Chapter 11

January 1980

In the minibus taxi on his way back from Pretoria to Nelspruit, Amos Vilakazi used the sleeve of his blue denim shirt to wipe the condensation and grime from the window and peered out at the road eastwards and the fields, villages and roadside stalls that flew too quickly past. The taxi driver was singing at the top of his voice to the mbaqanga song on the radio, thumping his hands on the steering wheel and now and again on top of the dashboard for a change of timbre, defying the speed limit and overtaking slower vehicles, paying no heed to the solid white lines on the road, tossing the passengers from side to side. The passengers grumbled, some squealed, grabbing onto the backs of the seats in front of them.

Amos regretted wearing denim and long sleeves in the January heat in this furnace of a taxi with windows that refused to open. Sweat gathered in his armpits, around his neck, trickled down his chest so that he had to rub it every now and then to relieve the itching.

The sweat and discomfort were, however, appropriate reflections of his emotional state. Perhaps it would be better to die on this crazy taxi ride if it meant instant obliteration without terror or pain. His young life – from the moment of his entry into adulthood – had taken a sudden detour, one that he should, if he’d had more time on this planet, have anticipated. His left hand went to his trouser pocket and patted down the wad of R50 notes that made what he thought was too conspicuous a bulge. He wished he had put it in his right-hand pocket so it would sit between him and the body of the taxi.

Two months before, Amos had written his final school exams. Two weeks ago he’d received his results. Five distinctions. It had been only last weekend that his family, together with Baba Dlamini, had organised the celebration in the village. He now replayed in his head the loquacious speeches, the singing and sweaty dancing, and his having been allowed for the first time to drink in front of the adults – although they had, predictably, shooed him away from the whiskey and handed him a beer.

In his speech to the assembly of extended family, friends, villagers and schoolmates, Baba Dlamini had overdone the adjectives: ‘extremely intelligent’, ‘obsessively diligent’, ‘very very disciplined’, ‘highly articulate’, ‘brilliant writer’. Amos had raised the beer bottle to his mouth for each effusion of praise and then looked down at his feet. Baba Dlamini had moved off the accolades, drawn himself up to his full stature, stared with sternness at the gathering and jabbed his fingers at the young people sitting around on boxes, plastic chairs and fallen tree trunks.

‘This young man, this son of Vilakazi – as are all of you, at least those who managed to pass your matric – is entering the world of adulthood, is entering a time of life to make choices.’

He looked around again, stroked his small beard and cast his intimidating stare on each of the youngsters. He nodded at the adults. ‘Yes, a time to make choices, a time in a very tricky and, yes, dangerous world. Many young men – and some young girls, I’m told – are going astray. You know what your problem is.’

He swept his arm with a pointed finger at the young people. ‘Patience. You children don’t have patience. Yes. You want everything now. You want money now. You want to live like the white man now. You shout slogans. You sing your struggle songs. You throw stones.’

One of the adults, swaying on his feet, jumped forward and tried to shove a bottle of beer into Dlamini’s hand. Dlamini brushed it aside. The bottle fell and smashed to the ground.

‘Sit down, drunkard! I’m still speaking. Some of you are running away, leaving your families, to go hide in the forests of some foreign country, to learn how to shoot guns.’

Three of the young men whispered to each other. Amos stared at Baba Dlamini.

‘Yes, you go to foreign countries to learn to shoot guns, and to learn foreign ideas, from a bunch of Russians who know nothing about our country, our people, our traditions.’

Dlamini began pacing. His voice quietened a little. ‘Yes, I know, life is hard for us. Yes, apartheid is unfair on us. But you will not make life better with songs and stones and, yes, guns.’

He walked up to Amos, lay his hand on his head as if to deliver a benediction. ‘Life will be made better by what this young man has done and will do. By education. By patience. By resilience. When we have learned the ways of the modern world, when we have educated ourselves, when we have practised patience, then the white man will have no choice but to let us into his world. You will not defeat him with guns and stones. He is too powerful. He has more guns. But education ... You will catch up with him with education. Education! That is your AK47!’

Dlamini lifted his hand from Amos’s head, waved it at the gathering to indicate that he was done, then patted Amos on the back. ‘Woza, ndodana. Let me talk to you privately.’

Amos left his unfinished beer on the ground and followed Dlamini to the edges of the gathering. They stood in the scarce shade of an acacia. Dlamini put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Young Vilakazi, you have done well. You have excelled. Let me tell you, I know people – many youngsters have passed through my hands – and I know you are going to be a leader one day. But it is now time for the next step.’

‘Yes, Baba. I understand that. I am ready.’

‘Good. I hope you are ready. It is time to go and see Meneer Bester again. Here.’

Dlamini slid his hand into the inside pocket of his blazer, worn in spite of the searing heat, and slipped something into the front pocket of Amos’s shirt. ‘You are going to meet Meneer Bester in Pretoria. That’s some money I’ve given you for the journey and a paper with instructions of how, where and when to find him.’

Amos patted his front pocket.

‘Now, Amos, you listen to me carefully. You will listen attentively and respectfully to what Meneer Bester has to say, you hear me? Your life is about to change. You are going to do big things. Now go. Go back to your celebration ... And no more beers, you understand?’

Amos fidgeted in the taxi seat, trying to ease some comfort around the tear in the seat cushion that cut into his buttocks. His hand went to his pocket again. He wondered if he could shift the money over without the passenger on the seat beside him noticing. He decided not to risk it. He would wait until they stopped for petrol and the toilets.

It was only now, on his way back from Pretoria, from his second meeting with Otto Bester, that the full import of Baba Dlamini’s public and private speeches at his graduation celebration unpacked itself in his mind. Indeed, his life had changed, but not as he had expected it. There was to be no free university education, not for now, but a promise for later, along with other promises. No, he was to leave the country. Go into exile. Join the ANC.

The taxi swept into a petrol station and squeaked to a halt next to a pump. The driver yelled at the passengers without turning around.

‘Right, people! Thirty minutes break. You late; you stay.’

Amos left the taxi and found the toilet at the back of the station building. He decided to enter the cubicle to sit, although his stomach gave no indication of wanting to work. He pulled his pants down. There was no seat, and he settled uncomfortably onto the rim. There was no lock on the door so he held it closed with his foot, then gingerly removed the wad of money from his left pocket and shoved it into his right. He looked at the new watch Bester had given him to time his thirty minutes, a Casio digital, the cheapest model, Bester had told him. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.

Snatches of the conversation with Bester in the prefab building tucked away into a far corner of the University of South Africa campus came back to him. Simultaneously, his stomach decided to start working. He grunted.

‘No, Amos, I’m not asking you to be a sell-out. I’m not recruiting you to be a spy on your people. I don’t want military information or stuff like that. Nothing like that.’

‘What is it that you want, Mr Bester?’

‘Otto, please. Surely we can be less formal now. We are going to be working together. All I will want from you is insights.’

‘Insights?’

‘Yes. We need to understand the thinking within the different sections and the leaders in the ANC. Who are unredeemable communists, militarists; who are the ones willing to consider some more peaceful approach – stuff like that. Not deep, dark secrets, if you know what I mean. We want you to work your way up into the leadership so that your own more sensible views can prevail. And, of course, when we finally find a peaceful resolution, you will be in a position to play a leading role in fixing our country.’

‘And what if I refuse?’

‘Come, come, Amos. It’s too late to refuse.’

‘What does that mean?’

Bester had reached into his breast pocket and pushed a scrap of paper across the desk in the otherwise empty prefab. He had turned the paper around so Amos could read it, but kept a finger on it.

29 October 1979
Received from Otto Bester
R100
Amos Vilakazi
(Signed)

Amos clenched his stomach muscles and grimaced out the last of the shit. He looked around for toilet paper. There was none. Nor were there any scraps of newspaper. He patted his pockets. Only the wad of money there. There was a moment’s temptation to use a R50 note. Was it not dirty money, after all? But he found, in his shirt pocket, the half-sheet of paper from Baba Dlamini with the instructions for his meeting with Bester. He unfolded it and wiped himself. It didn’t do a perfect job, but there was nothing more. He dropped it into the toilet bowl, stood and tried to rub the dents from the toilet rim out of his backside, pulled up his trousers. He turned and flushed the toilet and stood there to make sure the piece of paper disappeared along with his shit.