Wendy Clark

Wendy Clark was born in Zambia and currently lives in Durban, South Africa. She is a senior state advocate in the organised crime component. Her interests include travel, reading, beading, painting and embroidery. She says of ‘Lullaby for Angel’: ‘I hope this story will make people think about how we can sometimes jump to the wrong conclusions and how it is the people we judge who can often change our lives.’

Lullaby for Angel

It seemed set to be just another quiet day at the small court in KwaThemba. Things were usually slow paced, which suited me. The little courthouse had once been a post office, and the high-ceilinged rooms and grimy wooden floorboards had their own poignant charm: a history of ghosts and untold secrets, perhaps. I had been prosecuting there for six months, and despite the shabby surroundings and a long drive from home every day, I was happy there.

But that morning unrest raged within me. I stood at my office window, tensely sipping coffee as I waited for the new dockets to arrive from the nearby police station. It was difficult to believe that outside, the morning was tranquil, and the only sound in the rural stillness was the far-off crowing of a rooster. The air was cool and dense, infused with that translucent light that cloaks everything with silence, and beyond the nearby shacks, the distant hills slumbered beneath its caress. All the same, the view was depressing. On the other side of a perimeter fence lay a cemetery, and only the previous afternoon I had watched a tiny coffin being laid to rest in the corner beneath the whispering bluegums. From where I stood, I could just make out the pathetic little mound of disturbed soil between bigger, older mounds, the elaborate tombstones and simple wooden crosses, and the gaudy plastic wreaths that lay slowly bleaching to powdery pastels in the sun. The Aids epidemic was quickly filling all the vacant plots.

My thoughts turned to my own predicament. That morning I had been up early, apprehension twisting my gut as I had gone through to the bathroom and had taken the pregnancy test kit from where I had hidden it in the linen cupboard. Almost quivering with nerves, I had followed the steps in the instruction leaflet, and had then started the wait. Trying to reassure myself that my fears were unreasonable, I had commenced my usual bathroom routine to help pass those endless three minutes, which the leaflet called ‘development time’, brushing my teeth, splashing my face with cold water, combing my hair. Then it had been time to look at the indicator window on the test slide. And there, faint but definite, had been the second violet line I had been dreading.

I hadn’t said anything to Jeremy yet. It wasn’t going to be an easy thing to say. Just lately things hadn’t been going too well between us, and I was afraid this might be the crisis that brought our relationship to breaking point. The idea filled me with mute panic. Besides, I did have options. And already I believed that I’d made my decision. If we finished court early that day, I would drive back to town and would pay a visit to the family planning clinic. They would know what to do, to whom to refer me, even if they couldn’t help me there. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of such a drastic solution, but then it was a drastic problem. My relationship with Jeremy was too fraught and too fragile, and I wasn’t ready for the appalling responsibility of motherhood.

To distract myself from the frightening thing imminently about to overwhelm my life, I turned my thoughts back to the working day that lay ahead. I didn’t think we would be very busy, which was unfortunate, as I needed to be kept occupied. But there were only two matters set down for trial, though inevitably there would be new cases that would demand my attention. KwaThemba had its fair share of crime, even though it was just a semi-rural village, and due to some quirk of bureaucracy it fell outside the broad jurisdiction of the large court situated in neighbouring Umlazi.

I was about to turn away from the window when a figure appeared on the pathway that led between the nearby houses with their surrounds of straggling mealie plants and rusting fences, and it approached the rear access of the court premises. It was an elderly man, and he wore a shabby sports jacket, which I assessed as a probable hand-me-down from an employer, though the trilby on his grizzled head looked new. Inexplicably curious, I watched as he opened the gate, and began making his way along the cement walkway that led past my window, and on towards the main entrance. He had an air of respectability, and I wondered if he was a witness or the guardian of some wayward youth about to make his appearance on a charge of theft or something worse. My instincts –which are usually quite good – suggested he was the former, and I wondered if he could be the complainant in my housebreaking case.

A loud rapping on my office door put an end to my speculation. Sergeant Gumbi, his bull neck straining at the collar of his blue police uniform, stood on the threshold, several buff-coloured police dockets in his hands.

‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said in a voice that resonated like thunder. ‘New cases for you.’

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ I said and he put the dockets on my desk while I signed the register he’d brought with him, acknowledging their receipt. ‘Not too many today?’

‘Not too many,’ he agreed, and then he was gone, back to his desk in the police liaison office, where the morning’s edition of The Sowetan and a container of food packed by his wife awaited his attention.

I sat down and started perusing the new dockets. One involved possession of a small quantity of dagga, another the theft of a radio. The word MURDER sprang out at me from the face of the docket at the bottom of the pile, and I started when I saw it, partially because murder cases were usually referred to the big court in Umlazi, where security measures were much better, and where a specialist prosecutor handled all the paperwork, and partially because the word murder had been insinuating itself uncomfortably into my thoughts that morning, although I didn’t like to admit it. But then I noticed the inscription, which had been written in bold felt-tipped pen, had been crossed out, and scrawled beside it in spidery ballpoint letters were the words Concealment of Birth. It was a tragedy of a lesser magnitude then, suitable for quiet, sleepy KwaThemba.

Because it was a fairly uncommon offence, we didn’t have any roneoed copies of the charge sheet annexure, which meant I would either have to look up the elements of the crime in my shabby copy of South African Criminal Law, and then draft one by hand, or else phone Umlazi and ask them to fax me an example. Deciding to get the easier stuff out of the way first, I reached for the theft docket.

Before I’d even finished reading the complainant’s statement, there was a hesitant rap on the door. I glanced up, and was half surprised to see the man I’d noticed walking along the pathway.

‘I am looking for the prosecutor,’ he said in careful, halting English.

‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘I’m Jo-Ann Seymour. What can I do for you?’

‘I am Ernest Dumakude,’ replied the man politely. ‘Minah Dumakude’s husband.’

The name meant nothing to me, so I stared at him blankly.

‘The policeman, he told me to come today.’ I noticed that he’d taken off his hat and was holding it against his chest in an unnecessary gesture of servility.

‘Did he give you any papers?’ I had a feeling Ernest Dumakude wasn’t a man who would know the term subpoena.

‘No, madam.’

‘Well, what sort of a case is it, Mr Dumakude?’

‘It’s my wife,’ he said. ‘The polices took her away. Because of the baby.’

‘Ah.’ Comprehension began to dawn. I reached for the concealment of birth docket, and a glance confirmed that the accused was forty-six-year-old Minah Dumakude.

‘Madam. I have to explain it to you, madam.’ The wizened face across the desk was quietly desperate. ‘My wife, she did nothing wrong. We didn’t know we couldn’t bury the child under the floor.’

I’ve heard all sorts of excuses in my time, some of them downright bizarre, and my inclination was to tell him to wait in the court room, where a Legal Aid attorney would be appointed to perpetuate whatever story was being tendered by way of explanation. But something in his slightly cloudy eyes stopped me, touching a tender chord I couldn’t name. Besides, these days we’re encouraged to implement what are termed ‘alternate dispute resolutions’, which entails finding ways and means of keeping cases off the court roll, unless the sheer magnitude of the offence dictates otherwise. I don’t care for it, as I believe criminals should be punished, but instructions are instructions, and the National Director of Public Prosecutions is concerned about spiralling court rolls countrywide.

‘Okay, Mr Dumakude,’ I said. ‘I think I should talk to your wife as well. You don’t have a lawyer, do you?’ He shook his head as though the idea was absurd, and I picked up the phone and rang through to Sergeant Gumbi, and asked him whether he had a Minah Dumakude in custody. He confirmed that she had arrived, and when I asked him to bring her through to my office, the gruffness of his voice told me I’d spoiled his breakfast of cold, greasy chicken drumsticks and the sports pages of the Sowetan.

While waiting, I asked Mr Dumakude to sit down, something I don’t often do when dealing with an accused person or his or her family members, and I wondered why I was making an exception. Was it the sympathy I was already feeling for him behind it, or something else? I found I didn’t want to know the answer. Instead I told myself it was because in spite of everything, all my instincts told me that he was a respectable man. He possessed a touching vulnerability, and despite the fact I’ve schooled myself to always keep a distance from the cases I prosecute, there are times when instinct or humanity or whatever it is stirs me, and I allow myself the treacherous luxury of sympathy. But it didn’t really work. And though I hated admitting it, I more than suspected the real reason I felt that way was because Ernest Dumakude’s situation was uncomfortably close to my own, and that in too many ways what had happened to him might be about to happen to me.

Angrily driving the thoughts away, I picked up the docket and began perusing the contents. It was quite thin.

The first statement was a short affidavit from a Constable Khumalo, the police officer who had received a tip-off that a baby might have been murdered. He had proceeded to the Dumakude’s two-roomed house in KwaThemba, and had questioned the accused, who had been at home at the time. She had answered his questions, and had willingly showed him a patch of recently disturbed soil in the corner of the bedroom. He had started digging, and had soon unearthed a cardboard box containing a dead baby, dressed in a white jacket and leggings. The police photographer had been called, and had taken pictures. The body had thereafter been removed to the mortuary, and had not sustained any further injuries while under Khumalo’s care.

Next was the statement of Dorcas Dlamini, the neighbour of the Dumakudes. She stated she had observed that MaDumakude had looked pregnant, but that suddenly her stomach became small again, though no baby had appeared. This had led Dorcas to suspect her neighbour had either had an illegal late-term abortion, or that she had committed infanticide, and she had decided to call the police. There was also a medical report from the District Surgeon who had examined Minah Dumakude and who expressed the opinion she had recently given birth, and finally there was a post mortem report for the baby. It was a female infant of approximately thirty-two weeks gestational age, with the umbilical cord still attached, and in the pathologist’s opinion it had been stillborn, as no portion of the lungs had floated when placed in water. This was no doubt the reason why the initial charge of murder had been commuted to one of mere concealment of birth. I turned to the back of the docket, and checked whether the photographs were there, but seemingly they hadn’t been printed yet. Perhaps it was just as well. I could vividly imagine the pictures of the pathetic little body. And my own reaction to them.

Presently Sergeant Gumbi was back, ushering in a careworn woman of indeterminate age. She wore a dishevelled cotton dress and there was a scarf tied around her head. She did not meet my eye, but experience had taught me this was a mark of respect. I told her to sit beside her husband, and switching over to IsiZulu, in which I am fortunately reasonably fluent, I asked her to tell me what had happened.

I was not particularly surprised when it was Ernest who replied. Yes, he said, they did not deny the things of which Minah was accused. The child had been born dead, and they had buried her in the bedroom. There was a good reason why they had done it. The people in the village practised black magic, and believed that body parts of newborn babies could be used to make powerful muti, the sort that could help a man get rid of his enemies, or win the Lotto. Only a month before, another baby’s body had been stolen out of the graveyard the night after the funeral, and the ravaged remains had been recovered, partially eaten by dogs, a few days later. He and his wife were Christians, and did not approve of magic, and the thought of something similar happening to their baby’s body was unbearable. In burying the child beneath the floor they had only hoped to spare her the indignity of grave robbing and mutilation.

It was then that Minah raised her eyes and looked directly at me. This child was a special child, she whispered, she had been a gift from God. Their other children were all grown up, their eldest son a teacher in Johannesburg, their daughter a nurse in Durban, the youngest boy still studying at the Technikon. For years they had prayed for another child, but nothing had happened, and they had accepted it as God’s will. And then, suddenly, in their old age, there was a miracle, the baby they had long hoped for, a comfort for their twilight years. She had carried it with joy, had crocheted clothing for it, and they had awaited the birth with hope and gratitude. But then something went wrong. On the night everything happened, she had woken up in pain, and had realised the baby was coming, even though it was too early, as the sister at the clinic had told them it would only be born in June. And before Ernest could even go next door to get help, the baby was born dead.

‘Yes, madam,’ said Ernest, and there was a shimmering of tears in his filmy eyes. ‘There was nothing we could do. The child never moved, she never even cried. So we did all that we could for her. My wife sang her a lullaby while I dug the hole, and then we dressed her in the clothes my wife had made for her, put her in the box, and buried the box beneath our bed. We said a prayer for her, and we went back to sleep.’

‘We called her Angel,’ said Minah in a dull voice. ‘Because the child was a gift from God, we said the name would be Angel if it was a girl, and Gabriel if a boy.’

‘They buried her yesterday,’ added Ernest, reaching for a spotless handkerchief, and dabbing at his eyes. ‘Next door to here, in the cemetery. I sat there most of the night to make sure the muti man didn’t take her away.’

I reached for my pen. I had heard enough. This wasn’t a matter for alternate dispute resolution, or for any of the other measures aimed at keeping cases off the roll. This was painful innocence in a fetid world: a tiny tragedy as pathetic as it was poignant. I realised there were tears in my own eyes.

‘Sergeant Gumbi, you may release this woman,’ I said, and my voice sounded brusque, as it sometimes does when I am emotional. ‘There’s no charge for her to meet. I decline to prosecute the matter.’

The Dumakudes looked at me with vacant eyes, and Ernest finally murmured his thanks. Even Gumbi wasn’t his usual bombastic self as he asked Minah to follow him. There was paperwork that needed to be done before she could be allowed to go home.

After they had gone, I sat at my desk for a long time, staring up at the tattered government-issue calendar on the wall. And at last I allowed my thoughts to return to my own predicament. I thought of the parallels between Ernest and Minah’s story and my own, and Minah’s words echoed somewhere in the recesses of my mind: this child was a gift from God. I’m not very religious, but I’m not an atheist, and for the first time I realised that God does give gifts, though we might not always be willing to accept them. And in that moment I suddenly knew I would not go by the family planning clinic if we finished early that day. Instead I would go somewhere quiet, and think of what to say and how to say it when Jeremy got home.

Stumbling to my feet, I crossed over to the window, needing to escape from the incipient tears I feared would shame me. It’s just the hormones, I told myself, and was surprised to find the thought made me smile. I stared out towards the distant hills, now green in the hard glare of the sunlight. And as I watched, Ernest and Minah came into view, walking slowly, their heads bowed. I watched them as they went out through the back gate and went on looking until I lost sight of them between the shacks and sombre little houses.

I found myself wondering how often we really know who is the criminal, and who the victim. Ten years of prosecuting experience offered no answers. I stared at the small mound in the corner of the graveyard. Above it, the breeze rustled through the sad, spear-shaped leaves of the bluegums, singing their wind song, their lullaby for Angel.