leaned forward.

How easy is it to learn the local languages? he wondered with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

English and Afrikaans are common. Zulu, too. But for business, English and Afrikaans are your best bets, the politician explained, reaching for his cup.

Are people social and friendly? the investor asked, observing the lively scene around them.

Absolutely. People come together during events like the Rand Show. The annual Joburg Carnival, too, creates a sense of social unity, the politician revealed with a hint of pride in his voice.

The investor pondered, sipping his coffee before delving into the business aspect.

What about investment opportunities? he inquired, getting down to the core.

We have gold and copper mines, and there’s potential for vine plantations, the politician listed, outlining the economic landscape.

I’m not interested in farming, perhaps gold mines, the investor mused, contemplating the possibilities.

You’re free to do whatever you want in South Africa, provided you support Sancton’s regime. Feel free to inform fellow Chinese to come, the politician gave assurance.

The Chinese cleared the bill for both as they parted ways.

Chapter 3

Winston had been more than just a charismatic politician. He was a beacon of hope in a nation dancing to rhythmic turmoil. In a time when the oppressive grip of apartheid suffocated the dreams of many, Winston stood as a rare example of a courageous white figure who vehemently opposed the unjust system. His voice carried the weight of conviction, echoing through crowded streets. He had fought tirelessly to dismantle the chains of repressive laws, his eloquence resonating with those who had long yearned for change. It was his impassioned speeches that ignited a spark of resistance. But perhaps his most audacious endeavour had been the proposition of a housing project for the people of Soweto, a place where Sancton thought dignity and decency were taboo. And then, abruptly, Winston’s flame extinguished. The walls of uncertainty closed in as suspicion spread like wildfire. Why now, when his vision was on the verge of realisation? Why was his voice silenced just as it was gaining momentum?

A surge of anti-apartheid rioters overtook the streets of Johannesburg and elsewhere. Demonstrators voiced their outrage against the assassination of a beloved leader. Banners with Winston’s image fluttered alongside a slogan, Justice is a map, leading to hidden treasures. Amidst the clamour of the mob, a small group of revellers cheered, believing that Sancton was the one dead.

Eddie Robbeans, the South African Stir newspaper senior journalist, had a reputation for being an unkempt rebel. His dark, wild hair was often in disarray, and his clothing was threadbare and unwashed. He was always in a hurry, sometimes wearing mismatched socks. Despite his bedraggled appearance, he possessed a handsome face and compassionate voice that made him instantly likeable.

The Stir caused an uproar amongst the community with Eddie’s latest article. He claimed that a top politician had masterminded Winston’s assassination. He did not name the politician for ‘security reasons.’ The elite community had taken none of Eddie’s stories seriously before. But this time it was different. The government did not release any official statement after Winston’s assassination. People believed anything. On the day following the publication of the article, riots tripled in rural areas, including Soweto, Sharpeville, District Six, Sophiatown, and Nyanga, as people demanded justice for Winston. It took two months of police trying to quell the demonstrations - some resulting in fatalities before calm finally returned.

Weeks before the demise, Winston and Sancton held a series of strategic meetings. They sat across from each other in Sancton’s office. The room was adorned with the trappings of power and elegant furnishings. Sancton leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he gazed out of the window. Winston, these anti-apartheid movements are gaining momentum. Our people are growing restless, and their demands for change are getting louder. We can’t allow them to continue like that.

I know that, Sancton. But we can’t afford to suppress these voices any longer. Our economy is suffering under apartheid, and the inequalities are growing. If we don’t take steps to address these issues, the consequences could be dire.

Sancton sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. I disagree that the economy is suffering. Also, inequalities have been and will continue to be part of human society.

But remember, Winston said, his voice filled with authority, We are the leaders. We owe the citizens a duty.

Citizens? Who qualifies as a citizen of South Africa?

A citizen is everybody in South Africa, Winston said passionately, emphasising each word.

Including those who make no economic contribution? Sancton asked.

Sancton, we must do what’s right for our people, all people without discrimination. We can’t allow fear or complacency to guide our decisions. If we continue to ignore their grievances, the situation could escalate into something far more dangerous. Let me tell you Sancton; a slimy green frog hopped toward its auntie to pick a tail from her. Other amphibians that did not have a relationship with its auntie moved faster and picked theirs. This frog moved slowly without bother assured of securing a tail, and by the time it reached, the auntie had given away all tails.

Well said, Winston.

You remember the freedom charter approved at the historic Congress of the People in Kliptown? Winston asked, You can’t ignore the promises made back then.

Promises, promises, Sancton retorted, leaning back in his chair as if amused by the notion. "Everything was vague at that Congress of the People . Just words in the wind. Is there also a congress of animals?"

Those words defined the foundation of a new South Africa, Winston shot back.

A new South Africa built on what? The dreams of the poor? The aspirations of those who can barely put food on their tables? In the game of survival, there are no referees.

Yes, on the dreams of every person who calls this land home. Including those who have suffered the most.

Ah yes, and who exactly are these people you speak of? If every government in South Africa is based on the will of the people, then who are these people? People’s will should be proportional to their possession.

Don’t belittle the struggle by making jokes. The people who have suffered are those who have experienced generations of oppression and marginalisation. They can’t possess what we have deprived them of.

And do those who can’t read or write consider themselves part of the people?

Sancton, the past, and present may haunt, but the future redeems. This illiteracy results from systematic oppression. We have deprived people of their land and education, the liberation means to rise above their circumstances.

But capacity matters. Owning land doesn’t automatically grant prosperity. Look at the world’s richest individuals. Do they make up even five percent of the population?

We can’t deny our people their birthright, Winston said.

Look at the so-called liberation elsewhere in Africa where apartheid is unheard of. How many of the poorest own land? And how many truly enjoy their birthright? How many are equal before the law? Haven’t fellow blacks deprived them?

A moment of tense silence settled between them, the weight of their opposing viewpoints hanging in the air. Winston’s gaze softened slightly, acknowledging the complexity of the issue. You have a point. Discrimination isn’t solely a result of white oppression here. Africans have suffered greatly at the hands of their black leaders as well.

With the unsettled dust in Winston’s mind, they parted ways.

The next day, Eddie visited President Winston. The sounds of Hadeda Ibis, haa-haa-haa-de-dah, welcomed Eddie. This sound was rare, but when it came especially in the morning, people interpreted it to mean a pending misfortune. Guards at first denied him entry, perhaps because of his torn shirts and smelly socks. After bargaining and bargaining with his gentle voice, they let him in. Winston welcomed him and offered him a seat six metres away. With a notebook and pen in hand, Eddie leaned forward slightly.

Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to speak with me today. Our readers are eager to hear your thoughts on the current political climate.

I appreciate the opportunity to address the nation, he began, his tone measured yet charged with underlying intensity.

Eddie nodded; his pen poised to capture every word. There’s been a lot of debate about the apartheid policies being pushed by certain politicians. What’s your take on this matter?

Winston leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table’s edge. Let me be clear. Apartheid is a stain on our nation’s history, a policy that seeks to divide and oppress. It’s disheartening to see some of our politicians advancing these policies, policies that only deepen the divides between our people.

Eddie scribbled notes furiously, his pen almost unable to keep up with Winston’s impassioned words. Can you elaborate on what you mean by ‘our politicians?’

There’re those in positions of power who are more concerned with maintaining their control than with the well-being of our citizens. They cling to outdated notions of superiority and segregation, ignoring the cries for equality that echo through our streets.

Are you suggesting that some politicians are deliberately perpetuating apartheid for their gain?