Authors: Brian Reeve
Moses Shozi’s house
Moses Shozi lived nearly three kilometres from Mrs Mkhize’
s home on flat land in a double-storied house. It overlooked a running stream and
kopje
that in the rugged magnificence of its huge boulders, shear in places like an alpine face, was incongruous on the grassland. When he and his loyal file reached his stronghold, an hour after slaughtering Mrs Mkhize’s sons, he went inside, telling Setlaba to dismiss the men and send them to their rooms, a white-washed abode across the yard from the house.
The house was worthy of no name, rectangular with a gabled roof of terracotta tiles.
There were three bedrooms upstairs and a lounge and kitchen below. It was sparsely furnished but Shozi chose to have it that way, preferring to save the money he made from running
shebeens
and gambling dens in the townships.
After placing his
panga
and pistol on a chair the gangster went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the fridge, popping the cap and injecting a copious quantity of the liquid down his throat. He seated himself at the table, placing the bottle on the synthetic surface.
Setlaba entered, thirstily contemplating the beer but waiting until his master gave him permission to take one.
‘This evening we had a little fun,’ said Shozi when Setlaba sat near him with a beer. ‘Mrs Mkhize’s sons deserved to die but weren’t important. There are other men who are far more dangerous. In the coming years they’ll be the new military commanders in this country.’ He drained the bottle and got two more. ‘These men belong to Umkhonto we Sizwe, the Spear of the Nation. They’re Xhosas.’
‘Who are they?’
Setlaba watched the hatred simmer.
Shozi went on.
‘For the last five years three of these men have been in self-imposed exile at a bush camp in Zambia. A year ago they refused to apply for political amnesty, which was permitted, because they feared prosecution for previous crimes running guerilla cells. They wouldn’t have dared enter the country under the Nationalists but now with a new government they feel sure of themselves. A month ago they returned.’
Setlaba sat up, interested.
‘Last week,’ said the gangster, ‘I was informed that these dogs are here under our nose, two valleys beyond Mrs Mkhize and four kilometres from here.’
Setlaba’s handsome features lit up in expectation.
‘They’ll be more interesting than Mrs Mkhize’s sons,’ he said, traversing his tongue over frothed lips. ‘When do we kill them?’
Shozi raised a finger in caution.
‘This operation will take more preparation than tonight,’ he said. ‘These men are in the top league. They’re like us. They fight like fanatics, like wild dogs, as if there is no tomorrow. And if they are cornered they go mad, like a buffalo with its belly full of shot.’ He left the table and looked at Setlaba confidently. ‘I already have a tail on these three bucks and it’ll stay there until I know their movements. Then we’ll execute them and burn their bodies for the rest of their breed to see.’
Malakazi township
The three men whose deaths Shozi
sought were together in a room in the township of Malakazi.
Also in the room, with his back to the door and dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit was the elderly mayor of the settlement, Joshua Dhlamini, a long-serving Zulu member of the ANC.
A few minutes earlier he had carried the news of Moses Shozi’s latest act of barbarism to the three men, news he had heard from one of Mrs Mkhize’s neighbours who had witnessed the macabre spectacle from her room.
‘When will the bloodshed stop?’ cried John Nofomela angrily, banging his hardened fist on the rickety table around which they were seated.
‘For years we were persecuted and driven from our country by the whites, like diseased animals, killed by the police, hanged on their gallows. Now, when apartheid is dead we are hunted by our own people.’ He laughed at the irony of his words. ‘For years Inkatha’s jackals refused to support us in our fight for democracy. Why?’
‘I
nkatha is as racist as the Afrikaners,’ said Paul Ngwenya, sneeringly. ‘They want their own state, distinct from their ancient tribal enemy the Xhosa. They’re unable to see that when the black people have the real foundations of political power, they can take the riches that rightfully belong to them and have been denied them for generations. Instead they sanction the murderous forays exacted against helpless people by their gangsters, men like Shozi.’
‘Again we must go on the offensive,’ said Nofomela.
‘We obeyed the old men and laid down arms against the whites. But the Inkatha warlords have to be contained and destroyed. They are killing our children.’
The third man, Elijah Ngubane, watched the other two for a moment and stretched out his long legs under the table, folding his arms on his sunken chest.
He was older than the others by two years and was generally accepted as the leader when they were together.
‘I agree,’
he said, his tone as hard as newly forged steel. ‘But we can’t go warring against Inkatha for everyone to see. The warlords are free men. We aren’t and we’d be hunted down, leaving our young leaders open to criticism they can do without.’
As he spoke a large cockroach, its shiny wings laid flat like fine si
lk, streaked across the floor, twitching the inch-long feelers protruding from its head. Ngubane saw it out of the corner of his eye and with the speed of a snake retracted his foot from under the table and slammed it on the insect, squashing it with a crunch, spreading it thinly on the cheap linoleum. He viewed it distastefully and resumed.
‘After a little planning we can conduct a campaign of elimination, beginning with Moses Shozi.
Inkatha sees the ANC as an undisciplined, disorganized rabble and it’ll be the last thing they expect.’
‘He’s well guarded,’
said Ngwenya. ‘His men never leave him.’
‘There is always an opportunity,’ countered Ngubane.
‘We must take it. When he’s dead we’ll concentrate on the others. We’ll always be on the move. No one will be able to pin it on us or the ANC.’
The room was owned by Joshua Dhlamini and the three Xhosas were his guests, sleeping at night on the solid floor, their bedding and spare clothing stacked during the day against the wall.
The accommodation, with an external toilet and shower behind, was a few hundred metres from Dhlamini’s house. It was situated on the road running through the township and surrounded by a pigmentation of banana trees and a thick convolution of Natal bush. In addition to his duties as mayor, Dhlamini ran a general store on the outskirts of the settlement. He had purchased the room for storing sacks of meal, canned food and dried meat, but the extra storage had never been required and he now used the room for housing guests who passed through, like the three guerillas. It suited him because he feared Inkatha and playing host to their arch-enemy in his house would have placed his life and the lives of his family at great risk.
When Ngubane finished speaking Dhlamini went to the table.
He had heard the conversation and was worried, the furrows on his brow deeply engraved. ‘Inkatha will seek the most terrible revenge,’ he said tremulously. ‘They have informers everywhere and will quickly find you. My family will be destroyed.’
Ngubane soothed him.
‘We’ll leave this place,’ he said quietly. ‘While we’re at work we won’t come near you or anyone else. We’ll live in the bush as we’ve been taught to do.’
Dhlamini gave a watery smile, a little reassured, but Inkatha atrocities were still an ugly scar.
He was weak at heart and admired the three men, wishing he had their nerve. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d rather die than see my children dismembered and put to death in front of me.’
Ngubane smiled.
‘They’ll never find us.’ He knew Dhlamini had little courage, but the man was loyal and he had his purpose. He addressed the other two. ‘Tomorrow we’ll visit Shozi. Now let’s sleep.’
Near Moses Shozi’s house
When the first hint of dawn revealed the disarray of ramshackle dwellings that formed Malakazi township the three guerillas left Dhlamini’s room for the undergrowth that bordered the settlement.
In fifteen minutes they reached Mrs Mkhize’s house and passed quietly, noting the broken door and blackened earth around which the killings had occurred two evenings before. Even at the early hour they saw others pushing along the narrow paths of the grassland to the nearest road where they could pick up the bus to the city.
After three kilometres Ngubane, his round shoulders like those of a roosting crow, went off the path, calling a halt.
‘The house is in the next valley,’ he said adjusting a ten-inch knife he carried at his waist. ‘Meet here at noon.’
They were a third of the way up a hill on a path that soon descended through grey head-high boulders and thorn trees.
About to split up Nofomela and Ngwenya inched forwards then stopped as Ngubane spoke again. ‘We’re being followed. Keep to the path.’ Casually he ambled off, winding down to where the track disappeared.
When they passed the bend the guerillas went from the trail into the grass among the rocks.
For a while no one appeared, then with infinite care a figure emerged, a black youth, barefooted and clad in a dirty shirt and shorts to his knees. In his hand he held a stick and a thin bush knife poked from his belt, the blade crudely fashioned out of a piece of mild steel, ground so it was cardboard thin.
For a while the youth concentrated ahead then he turned his attention to the immediate trail, combing for tracks.
Unsure, he slid out the knife, the movements of his head sharp and truncated, apprehensive.
Ngubane came from the grass, a black spider
, and the youth pivoted pathetically, waving the blade like a twig. But he was too late and the guerilla deflected the metal, jerking the youth round and embracing his neck, forcing his arm against his windpipe until he choked.
‘Who’
re you from?’ said Ngubane. He reduced the grip and waited, then again took up the slack, unsheathing his blade and resting the edge on the scrawny neck.
‘I was told to follow you.’
The youth spat onto the track, scowling as Nofomela and Ngwenya came from the rocks. He was a Zulu and though unnerved by the blade on his jugular he reminded himself that Xhosas, especially men of the ANC, were beneath contempt. He stretched his neck to ease some of the pressure caused by the guerilla’s arm but Ngubane drew him closer, the first drops of blood smearing the steel. ‘Who’s your master?’ he said.
The youth spluttered, gritting his teeth and arching his swollen lips over his gums.
‘He’ll kill me,’ he gurgled, watching the others advance.
‘Then you
must leave the area,’ chipped in Nofomela, his pupils like cannon holes. ‘It’s your master or us.’
The youth considered his options. I
f he refused he was convinced he’d be destroyed. ‘I work for Moses Shozi,’ he said faintly. ‘He told me to follow you, find out where you go.’
‘How long have you been tailing us?’ Ngubane altered the position of the knife.
‘Since yesterday morning in Malakazi,’ said the youth.
Ngubane thought over the previous day.
Most had been spent in Dhlamini’s room. The youth couldn’t have learned anything but he would have seen the mayor. Dropping his arm he shunted the knife to his other hand, clasping it cleanly and switching the blade back to the neck.
The youth jumped vigorously against the weak hold, pulling strongly as the tip of the knife nicked him below the ear.
Like a hare running for its life he dodged to the side of Nofomela and into the grass, his knees pumping high, hurdling rocks in his path.
Dispelling amazement at the youth’s boldness Ngubane chased after him, cursing loudly at his carelessness and jostling his comrades to make way.
He held the knife like a sword, pointing it ahead, the curved Bowie blade glinting as it reflected rays from the rising sun. In several giant strides he had caught up and he lunged repeatedly, feeling a thrill as the tip drew blots of blood that were absorbed by the youth’s shirt. The Zulu shook each time the steel punctured his skin, his spent breath a shrill whistle and he leaned his body over as he ran, trying to evade the incisions that were slowly bringing him down.
Metres from the track Ngubane came abreast, finding his victim’s collar with his long fing
ers. The youth cried as Ngubane yanked him to a stop, rotating the weapon and slipping it under his neck. With a rising jerk Ngubane sliced it in, navigating the tempered steel through arteries and thin muscle, noting how the young arms flailed insipidly as the blood spurted out in a jet.
Ngubane held him as he di
ed then dropped him onto the hill. Flaring his mouth he turned victoriously as his colleagues came up. ‘Hide the corpse,’ he said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘He chose the wrong master.’ He poked the knife into the earth and cleaned the blade, removing the final traces of blood with tufts of grass.
They took the body further from the trail and laid it between the rocks, rearranging the grass to form a grave. They left the scene, losing one another as they went on their different routes to Shozi’s house.