short, dramatic story

The year was 1978 and I was fourteen years old. Life seemed filled with promises. My best friend, Malita said she could smell it in the air and that if I listened really hard, I’d be able to hear it on the wind too. She was weird like that. But today I agreed, or maybe it was only because in a short while my oldest brother Tony would be home from the border where he’d been for the past two years, completing his military service. Exactly where the border was was a mystery to me. My mother said it was situated between South West Africa and Angola, ‘A terrible place where the government sends all our young boys once they’ve finished with high school,’ she’d explained. It was compulsory and for those who refused to go, well; their two years were spent in jail. ‘Ja,’ she remarked, ‘just like Mrs Gray’s son Edwin.’

I often wondered why Edwin refused to do his military training. Before he was collected from his house by the military police I’d overheard him telling a friend that he wouldn’t take the life of another human being. ‘And not just because I’m a Jehova Witness,’ he’d said, ‘why should I fight in a stupid war that I didn’t even start!’

The neighbours had been shocked, none more so than my mother. She’d refused to speak to his mother and the times she did see the woman out in the street completely ignored her; except for a few weeks ago that is. My mother had been sweeping the front stoep just as Mrs Gray arrived home from shopping. And as she walked towards her front door my mother said rather loudly, ‘I suppose for some people it’s okay for my son to be up there risking his life on a daily basis so that others can sleep safely at night, hey!’ The woman stared straight ahead as my mother continued, ‘Imagine if we all had that attitude – what would happen then? We’d be murdered in our beds by those terrorists!’

My father tried to reason with her, but she would have none of it. ‘You’re always defending everyone – can’t you understand how I feel! My son and in case you’ve forgotten he’s your son too - is fighting up there and hers is safe even if it is in jail, but he’s safe!’

Each night, we huddled around the television set in silence as the names of those injured or killed during an incursion were announced by a middle-aged man, wearing an ill-fitting wig. His voice sounded as dreary as the expression on his pale face as he sombrely read out the names of the young men. My father would tousle my hair and murmur, ‘Hmm, this government of ours lives in a fool’s paradise …’ And my mother would pretend not to hear him, but the expression in her eyes told a different story.

But today the mood in our house was light as Tony was on his way home. My father had gone to fetch him up the army camp. My mother had invited her sisters around for lunch, to welcome him home. My stomach grumbled hungrily as the smell of roasting lamb, garlic and my mother’s famous spaghetti sauce filled the air.

Everywhere you looked there were yellow bows, tied around and stuck onto everything in sight - the front gate, the front door, even the wind-burned palm tree which stood forlornly in the garden hadn’t escaped. The Port Jackson trees had cast their yellow flowers over the lawn too. I thought the bows looked silly and told her so, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d got the idea from that song that had been playing the whole morning over-and-over in the background.

‘Shew, Alice, these two years have really flown by, hey?’ said Aunty Alma as she furiously stirred the spaghetti sauce.

My mother nodded as she flitted around the kitchen, checking and re-checking that each dish was prepared just the way, Tony liked them.

‘Ja, in a way yes and in another way, it’s been the longest two years of my life,’ she replied.

My other aunt, Aunty Alma shook her head, her long thin face solemn, “Hmm, won’t be long and then it’ll be my little Rodney’s turn…”

‘Rodney! Never! He’s too fat … my father said no army in their right minds will want a soldier who can barely run three steps before having to stop to take his asthma pump!’ I thought I was so funny, but I was wrong. My mother turned to me, her normally gentle brown eyes, furious as she said, ‘How many times have I told you not to put your two cents in when adults are speaking, miss?’

Lowering my eyes, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I mumbled an apology.

‘Just go outside and play with the children,’ she said.

Aunty Alma smirked and as I passed her on my way to the back door, I wrinkled my nose as she smelled of stale cigarette smoke and camphorated oil.

‘Alice, mark my words, that child is still going to give you many a grey hair!’ she whined.

I tried to hear my mother’s reply, but all I heard was the younger of the aunties, Aunty Olive saying my father was to blame for filling my head with big ideas. ‘Personally, I don’t think it’s good for a girl to be taught to think and behave like a boy! She’ll never find a husband with that attitude … men don’t like girls who think they’re too clever,’ she said.

What did she know anyway – she’d been married five times!

I watched my brothers, Alan and Gavin as well as Rodney as they kicked a soccer ball around.

‘I’m George Best and you can be … um .. er…’ Alan searched for a name for Rodney.

‘He can be Billy Bunter - they have the same build!’ joked Gavin, the older of my two brothers. Aunty Olive’s twin boys, Clinton and Ian ran around the yard, chanting, ‘Billy Bunter – Billy Bunter!’

Rodney tried to run after them, but couldn’t. Somehow he managed to grab hold of Alan and the sight of his fat, white arm around my brother’s neck made me think of a maggot.

‘Rodney Barnes, you better leave Alan alone or I’ll tell Aunty Olive on you!’ I shouted. He let go. I knew he would as Aunty Olive was extremely protective of the twins since their father had died. ‘You’re a coward, Rodney,’ I said as I walked up to him. He glared at me. He was so ugly with his pimply, red face and thick black-rimmed glasses. Just then I heard my father’s car pull into the driveway and I forgot all about Rodney as I ran inside, yelling, ‘Tony’s home, Tony’s home!’

Everyone rushed onto the front stoep. My mother wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

‘Goodness, I can’t believe it … at last, I get to see my little man.’

My heart beat loudly as I watched the passenger door slowly open. I had missed him. I couldn’t wait for him to lift me in the air and swing me around like he used to. He stepped out of the car. He looked so different, gone was the long dark hair, replaced by a close cropped head of fine stubble. He looked like a stranger. His eyes seemed bigger, his face much thinner than I remembered. He smiled as he lifted his kitbag across his shoulder.

My mother ran towards him and grabbed hold of him as she smothered his face with kisses. Tony sort of laughed, sort of grunted. Holding him at arms-length, my mother studied him intently. ‘My, you’ve grown – no more a boy,’ she said as she prodded his stomach, ‘and so thin, but not to worry, that’ll soon be remedied once you start eating my food again!’

Everyone laughed. I followed Tony into the house. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be taken away from us again. Just last week, I’d heard our prime minister warning the whole country about how dangerous these terrorists were – these African National Congress people who wanted to grab our land and if that happened, we would all suffer, or even worse be murdered. This had been during the student riots in the black townships that had flared up across the country. He promised to clamp down on such unruly behaviour with the full strength of the armed forces. Fear filled me. I couldn’t sleep that night I was so scared. He scared me; the images that flashed over our television screens scared me. The sight of young people, not much older than me fleeing from the armed police and their dogs, struck something deep inside me. I watched, mesmerized as they were chased through their dusty roads, past tin shacks, all the while chanting songs in their own language. I had no idea what they were singing, but the sound made the hairs in the back of my neck stand on edge. I had wondered if it were like that during the Zulu wars when Shaka’s warriors, the Impis attacked.

Our prime minister’s voice was deep and his English, heavily accented. My mother thought he was wonderful, ‘A real hero,’ she’d gushed, ‘just like his forefathers, the Boers who fought so bravely against the British …’

My father didn’t agree, but he remained silent; he’d learned a long time ago that it was best not to interrupt my mother when she went on about her Afrikaans heritage. She was proud of her roots.

Tugging on Tony’s jacket, I smiled shyly up at him and murmured, ‘Hello.’

He stared down at me then playfully pinched my cheek, ‘Hello there, Debs.’

Before I could say another word, my mother grabbed hold of his hand and shoved him through the front door.

‘Now, in you go. First have a nice long bath and then we can all sit down to lunch,’ she said, flicking imaginary specks of fluff off his shoulders. And as Tony disappeared down the passage towards his bedroom, my mother again wiped her eyes.

‘Shame, the poor boy looks absolutely worn-out – must be the long journey,’ said Aunty Alma.

‘Ja, he does … but it’s a long way from the Caprivi Strip through South West Africa and then all the way down to Cape Town … ‘ replied my mother.

Aunty Alma nodded, ‘Yes, it is. Anyway, you go and sit down while me and Olive go and make a nice pot of tea.’

I watched as they hurried into the kitchen. My mother glanced at me, ‘Debbie, go and help.’

I sighed and rolled my eyes up towards the ceiling. She dropped her voice and whispered, ‘I don’t want them poking through my kitchen cupboards!’

Entering the kitchen I heard Aunty Alma saying to Aunty Olive. ‘I’m telling you, there’s something very peculiar about that boy …’

On seeing me, her face flushed. Normally she didn’t care about what she said to anyone. I longed to tell her exactly what I thought of her. However, I couldn’t as my mother would as she often said, but never did, hit me into next week!

She stuck her finger into the sugar bowl and as she noisily sucked the tips of her finger remarked, ‘If I knew any better, I’d say he doesn’t look too glad to be home …’

And for a moment I imagined what a lovely feeling it would be, to slap her overly made-up face, but instead I said, ‘Aunty Olive, you don’t even know Tony properly!’

She looked at me out of her heavily made-up eyes. ‘Well, madam, maybe I don’t … but I’ll tell you what I do know and that is how someone should look when they’re happy to be home with their family!’

Then she turned towards her sister and said, ‘I wish I had a drink … I think we’re going to need one to help us through this day!’

Aunty Alma nodded, ‘You can say that again! Alice keeps brandy in the cupboard under the sink … apparently purely for medicinal purposes.’ They both laughed.

She nudged her sister, ‘Pour us each a nice stiff one …’

They loved to drink, especially Aunty Olive. My mother said she was an alcoholic.

‘That’s why she can’t keep a husband … imagine, having five failed marriages … okay, the last one didn’t divorce her, he died, but I suppose it was one way of ridding himself of her!’ she often joked.

Carrying the tray into the lounge I heard my father trying to reassure my mother, ‘Come on, sweetie, I told you to keep Tony’s homecoming simple, didn’t I?’ He leaned towards her and kissed her on her cheek, ‘I think he’s just a little overwhelmed, you know, everyone being here and all he most probably wanted was some peace-and-quiet.’

In the back ground the record, the one about tying yellow ribbons on old, oak trees played softly.

My mother blew her nose, ‘I just wanted him to see how happy we were that he was returned to us safely …’

I’d tried telling her that Tony wouldn’t want a big fuss made, but she’d just said, ‘Come talk to me one day when you’re a mother.’

Tony entered the lounge and leaned against the door-frame, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

‘I’m going for a walk – I’ll be back later.’

My mother’s jaw dropped, ‘But what about lunch? I cooked especially for you!’

She tried to get up to stop him from leaving, but my father pulled her back onto the couch. He shook his head and said, ‘Leave the boy, let him go.’

Aunty Alma turned to Aunty Olive, ‘Fancy that – we get invited over to welcome him home and off he goes, not even a thank you or even a simple hello!’

We ate an uncharacteristically quiet lunch and afterwards, the aunties made excuses as to why they had to leave. Not long after my mother developed one of her famous migraines, leaving my brothers and I to do the clearing away as well as the washing up. Once the kitchen was tidy I went out into the yard to hang out the drying-up cloth. My gaze settled on the yellow-bow pinned to our back door and as I reached to pull it off, I heard a noise from the side of the house. I headed towards the little alleyway between ours and the Gray’s house. Tony was there, huddled against the wooden fence, puffing on a cigarette.

‘Why are you out here?’ I asked.

He remained silent. After a few more puffs on the cigarette, he replied, ‘I wanted some quiet. The noise is too much – Ma and those sisters of hers are driving me crazy!’

Peering at him, I noticed for the first time how agitated he seemed. He kept puffing with the one hand; the other tapped a beat onto the paving.

I plopped down beside him and Tony glanced at me. For a moment I thought I saw a glint of tears in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure.

‘Debs …’ he began.

I nodded.

He drew his knees up to his chin and stared into the distance. ‘Do you know what it was like up there?’ he asked and without waiting for a reply, continued, ‘of course you don’t … it was awful … I was scared the entire time I was there …’ He stretched out his legs and wiped his jeans with his hands, like he was trying to wipe something off them, ‘I can still smell it, like it’s clinging to my clothes, my skin. I can still even taste it!’ His whole body trembled.

Then he went silent. After a while he began praying the Lord’s Prayer, but in Afrikaans. It sounded strange. I didn’t know Tony spoke Afrikaans. When he finished he turned to me and said, ‘Imagine hearing that in the dark of the night in a trench with mortars zooming over your head … big, strong farm boys lying beside you, their eyes shut as they whispered that prayer, terror in every word …’

Tony abruptly stood up and lit another smoke.

‘All I wanted was to come home and just relax … think … and what does ma do – invite the entire family around for a party!’

I tried to explain that she thought he’d be glad, but he didn’t appear to hear.

‘What’s the use,’ he scoffed, ‘I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, you’re too young to understand and besides you’re just a girl.’

He flicked the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, ‘And what’s with all these yellow ribbons and that stupid song …’ he snorted and then walked towards the back gate. I watched as he headed out into the street.

Walking around the yard, I pulled the yellow bows off the gate as well as the front and back doors. On my way inside I noticed Mrs Gray sitting in her backyard. She smiled kindly at me and for the first time in ages, I smiled back. I switched off the record player and hid the record in the bottom drawer of the side-board. I turned the television set on. Again, the news was filled with more student riots. Ugly images of the police chasing the crowds filled the screen. In the distance I saw army tanks with young soldiers spilling out, guns at the ready. Then the camera showed a figure of a mother cradling the bloodied body of her child. Her weeping seemed to come from the depths of her soul. I turned off the television set. It was just as my father said – just another day in paradise for our country. And I think it was only then that I truly understood the meaning of his words.

THE END