Chapter 20

August 1986

The first time, perhaps, that S’bu Dlamini felt like a real guerrilla was with the crossing of the Zambezi River in a rubber dinghy at the confluence of Zambia, Zimbabwe, Namibia and Botswana. Sure, he had fought against Unita in the bushes and forests of Angola, survived ambushes, killed and been wounded in battle. But that was somehow different – a foreign battle field in someone else’s war.

As the boat carrying him and the three members of his unit was pushed into the water from the northern, Zambian bank, and their armed escorts splashed on board, he looked out towards the southern bank and remembered photographs and movies of freedom fighters elsewhere fording rivers, homeward into battle. He looked up at the dark sky. It must be close to midnight. As their escorts rowed the dinghy mid-stream, and he felt the pull of the river eastward towards the Victoria Falls, he held with one hand onto the rope handles laced through the side of the boat and with the other onto his duffel bag wedged between his wet boots, and savoured the sounds of the quiet splash of oars, the tinkling of rifle straps against gun metal, the whispered instructions between oarsmen, the distant roar of stronger waters. His thoughts travelled.

On the flight from Luanda to Lusaka, the wait in the safe house in Lilanda, the briefing there by comrades JM and Chris, the Land Cruiser drive down to Livingstone and then west to the crossing, and now on this dinghy on the river of crossing, his one thought had been ‘I’m going home – I’m going to fight!’

It was six years and four months since his arrival in Angola, six months’ basic training in Quibaxe, then the long wait for the next order which, when it finally came, had him on a flight to Moscow and ten months’ intellectual and physical slog in Odessa.

Now the dinghy lurched, listed slightly, then calmed itself when the escorts shifted their weight. One of them spoke: ‘Hippo.’ The rhythm of the crossing slowed again. S’bu’s thoughts migrated again.

After the Soviet Union, it was back to Angola, again to Quibaxe, as a tactics instructor. Then the deployment against Unita in the Angolan bush; the patrols, the ambushes, the battles, the deaths. Then the battle to take back Pango camp from the mutineers, followed by three months’ harsh survival training until, finally, this – this grand crossing.

He was roused by the scraping of the shallows against the bottom of the dinghy. Two of their four escorts jumped out and dragged the boat through the reeds onto the bank.

‘Okay, comrades, climb out, move away from the water.’

S’bu and his unit stepped into the shallows and onto the bank, crouched to avoid providing silhouettes to possible watchers – the boer army occupied the Caprivi Strip, only a few kilometres west. Once everyone had disembarked, the dinghy was dragged further up the bank, S’bu wincing at the clatter. The lead escort came up to him and crouched alongside. He motioned to the others.

‘Come, comrades,’ he whispered. ‘Get ready to walk.’ The others shuffled to them with bent bodies. ‘We’re in Zimbabwe now. We’ve got a bit of a walk to get into Botswana. Single file. Stay close.’

They stood and moved into single file, the escort commander in front, followed by S’bu. Two of the escorts stayed with the dinghy. The fourth took up the rear. As they set out, he cautioned: ‘Careful of wild animals, comrades. One comrade got mauled by a buffalo around here.’ The line hesitated. ‘He survived, comrades, but now they call him Buffalo Soldier.’ The sniggering went down the line like a tremor.

They steered away from the wetland along the riverbank and into a forest of tall trees and shrubs, slowing to scramble over fallen branches and trunks, pushing aside wayward vegetation that intersected their path. S’bu moved mechanically, his shorter leg following the other with minimal limp, without thought or volition. He wished he were carrying a weapon, even if just to complete the mental picture of the real guerrilla, but there were no likely enemies here. They would be issued weapons in Botswana before infiltration into South Africa.

After about an hour they crossed a fence and came to a tarred road. Parked on the opposite verge was a Cressida. S’bu cringed. The lead escort turned to him.

‘We here, comrade. Botswana. Wait here.’ He started to make his way to the road then suddenly turned back. ‘Here, mfowethu, bamba la,’ and handed S’bu his AK, returned to the road, crossed to the car, and bent down to the driver’s window. The door opened and a figure emerged – no more than a silhouette in the dark, but short, warmly dressed against the bite of the August night. As the shadow approached across the road, S’bu saw she was a woman.

She and the crossing commander came up to them.

‘Comrade Paulo, this is Thembi. She’s the commander of MK, la eBotswana. Thembi, this is Paulo Freire, the unit commander.’

Thembi put out her hand. ‘Aha! The famous Paulo Freire. Welcome to the Front, comrade.’ S’bu took her hand and gave the triple handshake. Thembi raised her left hand to his shoulder and pulled him in for an embrace. Her head came up to just below his shoulder. With short steps, purposeful, energetic, she headed over to the others, standing back under the protection of low trees, and greeted each of them with the shake and embrace. Then she motioned them forward and returned to S’bu. ‘Let’s go, comrades. Into the car.’

They moved to cross the road, S’bu beside her. The escort commander beckoned the others to join them. He called out in a stage whisper: ‘Hey! Yima, Comrade Paulo.’ S’bu stopped and turned.

‘Isibham’ sam’, comrade!’ S’bu started, reached for the strap of the AK still hanging from his shoulder, and returned it with a laugh. ‘Sorry, com. Bamba. Hambani kahle.’

They shook hands and the escorts disappeared back into the forest. At the car, Thembi pointed S’bu to the front passenger seat. The rest of his unit climbed into the back, their bags on their laps. Thembi turned from the driver’s seat.

‘No man, comrades. Put your bags in the boot. We’re going to go through roadblocks between here and Gabs. You can’t look like damn refugees I’ve just picked up.’ They did as instructed and when they clambered back in, Thembi switched on the interior light and faced them. ‘Right. Who are you, comrades? Me, I’m Thembi Masondo.’

Her voice had a warmth, but her words were clipped, spare, economic. Her face was dark under the overhead light. Her eyes darted, looking from one to the other, then to S’bu in the seat next to her. Her hair was short, in Afro style. A dark-coloured polo-neck sweater came up to her chin, seeming to throttle her.

S’bu turned and reached his arm out to each of his unit members in turn. ‘This is Jackman. He’s the unit commissar.’ Jackman nodded. He was big, the top of his head touching the car ceiling.

‘And eto, eto tovarishch Tolstoy.’ S’bu slipped easily into the Russian. ‘On nash inzhener.’ Skinny and lanky, Tolstoy gave a smile that was warm, his eyes crinkling and reflecting light. ‘And that,’ S’bu reached his hand to the far corner of the back seat, ‘that is Comrade Vusi, our logistics man.’ Vusi nodded. He was short and stubby, his skin was lighter than the others, even in this subdued light.

Thembi nodded and smiled, then turned off the light, and checked the road and behind. She started the car and spoke again. ‘Khorosho, tovarishchi. Now listen. We’re going to drive to Gaborone where we’ll put you in a safe house until you cross. It’s about nine hundred kays south from here. We’ll stop in Francistown for a bit. There’ll be roadblocks after Francistown. You are students, coming from Francistown back to university in Gabs. Niyangithola, ma-comrade?’

They grunted and nodded consent. She put the car in gear, did a U-turn and pushed the speed up to 140kph on the long, straight road. The back-seat contingent put their heads back and went to sleep. S’bu sat silently watching the road.