Cape Town was as different from Monrovia as it was possible to get. It was a large city in the summer of 1967. It was rich and booming and the political construct of Apartheid was at its height. The blacks, coloreds (these were people of mixed race), and Indians (these included people from India, Pakistan, and Asia) had been forcibly moved from the city center into suburban ghettos. Apartheid went further than that when the government, dominated by the all-white National Party, deprived the black population of their South African citizenship and “resettled” them in what were called self-governing Bantustans. The Apartheid government had the National Party use military and police force to ensure that all government rulings and regulations were carried out.
Sam and I were aware of Apartheid when we arrived in Cape Town, but not fully knowledgeable of the extent of the atrocities associated with it. It was summer in Cape Town, a temperate summer, not the hot, dry season in Liberia, and beautiful, but we were thinking more of escape than anything else. Once there, the idea of escape took on a very real meaning to me, since I truly did not know if I had killed the construction worker. The owners of Heinz and Maria’s knew me and would probably keep quiet, but if the construction worker died and the police got involved, they would protect themselves before anyone else. And that included me.
Our hotel was on Lagoon Beach. We had a good view of the ocean, and in the distance we could see Robben Island. Robben Island had been used for about every nefarious purpose human beings could think of. It had been used as a prison since the mid-seventh century. In 1968 it held several political prisoners, Nelson Mandela being one. It had been a leper colony in the more distant past and, at one time, was a whaling station base. All this on a scrap of an island about two miles long and one mile wide. In the distance, Table Mountain seemed to rise from the Atlantic Ocean, looking rather formidable but very majestic, like a piece of flat earth that had suddenly been elevated above the rest of the world.
Since we found ourselves in this beautiful spot, we decided to take advantage of the situation and play tourist. We spent most of our time lounging on the beach, drinking at the bar, and exploring the town. We used taxies rather than renting a car. The drivers knew the town much better than we did, and every night that we went out, they took us to a different club or theater.
After about a week, I pumped up my nerve and called the bunk house and left word for Deet to call me. Several days later, he did. It was early in the morning. He said that he knew that I would be sober and alert. I asked him if he had heard about the incident at Heinz and Maria’s.
“Ya,” he said. “Everyone knows. You are quite de hero. Bad ass Ken vee vill call you.”
“How is the man? Is he dead, badly injured, what?”
“Nein, he got up off de floor, I’m told, shook his head so that de brains rattled around a bit. Den held his head and asked fur a beer. Dere was some blut und maybe some swelling, but dat vas all. Oh, ya! His buddies gave him your message. I tink he listened und understood. I don’t tink you vill have to vorry about him again. Oh ya, und anodder bit of news. Jack Dupree, you know, dat mousy frog dat followed Andre around? He vas found dead on the airport road—shot tru de head. Eider he cheated someone, knew too much, or dey jus couldn’ stand looking at him anymore.”
Then followed the usual question of what we were doing, how was Cape Town, and was “my girlfriend” being good to me.
I slowly put the phone hand piece back on its hook, greatly relieved. I did know that a blow to the head could do a lot of damage, and that complications could show up much later. I would have to keep my fingers crossed, although if the man dropped dead tomorrow I had real doubts that the Monrovian police would care.
I was glad that the man did not die, but I wasn’t sorry for the action I took. He had, after all, threatened to rape Sam, and there was no reason to assume he would not have carried out his threat. And it would have been a supreme act of silliness to report the threat to the police.
I pushed the whole matter to a dark, dusty corner of my mind and made it a point of principle to enjoy our visit in Cape Town. It was a matter of great importance, now, that Sam put the incident away too, and I was going to do all that I could to make that happen.
Sam was finishing breakfast in bed when I told her the news. She leaped out of bed and screamed with joy.
“Thank God we don’t have to carry that burden around for the rest of our lives,” she said, hugging me and kissing me. She stepped back, smiled at me, and said, “You know, Ken, you really are one bad-ass kinda guy!”
With the news that I wasn’t a wanted man it seemed safe to return to Monrovia; nevertheless, we were both sorry to leave Cape Town. Despite the rampant social injustices, the blatant economic disparities, and the rigid class structure along racial lines, we did like and enjoy the city and all of the natural beauty around it.
We took a taxi from Robertsfield back to Pineapple Beach. Binji had kept it clean and dusted while we were away. I had paid him for a month, so he essentially had a month’s paid vacation, something rare in Liberia. It was late and dark. We groped around for lights, found them, and were delighted to discover that they were working. We were doubly delighted to discover that water was available and, even though we had no hot water, the showers were refreshing. The showers drained what was left of our energy and we fell into bed, barely having strength enough to pull the mosquito netting over us.