Themba’s Excursions E-Book

Hennie Jones

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Set in contemporary South Africa, the story unfolds as we witness through the eyes of a boy the discovery of a world he did not know existed outside the boundaries of his little village and modest home. Fretted unspeakably and suddenly by his mother to flee away with an apparent trusted stranger with no given destination and forced by design to an escapist adventure full of wonders, young teenager Themba takes us on a journey permeated by mystery, secrets, beauty, possibilities, unmissable chances, danger, harsh realities and lucky moments aided by favorably unforeseen twists and turns of events, and fairytale-like reunions. The novel is compelling and engaging. The characters Themba encounters on his path are well rounded and the situations full of details. The African landscape and its vivid wildlife diversity are also ever-present protagonists on this scenic route filling the modern story with karmic nuances, sprinkled with magically ancestral wisdom and ritualistic folklore. The book is certainly suitable for both adults and kids aged 13 and above.

Hennie Jones was born in extremely poor circumstances on 23rd August 1942 in Modderdrift in the Vioolsdrift area on the banks of the Orange River between South Africa and Namibia. The author grew up moving around with his large family in South West Africa; while living in modest dwellings, changing several schools and colleges until reaching adulthood when he started working in the government service and police while studying extra mural at the University of Pretoria and Bloemfontein where he obtained the degrees B.A. Hons., M.A., D. Litt., and a Higher Diploma in Education. He worked as a language teacher (Afrikaans, English and German) in different schools in Namibia and South Africa and as senior teacher, head of department, principal, inspector for schools and director for education, mostly for learners of African origin. He joined several South African Universities as lecturer, senior lecturer, professor and dean of arts until his retirement. During this time, he wrote different articles for magazines and did extensive research on Khoisan folklore. After retirement he continued teaching in several schools (Afrikaans, English, History, German and Maths). During this time he wrote several published books in Afrikaans and English and worked on translations. He enjoys nature, wildlife, rural areas of the African countries and the Gariep Dam where he settled on the bank of the Orange River.

Leseprobe

Hennie Jones

Themba’s Excursions

© 2024Europe Books | London

www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 9791220148832

First edition: April 2024

Themba’s Excursions

This novel is dedicated to my wife Clasina

who inspired my writings and my life.

Thanks to Europe Books – especially Eleonora

who appreciated this novel

and Veronica who creatively helped to finish off

everything for publication.

Our tales wander in the wind across the belly of the moon; they saunter over the great mountains and further and further, passing vast distances from landscapes to memories to landscapes where one cannot even recognize hill from plain any more.

(Quoted from Slipstream – an unfinished novel.)

The cosmos living within us has more importance than the small surroundings we live within; sometimes our insanity surpasses our sanity – in the end the dream makes more sense than the particular set of circumstances we call reality.

(Quoted from Slipstream – an unfinished novel.)

1

Themba was dreaming about him playing world-cup rugby with Mapimpi and Kolisi when Grace, his mother, woke him.

He was in the act of scoring a winning try for the Springbucks who were three points behind the All Blacks; he already heard the crowd’s cheering but was shaken rudely from his temporary pleasant rugby-field escape. He still held the pillow in his hands and moved his body to the goal-line at the side of his bed.

“Themba, wake up!”

“Ugh! What ...”

Grace shook him. “Wake up! Quickly!”

“What ...?” He was still confused by opposing realities of sports-field and closed-in bedroom.

“Themba!” Grace raised her voice, shaking his shoulders.

He startled, coming upright, feeling his body against the lukewarm wall.

“Mother ...?”

“You’ve got to go!”

He could sense dangerous urgency and immediately completely woke. “I got to go ...?”

“Come on! Get up fast!”

There was a discordant commotion going on outside. He looked through the thin pane-glass where he could see part of the neighbours’ yard and the street. A huge truck stood across their little house; its many coloured lights were flickering like a decoration at Checkers during Christmas. The motto of the company in italic letters Spacers Makes Your Transport Safe undesirably sprang into his senses.

In the dim full moon’s light he noticed the two pit-bulls at the neighbours’ barking furiously, jumping up and down, trying to break loose from their chains.

“Are we leaving?”

“Themba, my son ...” Grace whispered. She spoke English in the Malawian vernacular. “Listen carefully. You are grown-up now. (She used insizwa, the Zulu initiation word.) You are nearly fourteen. Listen carefully, my son. It might be the last time I will be able to speak to you. Do you hear the truck outside ...?” She cried softly.

Themba’s hands grabbed onto the creased sheet, still warm from the tropic night. He groaned within his throat and slowly got out of bed.

Something is very wrong, he thought.

Grace never woke him at night except that one night at Mr. Casper’s when they fled to Lilongwe. That was some years ago.

Now it already is October 20th two days before his birthday, October, 22nd. When he put on his shirt he saw the three stars still sitting in the window’s corner. He automatically scanned the wall-clock. It was ten minutes past twelve.

At about midnight the three stars were always sitting in his window’s corner. Sometimes during the past three months he also woke up when his mother was leaving their little house for one of her secret meetings somewhere in the city, maybe thinking that he still had been sleeping soundly. When he then checked the time on the wall-clock, he noticed that it was around twelve. Every night at the same time the three stars were there.

Whatever his mother had done in the city he did not know and he never asked her.

“Are we leaving Lilongwe, Mother?”

“No, I’m sending you to safety.”

“But ...”

“Don’t ask questions. Just finish dressing.”

“Yes, Mother …” he spoke against his will. He could not understand what was going on then as he never had understood her many past secret missions, but started putting on his other clothes, fretting.

“Hurry up!” He became aware of her stressful voice, noticing the helpless hand-waving of her body language.

“If I go you’re without protection. I cannot leave here like this.”

“Please, my son. Go. It’s crucial for both of us.” Her begging tone accentuated her inner urgency.

“But ...”

“Put on your jacket. The trip might be cold.”

“Trip, Mother. Are you now again running somewhere without me ...?”

“Here comes Mr. Bhengu.” Her voice was nearly under control then. “You will travel with him for some days. He will drop you at KwaDlangezwa. Obey him. Listen what he wants you to do. It’s for your own safety. Take this bag with you. I packed you some things. Mr. Bhengu will arrange everything … There’s a birthday present for you ...”

“But, Mother ...” He stopped resisting her. Tonight is different, he thought. She always took me with her whenever she left our place. Why is she now so adamant to send me away alone?

“You may never see me again; if this time I might be lucky also, I will try and find you near the Campus. Our enemies here have become too many now. They know that I am in Lilongwe.” He heard the hesitation in her voice. “Now be a real man for us and for that great Mapimpi,” she said in the end, trying to convince him.

“Enemies, Mother? Is that the reason why we went away from Mr. Casper’s place ...?”

“You will understand better later ...”

“Mother, why KwaDlangezwa ...?” That was the first time he directly asked her that question – he always wanted to know as she had repeatedly spoken of the University Campus near Empangeni. “I don’t even know that place …”

“It’s your birth-place.”

“Come with me then, Mother. Please ...”

“Here’s Mr. Bhengu now ...”

The steel door squealed open on its dry hinges and Themba could see the relief of a big man appearing, stooping somewhat within the smallish metal frame.

Themba hesitated, waited, not knowing what to expect.

“Where’s he?” the man asked in a low bass-note voice, speaking Zulu and entered their living room.

“Themba, this is Mr. Bhengu ...”

“Ssh ... No loud talking. Damn dogs.”

He beckoned Themba to go outside to the truck, letting him think of a speed-cop directing traffic. “Wait there in the dark side of my truck.”

Themba did not like the authoritarian voice-tone, but, however reluctantly, took his bag and paced like a hemmed-in prisoner into the narrow street without lights; dirty street, eroded to dangerous ditches, slowing down every moving thing.

The night noises of the city that he usually had despised suddenly came as some relief upon his mind; he heard a rowdy swearing and shouting far away - intoxicated loiterers picking up a fight - they are even freer than I am, he ironically thought.

A cacophony of threatening or warning messages from communal dogs, most of them chained to trees or poles, was sent out from some crowded-in yards of deserted dark house silhouettes; little houses of mass construction looking like small square bully beef tins - that was Lilongwe’s poor area where they had been living for some years then.

Dumbfounded by surprise and confusion he waited at the side of the MAN-truck and covered himself out of sight in the shadow on the passenger’s side. Something utterly mysterious is going on, he thought – something extremely irritating.

The man appeared and hastily pressed open the squeaking frame of the rusted gate, causing the neighbours’ dogs to pick up anger, pulling their chains to almost breaking-point.

“Mr. Bhengu,” Grace softly called behind the walking man’s back.

The man turned and retreated a few steps, resting his hands on the closed, rusted gate-pipe between them.

Themba looked at the adults from the truck’s shadow, ready to act on anything necessary.

“Here’s money.” Grace held out her two hands like a beggar. “Remember, he’s our only child. I will make everything good to you later. And thank you.” Her voice had the sound of remorse, accentuated by the dusty wind’s disturbing their loose corrugated roof plates.

“Stop bothering and keep the money,” the man’s guttural voice was like a spade’s blade scouring on loose gravel. “We will wait for you.” He put his hands upon hers and stood like that for some time as if he had been waiting for something else to happen. “You wanted to say good-bye?” he said in the end and approached the truck leaving the gate half open.

“Take care,” she softly whispered. “Take care of yourself, Zamxolo ...”

“I’ll be there for you ... for him ... My life will be his life ...”

Next door the neighbour shouted on his dogs from his bedroom. They immediately stopped barking but were still growling in threatening revulsion.

Grace pushed the gate to her side and followed them with slow, heavy footsteps. She took Themba into her arms, holding him, kissing him several times. “I will miss you, my darling. Behave yourself like a real man ... You can trust Mr. Bhengu.”

Themba could answer nothing. Then he remembered her kissing him like that when they had left in different taxis from Gaborone to be reunited at Kazungula. That was before they went up to Mr. Casper’s place next to the Zambezi in Zambia.

“Go now, my son. And may God bless you. Be good now for us ... One day I will be proud of you ... Obey Mr. Bhengu. Don’t be afraid. Everything will come right soon.”

Then she ran off, bending forward like an old woman whom he had seen carrying two heavy pails of water from the communal tap; Grace disappeared into the swallowing, dark maul of what they had called home for about five years, leaving Themba unnerved like he had felt when he had seen that deserted flabby-eared underfed little dog sitting next to a hollow mine shaft in one of Mr. Casper’s books. Has she said farewell forever? Something urgently drove him on to follow her and disobey all their annoying behests.

“No use, Son,” the big man said, “let her go for now. Everything will be all right. She will come home. She always comes home ...”

“How would you know?”

“You will see for yourself,” the man answered but said nothing more.

Themba kept stubbornly silent, clutching the helve of his bag; his hand sweated; he resisted the swollen anger painfully stuck into his throat, helplessly looking up into the moving sky – a boy of fourteen, prematurely expected to be a man already, he confusedly thought with much self pity.

Above his head the firmament was very dark with clouds all over; a half moon flipped, flipped through the wind-driven cumulus; a cock’s crowing was lamenting sad and lonely somewhere in that vast, rumbling township.

Then other cocks followed subsequently in a futile testing of their mastery.

The man opened the back door of the deliverance truck, showing him in like a dog reprimanded into its kennel. “Here, take the torch. Make yourself comfortable. I left some space for you behind those big boxes; the third box to your right. There’s a role of blankets.” The man’s voice was low. “And be quiet. Don’t make any noise when we stop at the border or anywhere else. Don’t use the torch all the time, especially when we have stopped ...”

“But ...”

“Get in!”

The man sounded frustrated.

Themba resentfully climbed onto the foothold, put down his bag in front of his forwardly bent body and moved himself into the semi darkness of the truck’s unknown bowel.

“Stick it out, Son. Things will work out fine in the end ...”

“I will ...” The words of his resistance abruptly stopped when the double door clicked closed behind his buttocks, enclosing a pitch-darkness upon him, leaving him very muddled-up and bewildered; he could see nothing and he felt hopelessly lonely and helpless; rage rose into his aching breast. “I will escape!” Themba’s words came slowly and resolutely. “I hate you all!”

2

Sitting on his knees for some moments Themba became aware of the futility of his circumstances. His heart was pounding fast; he wanted to shout for help but he did nothing.

The truck started to move.

He angrily switched on the torch and turned his body. The bright light flashed on the two closed back doors that could not be opened from the inside. He crept on all fours along the narrow corridor between the boxes, moving the light up and down. Lilongwe Washing Machines was printed in big letters on every box, securely stripped with strong plastic taping, squeezed in upon each other from the rubberized floor up against the steel ceiling, only leaving a narrow corridor between the middle boxes where the light then fell on a toolbox, two huge tires and some other loose materials lying around disorderly.

“I will get you, I promise!” Themba’s words came slow and soft like a drunkard’s ruthless swearing. It felt as if everything got stuck within him. Automatically like a robot he put his bag between the narrow slice of the two boxes behind the third strapped-in barrier, feeling its pressure against his body in that cramped-in, suffocating space; then he touched, touched without looking along the side of the nearest box and found a bundle of blankets sitting between two pressed-together washing machines. He pulled them out and fitted himself some place to more or less comfortably sit. The blankets had the offending smell of old cooking oil and burned acacia wood.

They have trapped me, he thought, but I will escape; for sure I will!

“Mother, how could you ...” Then his thoughts turned to Grace’s present with some relief. She would not have given me a birthday present if she didn’t care, he reasoned. In the torch’s light he quickly opened his bag to see his surprise.

There was a medium sized parcel underneath his study materials and his clothes. He hastily tore off the paper. It was a book. King James Version of the English Bible – the title jumped upon him like an angry hippo. Disappointment and frustration strongly opposed his expectations and he crumpled the present’s paper as if to revenge him against something mysterious and dangerous and threw it away from him. With a kind of respect, however, he dumped the second hand book back into his bag; immediately he felt a strong rejection by the one he had loved most. She doesn’t want me any longer, he thought, feeling sorry for himself. Therefore this Bhengu has to take me somewhere to a kind of youth prison for strangers. How I hate them!

She indeed could have given something more usable like an AK 47 to destroy all her enemies, but now she betrayed me; one bitter thought relentlessly followed the other. Nobody can be trusted; not even your own mother conspiring especially with this Bhengu or whatever his name might be. How did she know about this man? His lips trembled. She gave me up. We will not see each other again. I am thrown away like thrash to suffer among strangers like Bhengu and others awaiting me like hungry beasts of prey. His thoughts instigated his mind to even more bitterness and self pity. But here I sit and this truck is moving further and further away from everything caring and safe – an orphan, a sitting grasshopper awaiting a butcher-bird.

“I shall fight them all!” He shouted a rasping sound against the dead carton boxes and steel walls of his prison.

Hearing his own voice he thought of Mr. Casper’s words coming like an echo from somewhere. ‘Nobody can live your life for you, Themba; you’re born by yourself and you will die by yourself – take every day as a new gift from God and live your new life as a conqueror.’

“Where’s God in this narrowness, in this new confinement, Mr. Casper?”

There was no answer but he felt as if some calmness had entered his mind. He then realized that he was futilely torturing himself and exhaustedly leaned his back against the side of a washing machine box, trying to ease his tensed body.

“I will escape when the doors open again. They have to open!”

What have I really expected for a birthday present? Themba was not sure but he indeed secretly had been looking forward to something worthwhile like the cell phone perhaps, a cell phone with a lot of apps on it and a lot of friends that he did not have. But there was no cell phone in his wrapped-up parcel except her Bible. Why would she give me her old Bible? Is she a believer then? But we never went to any church, although she read us some stories from this same Bible. How can one ever put your trust in a second hand book like this? Can a book save an adolescent? No ways!

Money would have been much better but there was no money in the bag. On what do I have to survive in that strange place? I surely will starve. Thought after self rejecting thought pounded into his mind, making him feel uneasy and worthless; he felt cut off from everything that was dear to him.

Here I am jailed already, he thought, and I can do nothing to escape.

The truck turned. He only sat and waited when the thing’s picking up speed silenced all Lilongwe’s soft outside sounds; he could feel the little shudder when gears were changed. They turned left and after some time right again. He calculated that they had taken the main road south out of town. He knew the robots. Three of them; the vehicle stopped and then gathered speed when they entered the National Road. South to QwaDlangezwa or wherever, he thought; miles and miles of mystery and division.

Themba angrily zipped his bag close again, switched off the torch and started swearing softly, bitter, futile groans of misery caused by desertion. He shook his body and hit his head against the truck’s metal. “Damn!”

Everything was pitch-dark around him; he could not even see his fingers close before his face. His hand felt the torch’s lifeless rubber cover but he did not switch it on. No use, he said to himself. Of what use may a torch’s little light be in this dark seclusion? ‘One needs darkness to see the light,’ Mr. Casper said, ‘and one needs light to see the darkness.’ What did he mean?

They were relentlessly moving on; he could only hear the burping of the engine and the soft cracking of the truck’s framework somewhere in front; then after some time he put his hands against his face, feeling their heat, as if they belonged to somebody else. Am I really here in this gripping nothingness or am I dreaming in my bed? Suddenly he started longing for the barking of dogs, the crowing of cocks, the swearing of drunken men at the sjebeens and the sirens of ambulances and police patrols. But around him was nothing except the hollow carton boxes with washing machines. Why do they order washing machines from Malawi? Aren’t there enough washing machines made in South Africa? Is this Bhengu really a friend of Mother?

After some time his tension seemed to ease and then he realized that he was helplessly tormenting himself and exhaustedly leaned his back against the side of a washing machine box, trying to relax, anxiously waiting for a chance to escape.

Catch twenty two – the thought came into his mind – reminding him of Mr. Casper’s words to bear things out until victory is gained. Then he unsuccessfully tried to pull himself together. “Speak out against your tribulations,” Mr. Casper said.

“I will fight her enemies, whoever they might be, Mr. Casper.” He heard his own voice, escaping to some degree of freedom when remembering the echoes across the Zambezi when he had chased away hippo or elephant from the latter’s lands – the hostile boxes, however, reflected no sound; the darkness was threatening and antagonistic.

Then he put the lightless torch within reach of his hand and lay down on his back, pulling his knees upwards.

Doubt came into his mind. Mother will never desert me, he thought. If there really were enemies, why is she letting me escape before they came?

“I shall overcome! Whatever! I will find them, I swear!” he said to every dead thing smothering him in that impenetrable blackness.

The truck stubbornly moved on.

He pressed his back against the metal; an unnatural position of uncomfortable sitting that he had to endure for the time being. The man will stop somewhere – then I will run away, he thought.

He shifted his body against his uncomfortable bedding, feeling the hard push of the rubberized metal floor underneath him and tried to be as easy as possible.

Will this man sell me somewhere like Joseph had been sold to the Arabs by his own brothers? Can I really trust Bhengu?

Now be a real man for us and for that great Mapimpi came as a reverberation from his childhood’s river gorges.

The truck was speeding smoothly on.

Themba reprimanded himself as if he were a separate person within. Try to avoid sadness and insecurity, fix your mind on something positive. Did Mr. Casper say that? Or was it Grace?

For some time he tried to think of nothing, but his mind was quickened instead. Miracles can still happen. The truck’s doors can open like the prison doors for Peter. What did Peter do to get the doors open? He could not remember. If the doors miraculously open, he continued thinking, he can escape into the night. Into a strange and foreign country where policemen and soldiers await you with their sjamboks and guns? Will it be better in a Zambian or Zimbabwean prison than in your mother’s friend’s truck? QwaDlangezwa – his thoughts jumped away from his own Devil’s advocate, trying to derail him. I don’t know what’s cooking. I only know that we are en route to KwaDlangezwa where my fortune is supposed to be found. I have to fight alone – I must keep standing. Standing on what?

“Close your eyes, Themba,” Mr. Casper once said. “Now, remember the worst thing that ever happened to you.” He then thought of the hiding his mother gave him in Gaborone when he had borrowed the neighbours’ bicycle to have some joy rides; the worst was when he had to ask their pardon for ‘stealing’ their bicyce. “Now open your eyes. What do you see?” “Nothing, Mr. Casper.” “Nothing?” “Oh, everything is still the same.” Mr. Casper smiled. “Now, again close your eyes and think of the best thing that ever had happened to you.” He thought of their trip to Nambwe. “Now again open your eyes and tell me what you now see.” “Everything is still the same, Mr. Casper. Nothing has changed.” “Nothing? ” “No, the room is the same. The chairs ...” “And what about your thoughts?” “Oh, they changed from bad to good ...” “Exactly – it is not the circumstances which are of most importance – it is your thoughts. ” Themba could not understand what Mr. Caper had meant, but maybe one’s thoughts are able to rule over one’s circumstances.

The truck is still speeding on; the boxes are still cramped in around me; there’s something foolish in arguing with oneself ... Change your thoughts – remember something worthwhile. “Tell somebody your personal story – then you may understand yourself as well as your situation better ...” These words definitely were Mr. Casper’s.

Themba saw himself standing in front of an assembly of people telling his own story, using Grace’s words to explain a difficult aspect in one of his lessons on creative writing – “use the third person in order to give your emotions more space”.

Themba’s mother told Mr. Casper, a South African farmer who might still be trying his luck next to the Zambezi River in Zambia about her role to ‘infiltrate an international syndicate’. What kind of syndicate? He did not understand what that meant, but she told Mr. Casper that ‘somebody split’ on her and she had to flee the South African border to save her and her son’s lives. Themba was six years old then. He thought that she was lying or had been delirious as she lay in one of Mr. Casper’s beds with severe malaria.

“Here you will be safe, Grace,” he remembered Mr. Casper had said. “When you’ve recovered you can pretend working for me on the lands or teaching something to the workers’ children. Your son can help with chasing away wild animals. I will try to be of help by also teaching English and Mathematics in the mean time. When the investigators have broken this syndicate you can testify and go home. I am sure you will be some heroine then.”

Mr. Casper’s words were still lingering in his mind. What did he mean?

“Human criminals are very dangerous,” is all Grace said. “I’m just afraid they will take my twin sister, Hope Dlamini who lives in Polokwane to be me and harm her in some way. But I hope the problem will be solved soon.”

Criminals ...? Is she a kind of spy or some infiltrator or investigator or is she a criminal herself?

KwaDlangezwa ... He was born at KwaDlangezwa. That’s what his mother had told him. He did not know his father. As a matter of fact he never had seen his father. Sometimes in his lonely play with himself he imagined his father as some chief or teacher of some kind or a famous rugby player. Oh, how he wished to have a father like other children who grew up normally. “Why didn’t you marry my father that I also could have a real father like some other children?” he once asked her. “That’s impossible for me to marry your father. He has to have many wives and I really love him. I’d rather die than to share him with other women. The custom situation left me with no choice than to keep my secret, take my child and make a living somewhere. I don’t think he knows about you. Maybe he doesn’t even care about me anymore. He only might have used me. Your father is of a very high hierarchy and our family from the lowest. To make him known will put our lives in even more jeopardy.” That’s all she had said and he never touched the topic again.

Themba did not remember something of their stay at KwaDlangezwa. He only could encounter that they used to live in Sovenga. His mother was a lecturer at Unin then. He could not remember what kind of subject she had been teaching. Then they went to Botswana. One afternoon when she returned home she immediately packed two cases and they went by taxi to Gaborone where they had stayed for some years.

After that they stayed for another year and a half at Mr. Casper’s place. And still after that Mr. Casper quickly one night removed them to Lilongwe where they found some shelter in that boring township.

Sometimes in Lilongwe his mother without any notice stayed away for about a week and he had to care for himself by warming up her pre-prepared food parcels from the fridge. During those times he had to cope with loneliness by preparing his lessons, writing assignments or studying for the coming examinations. He sometimes went out to play with the neighbours’ two boys and their sister Mary with whom he became close friends.