SET APART
by Natasha Wright
Chapter 1
1991, South Africa
Jacob sat outside, and allowed the warm September breeze to carry his worries away for a moment.
The August winds had not yet found rest and apart from the dust that seemed to have left a skin of
dirt over his face, he was glad for its company.
Underneath his legs laid thick brown sand tinted with crimson which was the only solid, vivid
substance to his surroundings. He knew as well as any of his neighbours that it only took one storm,
or one xenophobic eruption of conflicts for their fragile homes to plunder to the ground.
Deep wrinkles - trademark to both himself and his father - reappeared and sadness rose within him;
from his stomach it worked its way up his throat like magma underneath this solid earth.
His father had forgotten his lunch at home and Jacob knew how hungry he would get from a day’s
hard labour; two kilometres underground in the President Steyn Gold Mine in Welkom. It was this
moment that Jacob would remember for the rest of his life. The moment in which he feared he knew,
without any doubt that the world - his world as he had known it - would change forever. Yet he could
never imagine the things which would lie in the path of his destiny; not the sorrow which would in its
abstract mode become his comfort, not the fear, and definitely not the loneliness and longing.
This was life in the apartheid era for the black race. There were rules: never lock eyes with a
superior, never speak to them unless you are spoken to, do not enter a white suburb unless you work
there, do not use transport meant for white people, never be seen after ten at night...the list went on
but to Jacob, it was second nature; an inadmissible birth right. A family curse he just had to accept. It
was not obscene and it was not strange, it just was.
At night he slept on the only bed in their home. He woke up to his mother making mealie
porridge on the gas stove outside, her long black braids would swing into the crisp air with each
determined stir of a wooden spoon. His father would already have gone to work hours before the first
signs of dawn.
He attended primary school at the bottom of the township of Jabulani with his friends from
surrounding townships in Soweto. After school he would cook dinner for the family; chicken feet with
rice and corn, offal and marog and some nights, when the recycled tin of creamed corn was nearly
empty, just plain mealie porridge.
Tonight Jacob made chicken offal with potatoes, one of his father’s favourite meals. He stirred the
liquid and reached for a broken cup where their salt supply had a light cover of crimson dust.
In a few minutes his mother would be home from a long day of scrubbing floors and ironing expensive
jeans that they could only ever dream of owning. The air was thick with dirt, already pleading for
some rain and Jacob still stood with the same tight feeling in his chest. Tula Tula, he told himself,
desperately forcing the feeling to subside although deep within he knew that something was different.
Even the sun it seemed was unwillingly in on this haunting plot and departed as though it knew, as
though it did not want to disappear down the horizon. Not wanting life to carry on.
Exhausted and beaten, Mandhla Modise would usually be back in Jabulani by eight o’clock at night
and at this time of year, despite his long day of labour he would still kick ball with his son on the open
patch of dirt behind their home. The ball did not belong to Jacob but to his fifteen year-old cousin
Tumi, who would usually hang around and get a kick in now and then. Her tall brown legs would
shine in the last rays of spring sunlight, lifting her usual meek appearance into a new level of
possibility. In the early hours of a winter morning, Tumi’s father woke her up to give her the ball, in
the same way that he had given his wife an expensive bottle of half-used perfume. Although Mandhla
never agreed with his own brother’s lifestyle (knowing full well that he burgled) he loved him and his
family endlessly.
Mandhla would often sit outside their shack and tell Jacob about life, about humility and justice, urging
him to never steal like his uncle, to never allow anybody to tell him that he cannot accomplish
anything he puts his mind to. Never to believe that the country would always be the way it was now....
More rules, but this time Jacob did not just accept it, he believed in it. He believed his father’s augury
of how one day things would be different for them. Perhaps this would not be possible in Mandhla's
lifetime, but surely in that of his own.
He jumped at the sound of his mother’s tired sigh and the sound of her green bag falling onto the
dirt floor.
She took pride in this bag, having proudly knitted it herself in tight stitches with wool she received as a
birthday present from the loving family whom she worked for. This was highly unusual, but then, there
was not a lot about the Coetzee family that others would consider normal. They were not racist,
although that they seemed to keep amongst themselves. Almost too scared that if they show love and
compassion towards the black race, they too would fall under their same doomed existence.
"Smells nice." Isabella said. Her tired face never a mask to her glorious beauty. Jacob admired his
mother, if for nothing else, for the simple way in which she loved both him and his father.
"Ntate forgot his lunch," He said, letting the words linger in the air for a few seconds.
"What would he have eaten, he must be so hungry!"
"Don't you worry about your father, he is a big man and he knows the rules, he will be just fine." She
reassured her son and pulled him to her chest with such true affection that Jacob felt he could
suddenly breathe a bit easier. She held him there against her own chest for a few moments until the
she could hide her own fear that crept into the creases of her face. The smell of thyme - a luxury also
given to them by Isabella’s' employers - hovered in the air for a few more moments, feeding the
chicken offal with a dry sweetness before drifting into the Soweto sky.
"I will take over if you want..." She said, and Jacob focussed on setting the table.
The legs, four small pillars of seven red bricks stacked on top of one another. The flat rectangular
piece of timber, rough and full of fine splinters sat shame-faced on top.
"I will put his sandwiches in his plate too, he will be glad to finally get his hands on them." He said still
feeling so sad at the thought of his father's fast.
"That is a good idea; he should be here in a while."
For a few moments longer they stood looking at one another, and Isabella could almost smell the fear
in her growing son's heart. Puzzled, she pulled back her long black braids, protruding the vulnerability
in her face. Her skin was smooth, with a natural golden glow over the blackness of her cheek. Jacob
stared at her, his love for her holding his heart in a close grip. He took the plates from her rough
hands and laid them out. Three dented tin plates, and three old scratched glasses. This is how it had
been for the last two years. Before, his grandfather would have joined them at that very table, but the
cancer in his throat no longer allows them such pleasantries. When the table was laid, Jacob sat on
the bed, and waited upon his father’s return.
Mandhla walked through the dirt roads of Soweto ravished, drained and disappointed. He walked past
the Shebeen where he would drink his warm black beer every Friday along with his brother and other
friends from the area. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and he had to refrain from breaking
down completely. He tried his best when he passed a neighbour, to him the little tears probably
looked like sweat sparkling in the last glimmers of daylight.
He walked down the same road, six days a week, leaving his family before the sun started to shine in
its glory, then catching the little minibus clearly labelled on the side 'Black mine laborious' and three
hours later, he would be at the Gold Mine in Welkom. There, he would look over the wide open
spaces one last time and then begin his descent down, two kilometres underneath the earth's surface,
only getting out for twenty minutes during lunchtime, and then again at five o'clock to start his journey
home.
Daunting as it might have been, Mandhla was good at his job, which he’d managed to keep for more
than twelve years. As he now made the left turn down his street, he told himself only one thing over
and over again; do not let them find out, you will be all right, you just need to find a new job...soon.
He still had R 50 from the previous weeks' wages which, he reasoned, should last a good two weeks
if they spent it carefully. How glad he was now that he had already bought Jacob’s books for the next
school term. How glad he was that he had already bought their usual staple food. He was wise in
matters such as these. Always thinking ahead; at forty eight, life had taught him a few valuable
lessons, although today, when the hunger had become so unbearable that he stole a banana from the
supervisor's on site office, the rules of do's and don’ts had evaporated into the hot and dusty air. He
was so angry with himself for forgetting those four thick slices of bread! He longed for the taste of jam
as he watched the other workers eating their well deserved lunch. Something small yet something of
substance was what he was in need of - he knew that there was a lot of hard work to do once he went
back into the lift and the earth which surrounded it.
His foot stumbled against a stone, arrogantly mocking him in the middle of the dirt path. This path;
trodden by many men, brave and strong and just. Yet it was not only the just that left the scars of
their journeys on the paths of Soweto, for only the naive would not believe that even the worst of men
travelled along them too...
Sequentially the events of the afternoon played like an old fashioned film in his mind; the green light
on the gate of the industrial lift had gone on, but before the descent downwards had begun, the
supervisor had stopped the lift and angrily called for Mandhla to get out. He’d been caught, banana
still in his mouth. Potassium pulp; a lush yellow taste suddenly turned to black bitter as he trembled
out of the steel lift.
"Jammer Baas jammer!" he had begged for forgiveness, not daring to speak English to the stumpy
angry man before him. But it had been too late for saying sorry. He was chased away from the mine
like a stray dog that had stolen the prize cut from the fattest calf, and had taken the journey back to
Soweto on foot.
His feet and legs ached, matching the hunger he felt and he finally approached their tiny tin home;
just the same as all the others. But inside his own shack were those whom he actually cared for more
than anything; the ones he was to provide for. He stood outside for a few moments too many, taking it
in; the familiar sink walls surrounding a small block, barely four metres wide. The roof, silver sink held
down by large stones. Their roof.
The frame; mere beams of wood which the Government, (along with water and a small amount of
electricity supply) so graciously allowed them. He rubbed his chin, then wiped his hand over his scant
face, and realized how quickly his beard had grown.
His brown eyes focused on the entrance, a simple opening in the sink walls and a big flap of
cardboard box to protect them from whatever the African skies would cast their way.
He closed his eyes and his mind’s eye saw the inside of the place that he called home, just as it
actually was; a double mattress, five six litre Plascon paint tins, added for a bit of height, an old light
red sofa, over spilling with sponge through the tears on both ends and a sad excuse for a table. A few
smaller bits of their belongings were cluttered in a corner; their plates, plastic cutlery, and their gas
barrel, which would be taken out in the mornings to make the breakfast on. This was his home. It was
dark when he finally took a step forward. The light from the candles were spilling out of the door and
into the darkness. An orange warmth – so radiant – chasing away his fears for the moment, because
for the moment, he was home.
Chapter 2
Mandhla felt as though his legs were melting into the earth, becoming one with the darkness
underground he used to know so well. The skin on his arms were cold and the 9 mm pistol dropped
from his hand taking down with it all that had ever been good in his life. It slammed onto a terracotta
tile and did a slow motioned dance of death before coming to its end by the wall. He could hear
familiar voices shouting although through a net of confusion the shouts became muffled, distorted in
some way. Silence.
A woman lay on the floor, her blond hair flagged over her face; the ends dipped in the bright red liquid
that escaped from her still warm body. She did not move. Neither did Mandhla. He could hear the
beat of his heart and nothing else. He felt it beating in his throat, like that of a thousand drums. What
had just happened? He felt faint, as though the room was spinning, everything had happened so fast
yet now, it seemed, the whole world had come to a complete standstill, lingering in this direful
moment.
He only meant to take some food from the kitchen, while his brother and two other balaclava-drowned
men headed for the bedrooms in search for gold, diamonds, money, weapons....anything of value.
Moments ago this woman in her mid forties, sat down at her kitchen table, reading an article in You
magazine. Happy in the comfort of her yellow tiled sanctuary. He’d started when he saw her, their
eyes had met, and in a second she’d jumped up, hands in the air, and screamed for her life. Mandhla
did not remember what happened next, but there she laid folded double in a kitchen corner. He felt his
legs become even weaker, his vision blurred.
When he regained consciousness, he was in the back of a police pickup truck. The cold steel
handcuffs bruised his wrists in a tight grip. His head was throbbing and bruised from the fall. He
looked through the thin iron bars which secured the window and saw a body covered from head to
toe, being placed in the ambulance; lights not flashing anymore, sirens switched off. Surely, she
would be identified, her family notified...surely, he would never see his own family again either! Tears
started to stream down the narrow of his face. Then he gave out to loud sobs for all to hear. If only he
was not so scared, he would never have killed her. Besides, he thought, there was no one inside the
house but them!
Still, after two weeks, he had not been able to find any work and he simply needed to get some food
for his family. The excuses kept jumping up in his mind, and soon anger took over. He punched the
door of the pickup truck but the pain that shot through his fist was not enough. He kicked it, then
punched again, and kicked again, another punch, until finally drained he sloped back onto the cold
steel seat. He sobbed quietly, realizing that the racket would not gain any favours from the police. If
only he did not allow his brother Ritchie to intimidate him. If only he remained an honest man, if only
he had never stolen that banana which started this whole mess! If only!
A lanky police officer poked his head around the back of the truck, chewing gum in his mouth; he
opened the lock and let Mandhla out.
"Your days are numbered, JP!" he said with a smug but furious smile.
"I am going to make sure that you will never see your family again. In fact, I'll tell them the sad news
myself when I pay them a little visit!” The police officer kicked Mandhla as he escorted him out of the
truck - the casual way in which he welcomed black criminals to the cells of the Police Station.
Sat in a cold cell Mandhla could hear the ruthless voices of the officers on duty. Filthy slang sounds
sweeping their way down the white walled corridors to his ears, left him sick in the stomach. He sat
still. Head bent low he could almost see each grey particle in the urine and steel infused air. He
looked at his bruised knuckles where dry blood had accumulated and chronological images of the
night before flooded his thoughts; the long talk he had had with his brother Ritchie:
"Do you want Isabella to find out that you’ve lost your job?" He had asked Mandhla, a sharp danger
brewed deep inside his black eyes. His slightly chubby face looked serious and Mandhla felt as
though he was years younger than his little brother.
"No I don't, but how can you ask this of me? I do not steal. I am an honest man, I don't rob houses!"
“I really don't see another option for you Mandhla..." Ritchie had said matter-of-factly and flicked a
broken match stick into the dirt road.
His words left a sharp sting in Mandhla's heart – he knew it was true.
"Tell me," Ritchie continued, taking a swig of his Zebra Millet.
"What have the whites ever done for you? Nothing! They carry on with their pretentious lives,
oppressing us in the process. This beautiful land we call our own,” Ritchie threw his hands into the air.
“and I ask you, who was here first? To whom does Africa really belong?"
Mandhla had considered this for a few moments, looked around him then up towards the sky as if
somehow, the clouds would move away and allow the sun to shine on him once again. Instead,
lightning and a distant sound of furious thunder stole from Mandhla the only peace he had left.
"I will do it then." He’d heard himself say. Although he still believed in honesty and integrity, for
tomorrow night at least he would forget about his morals for the sake of his family.
"Good, but I'm warning you, we do not play we go in, take and get out. No nonsense, no one gets
hurt!" The air around them was fused with tension; Ritchie leaned back and took a deep breath. He
pulled out an A4 envelope and pushed it across the splintered table. Inside rested a pistol, cleaned
from fingerprints and awaiting its next victim. Little had Mandhla known that he was to become the
victim of this dark blue beast. He’d taken it from his brother, instinctively understanding the protocol
regarding the gun. He'd placed it inside his leather hat and rested it on his knee. He could not help
being a bit annoyed with his brother for bringing the thing down to the Shebeen. After all, he could
have said no couldn't he? Couldn't he? His brother had stood up, finished his thick black sorghum
drink, and leaned down towards him.
"Tomorrow, midnight. Fly low, you know the rules. Meet me in Church Street, behind KFC, and we will
go to the suburb from there."
Then his younger brother had disappeared, camouflaged into the hundreds of joyous faces that
seemed to have been oblivious to the evil which had just been brewing.
Mandhla jumped at the sound of the iron bar gate opening, and even more so at the look on the
officer's face. He had silently been praying that it would not be the same officer from before. There
was a kind of ruthlessness in his eyes that scared him beyond anything he had ever been scared of in
his life. Possibly even more than the fact that he was now considered a murderer! What scared him
more though was that these ruthless eyes would be looking upon his wife and son, providing that his
threat was not just that. He read the lanky officer's name badge: 'Sergeant Gert Prinsloo'. He looked
up into his eyes and saw death, or if not death it was the look of torture before death.
"Your days are numbered!" Gert Prinsloo said again with the same furious smile from before and
locked the cell gate behind him.
Lucy Morrison zipped up her brown leather suitcase; overflowing with summer clothing. The striking
police officer tightened her scarf around her neck and tied her ash blond hair in a loose ponytail.
Outside, the skies over the South Downs were grey and a little spark of excitement shot up her legs
and busted into a thousand more in her body. Her small semi-detached cottage with a cold grey
stone exterior would be rented out to her friend, Jasmine. Although her father had warned her against
the whole idea, Lucy had jumped for the opportunity to go to South Africa for a year. Economic
sanctions did not bother her too much and as for the apartheid itself - this was a harsh reality she
simply had to experience. Perhaps for insight? Perhaps to truly understand? She was not sure.
Interpol had notified all of South East England’s police stations that a family with generations of South
African Police Officers had extended a welcoming invite to a British officer for one year. She had
applied immediately for the exchange programme and eight weeks later, had been notified that she
was the successful applicant and had been given the job.
The previous night, Lucy had flopped into her bed after she finished her last shift as a Sergeant in
Brighton police station. She was good at her job, and at twenty nine a bit of a workaholic. She did
not really ever have enough time for relationships or any type of settling down whatsoever. She did
however have ideals about her future...a loving husband, children, a big house with a dog (and its
hypothetical stick) running about....Lucy had always been waiting for something exciting to come
along, almost as though she knew that her destiny entailed something unthinkably different and
unknown. Her family though, seemed to have thought that her life was exciting and dangerous
enough.
"You ready to go, sis?" Patrick stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders were tense.
"I'm going to miss you like mad, I can't believe you are actually doing this, who will be my new bowling
partner?”
"Please Pat, don't get all soppy, I promised a thousand times already that we will Skype every week,
and I will send loads of pictures....besides, Snotty Sam from Parks Street is dying to play on your
team, he will make a good replacement, don’t you think?" She said with a tongue in cheek motion.
"Oh, yeah thanks sis, great, he'd be great!" He said sarcastically and they both allowed the
atmosphere to lighten up by a fraction.
"Just think Patrick, I will be able to see Rhinos, Elephants, Lions, Leopards and Buffalos a mere few
feet from me when I go on a safari!" She exclaimed while waving the pamphlet he had seen what felt
like a million times already, in front of his face. The familiar sparks of excitement left behind an
unthinkable tingle in her hands, her legs, in her heart. Patrick gave a fading smile.
"The big five, I know, I know...Sis as long as you are happy, I'm happy for you, I'm just sad that I won't
see you for such a long time, that’s all. Just be careful, it's not as safe over there-"
He was not quite sure how he managed to do it so quickly, but the atmosphere was displeasing once
again and he offered a weak attempt to change it.
"Don't think you are going to escape us that easily, as soon as the Home Office allows me my
holidays, Sarah and I will be visiting you! I don't know exactly when it will be so there might be three of
us by then!"
"Diddo! Aw, just think, little Sarah junior in a safari suit!" She said, and gave him a fleeting kiss on his
forehead - for which she had to rely on her tiptoes- and then she whisked to the kitchen for a quick
breakfast before she had to make her way to the airport. She could hear him shout something about
little Patrick junior and to that she gave a smug giggle as she hopped downstairs like an over excited
child.
Her parents too were sad to see her go; she had always been their 'baby'. They never quite saw her
as the strong minded, just and strict woman that she had become in her profession. Her mother had
always been a housewife, diligent in her daily tasks of ironing, cooking and cleaning. In her piercing
blue eyes, Lucy could see tears and as she touched her silver hair, she said good bye.
"I love you Mummy, Dad..."
"We love you too, sweetheart, let us know as soon as you land, all right?" Jack said, pride radiating
out of him into the crisp winter air. He was so proud of his daughter, who had followed his lead, and
proved herself to be more than he had ever expected of her.
"Will do Dad, you take care of Mum, OK? And you," she turned her attention to her brother and sisterin-law, her thin ash blond hair lifting and dropping in the light morning breeze as it came loose from
her ponytail.
"You take good care of these two." she said while giving Sarah a light hug with one hand, the other,
rested on her round stomach. Lucy felt guilty for not being able to allow her tears to flow as freely as
her family did. But excitement was awaiting and Lucy was ready as she climbed into the taxi and
headed for Gatwick Airport.
The Boeing 747 touched down on African soil and Lucy stared out of the tiny window. Awaiting her
was a plateau of beauty and danger, love and anguish. The aircraft was full of excited but weary
travellers who just like her, could not wait to stretch their legs. As they pulled up to gate four, she felt
annoyed with the quirky British Airways hostess' safety warning:
"Please keep your seat belts on until the over-head lights are switched off."
She felt like leaping out of her seat and stretching every single muscle in her body twice. Or running
bare feet with the cheetahs and lions she had heard so much about. Her blue cotton trousers were
wrinkled by her thighs and the back of her knees. Thirteen hours, she thought to herself, was more
than enough. A small lady in her forties with a blue suit and uncomfortable looking heels finally
opened the sealed door. There was a woman with a small baby and Lucy's heart went out to the tired
mother’s face as she gave her priority to leave, along with an elderly couple.
Lucy walked down the steep ramp and it was only when she reached passport control that she
realized how tight she had been clenching her handbag. Was this her subconscious fear kicking in for
all she had heard about staying vigilant in South Africa? She was not sure but her hand ached and
her fingernails were bleached when she finally loosened her grip.
"Welcome to Jan Smuts Airport and welcome to sunny South Africa, passport please." The man said
and Lucy felt momentarily comforted by his friendly voice.
"Sunny indeed," She said. "It is already so hot, and this is only the beginning of summer?"
This time the man seemed more professional; his attitude made it clear to her that he did not intend
conversing with her about the weather as he rolled out the usual security questions.
As she moved on to baggage collection, she thought to herself how strange it was for her to be the
one forced to answer questions. She was so used to being the authority figure in her line of work and
the sudden role reversal left her with a dubious chill. She spotted her big brown suitcase on the
conveyor belt and squeezed through the crowd to reach it in time. Strong smells of tobacco and
sweat followed her down the green corridor. For a brief moment she wanted to get back onto the
plane, fly back to England and to the hibernal comforts of her home.
These feelings though were short lived. She spotted the faces of the Vosters amongst the thick
crowds of excited family members friends and relatives, anxiously awaiting their familiars. Since Lucy
had been granted the opportunity to go on the exchange programme, she had spoken to them at least
half a dozen times over the telephone. Retired Major Pete Voster and his short, chubby wife Mrs.
Bessie Voster made eye contact with their guest and Lucy released a quiet sigh and slowed down her
pace.
"Mr and Mrs Voster, Lucy Morrison, so pleased to finally be here."
"Oh man, I am so glad to finally meet you in 'lewende lywe' as we would say over here...er, it just
means to see you in real life! Welcome to South Africa, the most beautiful place in the world, now let’s
get to the car."
His accent was that of a true Boer; very strong; an old fashioned, clichéd Afrikaner. He took her
luggage and marched ahead in a friendly, but rushed manner, leaving the two women to do their own
introductions. Bessie took Lucy's arm, hooked in, and together they followed her husband.
"I am Bessie, I am so very glad you came, Lucy, I hope you would pardon my English. I am not too
good at it, grew up in the countryside, a country girl I think is what you would call it. But listen to me,
talking about myself! How was your flight? Are you very tired?"
Not being disillusioned by her own love of people, Lucy got the impression that this Bessie character
loved to talk and with that, she could already feel a strong affection developing for this lovely woman.
"The flight was very draining to be honest. I did manage to get some sleep, but I think a few more
hours would do me good, thank you for asking." She said honestly. "And your English is perfectly
fine." She smiled at Bessie. They came to a standstill at an old beige Mercedes. Lucy did not know
the model, but it suited this couple down to the small patterned air holes in the leather interior. Pete
took the last drag of his ivory pipe, emptied the tobacco on the concrete pavement, and loaded the
luggage into the car.
Inside, the smell of leather polish, infused with dry tobacco overwhelmed Lucy, and she was grateful
for the heat, giving her freedom to roll down the window.
"Nouja," he carried on, for a few seconds oblivious that Lucy would not be able to understand him.
"Let’s go home. It will take quite a while..about an hour." He said smiling over his shoulder at her, his
moustache dangling like silver drapes over his mouth. Adjusting his mirrors, he took off slowly. As
they left the airport, Johannesburg unfolded its pages of distorted pulchritude in front of her. She felt
so small in her unfamiliar surroundings and could not help but wonder what her destination would hold
in store.
Tall white walls and a light brown security gate surrounded the Voster Estate. Lucy felt her breath
slipping away - this was not at all what she had been expecting! She was welcomed by three excited
Rottweiler’s. Having worked within a dog unit in her early years in the Service, Lucy tremendously
respected them and to her relief; the dogs took to her immediately.
"You don't have to worry about these three babies,” Pete said with a nasty smile "they only go for the
blacks!"
The busy dogs stumped her stupor, taking in the unfamiliar smells of the North Atlantic. By the time
she snapped out of her gawk, the older of the dogs had covered her left hand with welcoming kisses;
leaving warm slime to dry in the palm of her hand.
"Sascha, lie down!” Bessie yelled at the kissing dog, and the other two soon followed Sascha's lead.
Clearly, they knew who was boss.
Inside the smell of freshly baked bread clung to the warm air. A wide arch, carved from oak she
imagined to have come from the Great Trek, welcomed her into a large open lounge and dining room.
Oversized brown leather sofas stood proudly by the wall and a low coffee table complimented the
dark colours. Silence; all but for a big dark oak clock ticking from side to side, proudly fending its post
by a wall. Like stones thrown into a pond, the tic and then the toc rippled through the air.
Lucy’s bedroom was one of seven; in apple-pie order with a pallet of orange and red Barberton
daisies next to a Dutch-style mirror.
She made a quick phone call to her parents (who were all too relieved to hear from her) washed her
hands and went into the kitchen where the elderly couple presented her with a mug of steaming
coffee and some freshly baked rusks. She was briefed with how the household was run, who was
living in the house with them and the very specific breakfast and dinner times. She was given a set of
keys to the house as well as to a 1985 model metallic blue Mazda 626 which would be hers for the
year to use and maintain. She was to start work the day after the next and in time, she would have to
fall in with odd shifts which included both weekends and nights. Though Lucy soaked up the
information like a sponge she felt overwhelmed by both excitement and fatigue.
"So, I am not to have any contact with them...?" She asked when their conversation turned towards
the Black Race. She wanted to ask them what the reasons were for them treating people like they did
not deserve a fair existence, but thought it wise to remain quiet for the time being.
"Oh girl, you will have a lot of contact with them, most of them are bloody criminals and at the station,
you will see them coming and going in and out of the cells like the place belongs to them!"
Pete’s eyes turned cold as he spoke and a distant smile refused to leave, lingering on the corner of
his lips, hiding under the strands of grey. Lucy sat back and pondered upon the irony, hidden in the
depths of his words.
"As long as you don't forget that here in South Africa the whites are the boss, and...the blacks will do
as you tell them to."
His chin wobbled in the rays of sunshine that shone through the small kitchen window.
"Hallo!" A lively voice came from the back door and the silhouette of a broad-shouldered, thirtysomething man stood in the doorway. The bright African sunlight hid most of his face from Lucy’s
view. She squinted, determinedly staring on and not allowing the sun to win, not allowing herself to
look the other way. When she finally looked towards the floor, the tiles filled with small drifting black
dots. She smiled at the ridiculous thought of having a stare-down with the sun, clearly, the sun had
won! The man stepped over the threshold, his shadow forced the bright sunlight away and Lucy could
perceive the outline of his face a little better.
"Well, hello, you must be Lucy? We have been very excited the past week and couldn't wait for your
arrival." His smile framed his perfect white teeth.
"I am John. And I am very pleased to finally meet you, as you will be my work partner for the duration
of your stay."
She was almost able to suppress her smile, but graciously replied.
"Pleased to meet you too, John, and yes, yes I am Lucy. Morrison. Lucy Morrison." She blushed at
her own graceless introduction.
"The rest of the crew will be here later for a barbeque, but for now I have to go!" He left just as
mysteriously quick as he had arrived.
Never needing much reason to boast, Bessie broke the lingering silence.
"The oldest of my three babies. My pride and joy. He followed in the long line of Voster police officers
that was carrying on for many years." Lucy listened with a smile. Her fatigue seemed to have come
back and she had to listen carefully to Bessie’s strong Afrikaner accented boasting.
"Ruan is nineteen and currently at the Police College. Pete Junior is twenty six, he and his wife, are
running the orphanage for the last two years since I have to give it up" Her tenses, Lucy thought, were
a bit mixed up. Bessie took her wrist in her one hand and looked down.
"Arthritis doesn't allow me anymore to do what I used to did. They are very good at what they do
there, Junior and Michelle. I can tell you the sad stories! At least I can still bake bread for them; it is
only a few kilometres away."
She felt her heart warm once again to this old lady and to her non-stop baffling about things she did
not understand. She gave her a warm smile. "I would love to go there some time."
Lucy's welcome barbeque at the Voster Estate, as it was known, was in true South African style. That
evening, after she had taken a three hour nap, they lit the fire and popped open a few beers. She met
Ruan, who was very enthusiastic about her visit and talking almost twice as much as his mother did.
Pete Junior. and his wife Michelle invited her to come along to the orphanage whenever she felt like it.
She was surprised to see so many happy faces, and she found herself wondering whether everything
had always been so picture perfect in this family as it seemed to be right now. The fire was warm on
her skin, and yet, she felt something else warming her face. Was that John, still looking at her? She
was grateful for the red glow that seemed to stretch like a halo into the dark heavens. Her warm
cheeks camouflaged perfectly into the heat of the fire. Why did he make her blush? Suddenly
annoyed, Lucy felt like fifteen year old teenager!
It was twenty minutes after midnight when she finally lay her head down on the smooth palepink pillow, spoiling its dove-like softness with the smoky smell of fire. Her excitement had subsided
slightly and in its place came calm contentment. She still wondered though, how such a happy family
could have such wrong views and be so very racist. She allowed the thought to linger in her mind a
few more moments and then allowed it to escape again. The night was quiet and a full moon hung low
in the otherwise black sky. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance and Lucy felt strangely
comforted by her unfamiliar surroundings. She lifted the framed picture of her family to her mouth,
gave them a soft kiss, and fell asleep minutes later.