When he awoke it was to shouting.
But it wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t his own screams that tore him from the deep, dreamless sleep he’d fallen into. For the briefest moment, he thought he was back on Fireforce standby at Ondangwa, and the shouting was the senior NCOs rousing the men, sending them to the waiting helicopters. And then it registered: the slivered shafts of sunlight streaming through the gaps in the thatching, the smell of charcoal and mopane leaves, the bleating of goats, the feel of the wool blanket against his skin. And now, the screams of women, adding to the crescendo.
Clay pushed himself up onto his knees, grabbed the Beretta, chambered a round. He swayed a moment, breathing hard, letting the pain move through him. The hut was too small for him to stand upright, so he crawled to the entrance and peered through a gap between the thatch and the flap.
Two black men in jungle camouflage uniforms stood in the middle of the kraal, facing Matimu, his father and grandfather. One of the soldiers – if that’s what they were – was older, heavier and carried an R4. The other, younger, taller, appeared unarmed except for a knife in a scabbard at his belt. His hand was clasped around the wrist of a young girl. She looked to be about sixteen, and was naked except for a short skirt fashioned from some kind of hide, and colourful beaded anklets.
Clay crawled to the other side of the flap, surveyed the rest of the kraal. There were no other soldiers that he could see. The rest of their unit couldn’t be far, though. Perhaps they were waiting outside the kraal, in the clearing, or in the forest beyond. If they were RENAMO – and judging by the R4 the guy was carrying, they were – then they were ostensibly friends, supported by South Africa in their fight against the communists. Were these the soldiers Matimu had spoken of, the ones who came to take?
A high-pitched scream sent Clay scuttling back to the other side of the flap. The girl was struggling, trying to pull her arm free of the soldier’s grasp. The father was pleading with the men now in rapid Xitsonga, waving his hands. Suddenly, Matimu broke from the group and ran towards the inner kraal. He emerged a few moments later with a pair of goats on twine leads. He led the animals to where the men stood, handed the leads to his father. His father stepped towards the soldiers and offered them the animals.
The younger soldier laughed, pulling the girl to him, and wrapped his hand around her waist, grabbed for her breasts. She wailed, struggling to free herself. The soldier held her a moment, but she was strong. She whipped her head to the side and sank her teeth into the man’s ear, jerking her head back. The soldier screamed and fell to the ground, one hand raised to what was left of his ear. The girl spat something to the ground and ran to her father, blood pouring from her mouth.
The other soldier glanced down at his companion and levelled his rifle at the family. The girl was sobbing, clutching her father. They all stood there – the soldier, the father and grandfather, the girl, Matimu – staring at each other. No one spoke.
Clay froze. This was not his war, not his country, perhaps not even his continent anymore, now that he had determined to leave it behind. Certainly, these were not his people. They had offered him succour, probably saved his life. But they were of a different race. A race he’d been taught to consider as inferior, as not quite human, not like us.
It was, in the end, the final unveiling. And as he stepped from the hut, naked but for his scars, Beretta steady in his right hand, the left supporting the base of the pistol and his right hand as he’d been taught, careful to keep the left thumb down to avoid the recoil of the slide, he knew that everything he’d been told, everything he’d learned in school, his whole life, had been a lie. And it wasn’t the brutality of the war, or the banality of the things that he’d grown up with every day, or the chemicals, or the experiments, or even the way Vivian had died in his arms. It wasn’t any of that. It was this. Right now. This poor family who’d taken him in, rather than leaving him to the hyenas.
‘Pare,’ Clay shouted, advancing towards the soldiers. Stop.
The soldier with the R4 swivelled towards him, rifle at his hip. He looked surprised, upset at being interrupted. But immediately his countenance changed and he lowered his weapon. ‘My friend,’ he said in Afrikaans, smiling as he looked Clay up and down.
Clay kept his pistol trained on the man’s chest.
‘South Africa?’ the soldier said.
Clay nodded.
‘Special Forces?’
‘That’s right, bru.’ He’d heard that special units of the SADF were operating inside Mozambique, but he’d always considered it to be rumour, like so much of the other bullshit the men passed around on a daily basis.
‘We are RENAMO,’ said the soldier. ‘Allies.’
‘This is my village,’ said Clay. ‘Please leave.’
The soldier glanced at the young girl. A smiled creased his face. ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Understand whatever you like.’
‘Fok jou,’ screamed the younger soldier.
Clay stood impassive, gun aimed at the armed man’s chest.
The elder soldier frowned, hefted the R4 in his hands, as if assessing its power in this situation. By now, his younger companion had staggered to his feet, hand clamped to the side of his head. Blood flowed through his fingers and dripped onto his uniform. He glared at the girl, muttering to himself.
‘We will be back,’ said the elder soldier.
‘I’ll be here,’ said Clay.
The soldier shrugged, shouldered the R4, took his injured colleague by the arm and started guiding him towards the palisade. Clay exhaled, lowered his pistol, watched them go.
The soldiers were almost to the gate when the younger man stopped and turned and faced Clay.
‘Nothing here is yours, white man,’ he shouted in Afrikaans, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Do you hear me? Nothing.’