Where Angels Fear To Tread(Mongiwekhaya) NOTES:

This story is set in 1973 Carletonville, South Africa.
The Era is during the apartheid government and the racial segregation they instigated. As always, the separation of a people breeds suspicion and, eventually... fear. This is one of several love letters that I wish to write to my beloved homeland and its diverse people. Though the people fear each other, they are madly in love with each other, and it only takes a few brave souls to cross the colour lines and show us. This is the story of a family I call the Cordiers.


1. FARMHOUSE

The phone rang at 6am. It rang once before Dirk’s hand emerged from the covers. The hand dragged the phone under the sheets. It felt much too cold to even expose his head.

‘Hullo? Dirk Cordier. Ya. What time is it? No. No don’t worry. Hell if criminals don’t sleep, s’pose I can’t… Alright. No, no you get on home. I will look into it…. No. Let her sleep... I’m not protecting her… When she is ready, she can take a shift on her own… No I won't go alone… She’ll come with me… Alright.’

The hand slid out again and missed placing the phone back on its receiver.

Well it starts, thought Dirk. He swung his legs off the bed and stretched. He scratched his salt and pepper goatee, chuckling as he remembered his daughter’s insistence that he get a trendier look. There was nothing trendy about him though. There’s nothing trendy about an old 50 plus police constable who does gardening on his days off.

He wanted to take a bath. But that would be too loud though. So he washed quietly from the basin, splashing water everywhere.

The last thing he put on was the gun, which as always, he wore with great reluctance.

He made himself a filter coffee in the tiny kitchen and stood staring out the window above the sink, staring at the landscape between the worn floral curtains. Below him stretched out the valley of Carletonville, a small town in the North West Province of South Africa. One could describe it as beautiful—if one ignored the white grass-less hills on the right; the unnatural deposits of the local mine. Beautiful though they were (like an eternal winter sight even in deep summer) Dirk always saw them as the exposed bones of South Africa.

Today. 2nd of May. The start of the crisp winter. Yes it was cold. There was frost on the ground. But the light was sharp and so are the memories. Today. Today it was officially 3 years since he quit the Elite Reiki paratroopers.

There was a soft knock on the kitchen door. Aw hell, he thought, should have skipped the coffee and gone straight out.

‘Ya?’ he said.

The kitchen door opened. Standing there in her nightie and stretching her arms was his sleepy eyed daughter, Lien. She was 23 and fit. Liked riding bikes and reading Ernest Hemingway. She was absolutely useless in the kitchen or at doing house work or anything that was considered the province of womanhood. Her dark hair cascaded down half her face and shoulders. She yawned and sat at the little table.

‘And now?’ asked Lien.

‘Sorry to wake you.’

‘Ach no its fine,’ she said. She stood and got out a mug. She held it out to him. Dirk poured the left over coffee from the pot. Lien sipped it and leaned into his side. She was still for almost a full minute whilst he sipped. He knew it was a standoff, but to hell with admitting his guilt. He was never good at that anyways.

‘Going somewheres?’ she asked.

‘Out. On a ride.’

‘I’ll come with.’

‘No… I need. I just want to be alone.’ Lien looked up at him, annoyed.

‘Dada.’

‘Lien you can take the next one.’ Lien moved away and poured out the rest of the coffee into the sink. She took his hand and led him to the chair.

‘Dada you’ve said that 3 times now. Not this time. Let me get changed.’

‘k.’ he said. She smiled and cocked her head. Then swiftly she reached under her nightie to her underwear lining and pulled out some handcuffs. One side cuffed the chair, the other cuffed blade scarred wrist of Dirk. Lien put her hands on her waist, admiring her handiwork.

‘Last time you said ok, you left while I was changing,’ she said, ‘Not this time.’

Dirk chuckled. Lien shuffled off. She returned a second later.

‘I know what today is,’ she said, ‘whatever it is. Whatever you want to say. You can tell me.’ She didn’t wait for a reply. He didn't give any.


2. THE EDGE OF TOWN

The quiet town streets were disturbed by the sounds of two motorbikes approaching. Dirk on his Honda CB250, orange and black, followed by Lien on her Suzuki AP50 (just black with an unfortunate thread of red around the edges—Lien liked to call herself a mono-colourist).

They drove through the dusty main street. Past the Dutch Reformed Church. Around the newly minted Pick’N’Pay store and out towards the highway.

It almost felt like that fantasy he’d often had. The one where he’d ride out of town and never stop. Not for food, not for sleep, not for petrol or lack of road.

The gas station was barely half a mile outside town. Its green and white signage was faded but still well maintained. A large transport truck was just pulling out and Johan Vlismis was rolling some tobacco. He squinted back at the town at the whine of the two bikes approaching. He moistened his cracked lips and licked the rizler closed. Dirk and Lien pulled in as he lit up.

‘Johan.’ Said Dirk.

‘Dirk.’ Said Johan. Johan glanced briefly at Lien who also sported a gun and a badge. He spat at the ground.

‘What’s the story.’ Asked Dirk. Johan looked off at some nondescript distance.

‘They smashed the window, took a lot of goods. Emptied the til.’ Lien took out her pad and scribbled on it.

‘Why didn’t you empty it last night?’

‘You know I never do.’ Dirk looked towards the station storefront.

‘I guess they know that too.’ He said.

‘And on the end of the weekend, with all those Johannesburg wankers passing through. I tell you it was an inside job.’

‘Johan you only got one assistant,’ said Lein, ‘you fingering him?’ Johan barely glanced at Lien.

‘Answer the officer, Johan,’ said Dirk.

‘I can't say if he did or didn’t. What I know is, goods are gone and so is my money.’ Lien shook her head and wrote down the statement.

‘You mind us speaking to Sol?’ asked Dirk.

‘Solomon! Get over here!’ an older black gentleman shuffled over, in faded blue overalls. He was already sporting a large floppy hat though the sun was too weak to be effectual. Solomon took off his hat as he approached.

‘Yes Mr. Vlismis,’ he said.

‘You answer Officer Cordier—and Lien’s questions if you please,’ Johan said.

‘Know anything about what happened here Solomon?’ Asked Dirk.

‘Yes sir. Someones taken things.’

‘Know who that someone is?’

‘No Mr. Cordier.'

‘Are you involved in any way?’

‘No Mr. Cordier.’

‘Officer Cordier,’ said Johan.

‘Sorry. Officer Cordier. No.’ They all stood a moment like some statues.

‘Johan.’ Said Dirk.

‘Ya.’

‘You know Solomon how long now?’

‘23 years now.’

‘You think he’s lying?’

‘Cant say.’ Said Joahn. Lien snapped shut her notebook. There was fire in her eyes.

‘Let’s look at the scene.’ Said Dirk before she could speak.

They went round to the back of the shop. Johan showed them the smashed window. Solomon, unsure of what to do, followed at a safe distance. Dirk turned and told him he could go about his business. He’d call if he needed anything. Johan just eyed him suspiciously.

‘How much was stolen?’ asked Dirk.

‘R300. Those Kaffirs. They will bankrupt me!’

‘Johan you are the stingiest bastard in Carltonville,’ said Lien, ’I don’t think you’ll die without that money.’ The cigarette that was precariously balanced on his cracked lips slipped and fell to the floor.

‘Dirk…!’ He said.

‘Lien you shouldn’t speak to Mr. Vlismis like that.’

‘Yah Dada-Sir.’

‘And call him Mr. Vlismis.’ Lien surely had a temper on her. He could see the blood rush even though her head was down and covered by her black waves of hair.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Let’s see what we can see here.’

Dirk squatted looking at the ground next to the window. Lien squatted next to him. Well she wanted to go on cases by herself, he thought. Let’s see what she’s got.

‘What do you see?’ Lien studied the ground a moment. She stood and walked in a half circle around multiple prints that littered the muddy ground. It had rained the night before and that left a fair amount of muddy prints.

‘Mr. Vlismis,’ said Lien, ‘what shoe size are you?’ Dirk gave Johan a glance.

‘size 8.’

‘I think these are yours so they don’t count,’ said Dirk. Lien nodded. She came round and squatted next to Dirk.

‘We got hooves. Too small for a horse, unshod. Only the one set. Wheels here. Wooden ones, one larger than the other, not a very good cart. Two sets of… no 3 sets of foot prints. Two in boots, one bare foot. Either the bare foot friend is a child or a midget.’

‘Good good. What else.’ Lien stood up. She looked at the smashed in glass.

‘My guess is, they didn’t all go through the window. It was smashed in, the child… midget, whatever, he climbed in, handed goods out to a big man.’ Lien pointed at a 3rd set of prints and followed them to the corner of the house facing out to the road.

‘The other man got off the cart walked to here,’ she said looking up, ’watched the road. Look… cigarette. Long dead.’ She turned and looked down the road. There were hoove and wheel prints moving away from the station. Dirk smiled and patted her shoulders.


3. OPEN COUNTRY

The only place the cart could have possibly gone was to the SeTswana village just over the rise and in its own valley. They parked their bikes on the hill crest and looked down. Dirk never liked going into the village. They had no phones, no electricity, no running water (other than the river that occupied the south west part of the valley) which meant they technically were not under the jurisdiction of the South African government and its wards, namely the police force.

Lien glanced at her Dada and saw the worry lines. She’d remembered going to the village as a child, when Mama was still alive. Mama had insisted she learn Tswana and their maid, Miss Bomvu, would sometimes take her and Mama to the village on festive days. But those days were long gone and though Miss Bomvu still visited once in a while, she had received the calling. Few received the calling but when they did, it was absolute.
‘The Ancestors are asking for me,’ Lien remembered Miss Bomvu saying, ‘and I must go serve them as Sangoma.’

That was a long time ago. Dada knew about it. But he’d never been involved in their journeys to Miss Bomvu’s village. Now, no white man or woman went there. It was a mystery.

‘Let me speak,’ said Lien.

‘No I’ll handle it.’

‘Dada…’

‘Lien, we are working. It's Constable Cordier now.’ Lien shut up. Dirk could see from here, the cart. Entering the village. Good. There was still time to catch the thieves red-handed.

‘Lien.’

‘Yes constable.’

‘Under no circumstances do you draw your gun. The only thing that will happen is what we make happen. If things get too heated, we leave. Understood?’

‘Yes sir.’

The whine of the bikes sent a tremor through the village and everyone who had not gone out with the cattle or to the river or to work in the town, came out and gathered at the entrance.

The cart stopped there also. It was pulled by a mangy donkey who kept twitching its ears, shaking its tail in agitation, though it was too cold for flies to bother it. On board were 3 men, one of which was a young boy maybe 12 years old. The second man was old and grizzled and next to him, jumping off the cart and throwing his blanket over the back of the cart, was a young man just over 6 feet tall. He was broody looking. He bunched up his fists as the bikes came to a stop near the cart.

‘Ufunani [what do you want]?’ he asked. Lien glanced at Dirk. Dirk took his time getting off the bike and making sure his badge was visible.

‘I am Constable Dirk Cordier,’ he said, ‘this is Constable Lien Cordier. We are investigating a crime.’

‘What. Do you want.’ Said the Young Man. Dirk glanced at the old man who ignored him. The old man was hugging the young boy, whispering. They never glanced back, only waited.

‘We are looking for the owners of this cart.’

‘For what?’ by now the villagers were milling around the cart all staring back at the Cordiers with unfriendly looks. Dirk’s face was passive.

‘We have reason to believe they recently robbed the gas station 3 km back.’

‘And the evidence?’ someone shouted. The Young Man who held his ground with Dirk whirled around.

‘Don’t ask them for evidence,’ he said, ‘they will make some evidence from thin air!’

‘Please, we are in pursuit of justice. If we are wrong—‘

‘Your justice is not our justice!’

‘What do they want?’ someone asked from the back.

‘They think we are guilty of something.’ Was a reply from the front.

‘If you please could look over here—‘ said Lien stepping towards the cart.

‘Don’t touch my things!’ The Young man reached into the cart and brought out a machete. Everyone froze for a moment. Dirk’s hand went for his gun but he stopped himself. Jesus, how could things go wrong so quickly. He remembered his secret promise to himself to never fire a gun again. 3 years to this day. Please God he thought.

‘Lien! Step back!’ Lien did not turn around. She was nearly a foot shorter than the young man with a machete but she held his gaze.

‘O-a-re-eng [how goes it with you?]?’ said Lien. The young man blinked in surprise. From the crowd someone spoke up.

‘[It goes well.]’ they said.

‘[May I speak with your Elder, the Sangoma, Bomvu.]’ Lien balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

‘[You know Bomvu?]’ the voice asked again.

‘[Yes. She raised me. Taught me the way. I call upon her and the Kgotla.]’ the Young Man turned away from that stone-cold gaze of hers and looked to the crowd.

‘[Who is she to call for the court?]’ he screamed, ’[these white people seek to twist our ways and destroy us. Who among you has never been abused by one such as these?]’

There was a murmur among the crowd. It was obvious they wanted to agree with the Young man, but the invocation of the name of their Sangoma, by a white woman speaking their language had unnerved them. The old man on the cart stopped whispering to the boy. He could see the crowd was losing its focus.

‘Call the Kgotla. Let the Elder hear,’ he said, ‘Call the Sangoma Bomvu. The ancestors are with us are they not?’ That last phrase was directed at the Young man. The Young man put the machete back into the cart.

‘[Yes Father.]’ He said. The old man whispered to the young boy, who got up and ran into the village.

‘Lien.’ Dirk’s voice brought Lien to him. She never took her eyes off the Young Man.

‘Yes?’

‘Let me handle this.’

‘I speak Tseswana. I have come to the village before and Miss Bomvu the Sangoma raised me, remember? What sway do you have that is better than mine?’

‘Lien.’ Was all Dirk could utter. His hands trembled. Lien turned her gaze to him and smiled.

‘You knew some day you would have to let me be a police officer. And today is as good a day as any. Dada.’ She whispered his name.

The crowd parted and Bomvu walked forward. She had more grey hair than Lien remembered. Rotund but powerfully built, she wore a Basuto blanket on her shoulders and carried a beaded stick with the tail hairs of a large cattle hanging from the end. There was a glint of recognition when she saw Lien. That wayward child, she thought. Wild as a springbok. She turned to Dirk and felt no connection there. Only… pain and guilt. A man who had done things.

‘And now…?’ said Bomvu, ‘what is it Constable Cordier?’

‘Dumella Ma Bomvu,’ said Lien stepping forward. She moved past the cart, followed closely by Dirk. As Lien approached, Bomvu retreated a step.

‘What can we do for you?’ Bomvu spoke English and pretended not to know Lien. Lien paused a moment.

‘We have come to investigate a robbery. We have reason to believe that this cart was involved in a crime. Would you allow me to investigate?’

‘Chase them out of here!’ said a voice.

‘They don’t belong here!’ said another. Bomvu held up her hands. The crowd went silent.

‘[Wait. We must be courteous to our neighbors. If there is evidence that we agree with them we can agree there has been a crime. If we do not agree then there is no crime.]’

‘[I am happy with that Sangoma Bomvu.]’ Bomvu looked at Lien. Lien wanted to converse in Tseswana. So be it, thought Bomvu.

‘[Then please, continue with your investigation.]’ Lien turned (just avoiding the shaking head of the donkey) and whipped off the blanket that covered the cart.

‘[These tin cans and food likely come from the gas station—]’

The Yong man came alive.

‘[There! You see?!]’ he screamed, ‘[I come from far, far away with the goods I have earned working in the city and this mlungu accuses us! How dare they!]’

‘[Yes!]’ yelled the old man getting down from the cart.

‘[How dare they come here!]’ bayed the crowd. Bomvu stepped in close to Lien and Dirk.

‘Constables that is not much evidence.’ Said Bomvu.

‘[You see? Even the Sangoma agrees it is bad evidence! And yet they still tries!]’

‘Kick them out!’

‘Fotsek!’

Dirk started unbuckling his gun.

‘We should go Lien,’ he said.

‘In a minute.’

‘Listen to your father, little one. He is trying to protect you. These are not friendly times between our people.’

‘I know.’ Lien felt the urge to run. She felt the mounting rage of the crowds and her father’s desperate desire to rely on his fire arm. The only thing she could think to do was stare at the Donkey’s twitching ear.

‘We are at war,’ continued Bomvu, ’And if these people get angry enough, I cannot protect you.’

‘Perhaps the food is bad evidence—‘ said Lien.

‘Perhaps?! Perhaps?! There is no Perhaps. It is! Now go!’ The Young man reached into the cart and drew out the machete. He raised it up, even as the crowd started urging him on. Bomvu stepped into his path and raised her staff to his eyes. She stared back at him. The Young man lowered the blade and took a step back.

‘Go. Now.’ Whispered Bomvu to the Cordiers.

‘[What of the money?], shouted Lien. The crowd went quiet once more. ‘[R300 was stolen. I’m a police officer and I don’t have that much money lying around. Surely if someone was caught with that money, it would be evidence of crime.]’

Bomvu turned around.

‘[Indeed it would be evidence.]’

‘[You have no evidence! She is playing with us!]’ Bomvu turned around and slapped the Young man across the face. The crowd gasped.

‘[Hey! Silence!]’ She said, ‘[I have asked you to show these people some respect! If you do not, you disrespect me!] Now… Constable can you produce this money?’

‘[Not without help. I need to speak to the badimo.]’ For a 4th time the crowd was stunned to silence. It was a bold statement. The Badimo are the ancestors. The living Dead who walk in spirit form on the earth. They control the magic in the world, they hold the secrets of each man’s heart and it is only through the Sangoma that they can be called upon to speak.

‘Lien,’ said Bomvu, ’What are you playing at?’

‘Please take out the bones.’ Bomvu looked at Dirk who was speechless.

Bomvu shook her head. But she brought out her throwing bag, full of sacred bones.

‘May I throw them?’

Bomvu looked at Dirk as if to ask his permission. Dirk looked at Lien. She was his little girl. She was the only reason he hung on to any image of normality. He should never have let her join the force. Never taught her how to use a gun. Never come back into her life. But there she stood and all was done. Isn’t that like all things in life he thought? A deed once done could not be undone. One could only follow its course. Dirk nodded to Bomvu.

Lien took the bones bag in her hands. She shook it. And threw the bones upon the ground. Everyone, the crowd, Dirk, the Young man and his father leaned forward to inspect them.

‘Ah ha!,’ yelled Lien, ‘The bones have spoken!’ Bomvu looked at Lien. Did she have the calling?

‘They have?‘ asked Dirk.

‘Yes,’ said Lien. Triumph radiated from her face. ‘The money… is in the donkey’s ear!’

Bomvu laughed. The young Man froze, staring at Lien. She once again fixed him with her stone gaze and said:

‘[Sangoma Bomvu please check. Look, the ear twitches.]’

Bomvu turned to the twitching Donkey’s ear. She reached in and pulled out a wade of money:

R300.

The crowd whispered amongst each other, staring at Lien in wonder. The Young man leapt at Lien swinging his machete on a terminal arch. But Lien was waiting for him. She side stepped the swing and brought the palm of her hand into contact with the Young man’s chin. In an instant he fell to the earth unconscious.

Sangoma Bomvu, barely glanced at the Young Man. She looked at Lien. She handed Lien the money.

‘The cart will return the goods.’ She said.

‘And what about the thieves?’ asked Dirk.

‘We will handle it.’ Said Bomvu, ’I will not curse them to your prisons. There men are broken, not remade.’ Bomvu looked at the Bones again. She looked at Lien.

‘For a moment I thought you had the calling,’ said Bomvu, ’but that is not so.’ Lien laughed. However the serious look on Bomvu quieted her.

‘However the Bones speak of a different story,’ Bomvu continued, ’they speak of your Father.’ Bomvu turned to Dirk.

‘The Bones say you have done many things. They say you were once a fierce warrior. That you killed, tortured, destroyed. Yes. I see that now. In your eyes. And now you fear the weight of your own soul.’

Today of all days, thought Dirk. He never saw Lien move to his side and hold his hand.

‘The Bones have accepted your offering,’ said Bomvu.

‘My offering?’ asked Dirk.

‘What more can a warrior give than his own flesh? No, not to die, for such a thing is easy for a warrior to do. But to give of your blood as a continued living blessing. That is what your daughter, Lien is now. Your sins will be washed clean by her actions. And like the Bones… we accept her.’

Dirk fell to his knees. Even with everyone watching, he couldn’t stop crying for a long time.

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