Chapter One: One the Road Again

Divorce. The word stuck and burned in her craw like a bad shot of whiskey. Ginny sat on the hard bench of the bus stop, and with a snap of the rubber band, she brushed up her russet red hair into a severe knot. Two weeks ago to the day, Michael had come to her asking for a divorce. Blaming her for their inability to conceive children, he explained ever so matter-of-factly that he had found his true soulmate in Trixie. Trixie, the blond tart, who was barely old enough to buy her own alcohol. My husband left me for a younger woman. Oh, it was so cliché. It was so cliché she could make a t-shirt out of it.

The worst part was she wasn’t even heart-broken. She was mad, oh hell yes, she was infuriated. Mostly, she was infuriated with herself for failing at her marriage. All her life, she had done everything right. She got the right grades, she got the right degree, she got the right job and the right husband, and they shared a perfect little home on the upper West Side. But the more she examined her life, the more she saw nothing was right. Their perfect little home looked exactly like a Crate & Barrel catalogue: modern, chic, well-matched – and completely devoid of people. It ached to know she could never bear children; that she would never hear the little pitter-pat of tiny feet padding down their wood hallway. She was a rising star at Madden & Sloan Investments, but rather than feeling inspired to go to work in the mornings, she felt beleaguered by suicidal tendencies that lasted until her second cup of coffee. The perfect marriage, between two well-moneyed families, was dissolving before her very eyes, and what burned her more than anything was that when she looked on her life all she felt was boredom. She was dull. That’s right, Virginia McCleary, who aced every little thing, had failed at the biggest thing of all: her life.

So, with that realization, Ginny had set off for a month’s vacation through Europe. She left everything to be dealt with later, as she took the time and space she needed to get some fresh perspective. Her initial plan had been to just visit London, Paris, and Rome and see the usual sights. But at the urging of her best friend, Dee, she opted at the last minute for a bus tour from London to Bucharest. She traveled light, and moved with efficiency, so she imagined a bus ride would be a charming way to see the countryside and not much less convenient than a train.

She had taken a weekend side-trip from Brussels to Paris, because, after all, one cannot miss Paris. But then getting back to Brussels had been a nightmare. Her schoolgirl’s French had failed her and she had accidentally gotten on the wrong bus. Instead of the bus towards Lille, she found herself on the one to Toulouse, and with much flurry and rapid, indignant French, she had to backtrack and renegotiate a ticket as best she could. She had barely made it to Brussels in time for her 6 a.m. ride onward to Bucharest. Her bus would arrive in twenty minutes, and absolutely nothing would stop her from getting on the correct bus this time.

She checked her bags for the umpteenth time and reread her tickets, practicing French words like votre billet and s’il vous plaît in her head, when she saw two large men’s boots in the corner of her vision.

She looked up and gaped at the tall man standing before her. He was a vision, with blond, wavy, shoulder-length hair, a full brown beard, and an easy smile. With clothes wrinkled and dirty, he looked like he’d been traveling for years. So not her type – and yet somehow so masculine and delicious. His blue eyes twinkled at her expression, as he gestured towards the empty spot on the bench. In a deep baritone, he said, “Excuse-moi, est-ce que cette place est libre?”

She blinked at him and nodded. “Of course. Yes. Oui, bien sûr.”

He smiled broadly. “Ah. You’re American,” he said with some relief, in an accent that marked him as a Californian.

Ginny felt offended, though she realized how obvious it was. She watched surreptitiously as he heaved off his heavy backpack, plunked down on the bench, and spread himself out wide across the bench. She sat primly on her edge as he rested his long, golden bronze arm across the back of the bench and sighed loudly and contentedly. He looked bemused as he studied her. She avoided his gaze.

“So where are you headed?”

In a tone that indicated very clearly she did not want a conversation, she said, “I’m taking the bus to Liege, and heading on towards Romania.” She briefly considered pulling out a book, but then thought maybe that would be a shade too rude. She hoped he would get the message without her having to resort to such measures.

Apparently not. “Hey, that’s great!” he exclaimed. “I’m taking that bus too.  Although, I’m not going all the way to Bucharest; I’m gonna’ switch lines in Germany and head up to St. Petersburg from there.”

Well, that’s a relief, she thought. She said, “That should be a good trip.”

“Yeah, I think it should be,” he said, settling down more comfortably on the steel bench. “Though frankly, I think I might prefer to spend a little more time in Europe before heading over to Russia so soon.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said primly, keeping her eyes focused on the buses pulling in and out of the station.

He jabbed her lightly on the shoulder, “You never know. Maybe I could go to Bucharest with you.” When she gaped at him, he burst into a loud, deep laugh. “Oh, we’re gonna’ be great friends, I can tell. You’re so easy to mess with.”

Several responses flew through her head, but as none of them were very polite, she settled on, “Hmm.”

Thankfully, her bus rolled into the station. With a small sigh of relief, she wished him a good trip, gathered up her suitcase and purse, and trotted over to the two-story bus. She ensured the driver double-checked her ticket for her. Then she climbed up to the top level and ambled over to a window seat in the middle of the bus. She organized her things and settled into her seat. Other passengers began to file in around her, and the air filled with a pastiche of Dutch, French, and German phrases.

Looking up, she realized the bus was nearly full, and two remaining passengers searched for seats: an elderly gentleman, who looked like he belonged on a rustic vineyard, and behind him, the rude blonde man from the station. She gestured quickly towards the gentleman, attracting his attention to the empty seat beside her. “Vous pouvez s’asseoir ici, si vous voulez,” she said, smiling sweetly. The gentleman smiled, and looking relieved, sat down beside her. Ginny could feel the backpacker’s eyes boring into her as he walked past, but she kept her focus on helping the elderly man beside her get comfortable.

With a loud rush of air, and the jerk of shifting gears, the bus roared to life, shut its doors, and rolled out of the station.

To continue reading, click here: Bus Ride to Bucharest, Part II.

Soweto. June 15, 1976.

“Don’t do it, Bhekithemba.” I stared into the face of my brother. His bright eyes shone back at me through the darkness as we lay opposite each other on our mattresses of cardboard and tattered sheets.

“I must,” he said, his voice thick with determination. “Don’t you see? This is something I must do.” We spoke in a whispered hush, so as to not wake our mother and father who slept beside us, though we need not have worried. They rose before the sun to traverse the twenty-three kilometer road to work in nearby Jo’burg and did not return until long after the moon rose, casting its silvery light onto the rusted metals roofs of the township. They slept soundly each night, even when the police came with their dogs and banged their batons against the corrugated iron walls of the homes of our neighbors. The shrill echo pierced our ears, but still our parents slept.

“But it is just words, Bhekithemba. It doesn’t mean anything,” I pleaded.

It is unsettling when your younger brother looks at you as if you are naïve, especially when you know he is right. “It is not just words, Nomvula. It is who we are. They are trying to make us act like them and be like them. And if we don’t do it, they push us out. Even in our own homes and our own schools they push us out. They push so that the only choice is to pretend we are just like one of them. But I am no Afrikaaner!” He spat the word like venom from his mouth. “We are Zulu. We go to English schools. We speak Zulu. We speak English. This is as it should be. We will not speak the words of the oppressor.” With that promise, I knew the conversation was finished. We both slipped into an uneasy silence and when I dreamed, it was a dream of violence.

The next morning, I wanted to plead with my brother again. But on this day, he was a different person. Instead of my joking, jovial brother with a laugh like music, a man of calm stood before me. He wore his best button-down white shirt and ate his mealie-meal in studied silence. He was only fifteen, but he was preparing for war. I straightened my school clothes and gathered my schoolbooks and my tattered, hand-me-down copy of Macbeth. It was missing half of the third act, but in class, I could share books with my schoolmate to read what happened. I stood at the doorway and looked at him. When he finally met my gaze, I said, “Uhambe kahle.” Go well on your journey. His eyes melted a half-degree and he nodded, and I turned into the sun.

I had always been the good daughter, everyone’s pet child. I could be counted on to do my work and smile, even when there was little to smile about. My mama’s boss would always give me treats when I helped mama work, and said I did such a good job with the cleaning. I played with their daughters as if we were siblings too, and my mama said this is how things should be. We were lucky to work for a family who cared so well for us. We would be fools to break their trust.

But Bhekithemba had it harder. He smiled, but people saw mischief in his eyes. He was the troublemaker. The one who could not keep quiet. He looked at the family of mama’s boss and said to me, “You want to be like them? You think they are free? They drink the milk of the same tainted cow.” I warned him this demonstration against the Afrikaaners sounded too much like trouble. I warned him that little good could come of it. But he said, “We will be peaceful. Tsietsi has insisted upon it. We will only march. We bring only our words to counter their words. Even if they bring guns, we march in peace.” This mantra was his armor and he felt secure in its weight. This time it is the children who will stand up, and maybe it will work – for who could ignore the words of the innocent?

I nodded and waved in greeting to Mama Shabala, who shuffled barefoot down the dirt road, her skirt and blouse a bright cacophony rustling in the breeze. Her hand steadied the basket on her head and I adjusted the weight of my books, clutching the used copy of Macbeth to my chest like my own clumsy shield as I passed by.

As I drew nearer to the school, a melee of voices carried towards me on the wind. The children were gathering. I found my feet moving, not in the direction of my class, but instead towards the voices. I wound my way through the makeshift homes and came upon the gathering of students. My jaw dropped in stunned silence.

I had expected a hundred, maybe two hundred students. There were thousands. As I watched they began singing, the vibrant tones of “Nkosi sikeleli iAfrika” ringing through the streets. And in one long mass they began to march. I followed, unwilling to join them, but unable to turn away. They marched, voices raised in song, their black bodies drumming a rhythm that reverberated through the earth beneath them. Black fists raised in the air, with cries of “Amandla! Ngawethu!” Power to the people. Power to us. Their clothes were tattered, shabby and brown with dirt, but they walked with pride. Soon, students from Naledi, another high school, also joined in with their voices and their feet.

The demonstration did not go far before it reached a police barricade. The police pointed their weapons and raised their shields, preventing the students from going along their intended route. Some of the children began to call out. But Tsietsi warned the crowd not to provoke the police. He and other members of the student action committee tried to move the marchers down another route. They reminded everyone to stay calm and remember to the way of peace. I strained to find my brother in the thronging masses, but it was impossible to see.

Then, with a crack that pushed my heart out of my chest, a gunshot ripped through the air. Children screamed and began to run. Thick clouds of tear gas rushed over the crowds, the dogs began to bark, and the clatter of gunshots ricocheted and echoed all around us. It was chaos. Our eyes began to tear while our skin itched and burned, and we could not see which way to run as the police began to shoot indiscriminately into the fleeing crowds. Some of the kids threw rocks and stones in defiance, but most tried to run away.

But I, I did not run away. I dropped my schoolbooks and ran into the crowds. There was no thought, no plan. Only my brother. “Bhekithemba!” I screamed, calling out for my brother. “Bhekithemba! Where are you?” I ran through the pulsing masses, searching for my brother. I called his name, though I could not hear my own voice over the din. But I did not have far to run.

With a fist of iron clutching my chest, I saw the white-buttoned shirt of my brother. I ran to him, to where he lay in the street. I pulled him to me, staring at the gaping black red hole in his chest. I watched the stain spread, eating its way across the white. I watched and his hole became my hole. His wound became my wound. Where he had always seen, I had always turned a blind eye. But when the blood on your hands is the blood of your brother, it is your heart that bleeds. It is your blood, your hands, and your shame, no matter who pulled the trigger.

I clasped him to me, lifted him up and carried him, my tears mixing with his blood. He was too big for me to carry, but just then, I found strength I didn’t know belonged to me. Rioters and looters swarmed around me as I walked, but my ears were deaf to the broken glass. Patrol cars shepherded their way through the streets, but my eyes did not see them. I carried my brother through the stained streets of Soweto, singing a lullaby softly under my breath.

We came to an emergency clinic, where the staff was already overrun with the wounded and the dying. A medic came up to me, but he took one look at my brother and I saw the sadness in his eyes. Together, we laid his body down and the medic took notes on a clipboard. Cause of death, he wrote: abscess. Abscess: the pus that fills inflamed and diseased flesh. To protect the families of the protesters, he did not even bother to write a disease as the cause of death, he only wrote the symptom. The disease itself could not be fought directly; you can only ease the pain by drawing the poison out. The disease is too big, too great to cure all at once. We can only try to kill it, abscess by abscess.

I passed my hand in prayer over my brother’s closed eyes. “Uhamba kahle,” I whispered into his ear. I raised my head and looked at all the wounded bodies in the clinic, and saw all my brothers and all my sisters. “Uhamba kahle,” I said again, louder, to all my brethren, and as I did so, I watched the guilt seep out like sweat from my open pores. And tomorrow, when the police come with their dogs and their mace and their tanks and their guns, I will stand. I will stand for my brother, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

——————–

Author’s note: This work of fiction is based on real-life events. On June 16, 1976, students marched in Soweto to protest the Bantu apartheid government’s law dictating all lessons must be taught in Afrikaans. Most students and even many teachers could not speak Afrikaans, only English or Zulu or other tribal languages. The law not only sought to force the Africans to conform to a language they saw as the language of the oppressor, it effectively cut them off from their education until they learned to speak Afrikaans. So the students marched. Their plan was to just walk through the streets of Soweto, sing the national anthem (which is in Zulu), and then go home. They emphasized peaceful demonstration and non-violent civil disobedience. But when the students met the police barricade – it is unclear what exactly happened, a student might have thrown a stone – the police responded with gunfire and teargas. Even as the students began to run away, the police continued to fire indiscriminately into the crowd. An estimated 20,000+ students marched that day, and over 360 children were killed in the ensuing violence. Doctors at emergency clinics wrote false claims on their medical files because writing “gunshot wounds” would have made the families of the victims targets for the authorities. This tragedy caused a massive shift in anti-apartheid sentiment and is seen as one of the major catalysts for the movement to overthrow the apartheid government, which did not happen until almost 18 years later, in 1994.