yers have issued a court order that the body be produced. The writ of habeas corpus." On another day he would say: “We have petitioned the Minister of Justice.” On yet another he would say: “ I was supposed to meet the Chief Security Officer. Waited the whole day. At the end of the day they said I would see him tomorrow if he was not going to be too busy. They are stalling.” I looked around at the neighbors and suddenly had a vision of how that anguish had to be turned into a simmering kind of indignation. Then he would say: “ The newspapers, especially yours, are raising the hue and cry. The government is bound to be embarrassed. It’s a matter of time.” And so it went on. Every morning he got up and left. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. He always left to bear the failure alone. How much did I care about lawyers, petitions and Chief Security Officers? A lot. The problem was that whenever Buntu spoke about his efforts, I heard only his words. I felt in him the disguised hesitancy of someone who wanted reassurance without asking for it. I saw someone who got up every morning and left not to look for results, but to search for something he could only have found with me. And each time he returned, I gave my speech to my eyes. And he answered without my having parted my lips. As a result, I sensed, for the first time in my life, a terrible power in me that could make him do anything. And he would never ever be able to deal with that power as long as he did not silence my eyes and call for my voice. And so, he had to prove himself. And while he left each morning, I learned to be brutally silent. Could he prove himself without me? Could he? Then I got to know, those days, what I’d always wanted from him. I got to know why I have always drawn him into me whenever I sensed his vulnerability. I wanted him to be free to fear. Wasn’t there greater strength that way? Had he ever lived with his own feelings? And the stress of life in this land: didn’t it call out for men to be heroes? And should they live up to it even though the details of the war to be fought may often be blurred? They should. Yet it is precisely for that reason that I often found Buntu’s thoughts lacking in strength. They lacked the experience of strife that could only come from a humbling acceptance of fear and then, only then, the need to fight it. Me? In a way, I have always been free to fear. The prerogative of being a girl. It was always expected of me to scream when a spider crawled across the ceiling. It was known I would jump onto a chair whenever a mouse blundered into the room. Then, once more, the Casspirs came. A few days before we got the body back, I was at home with my mother when we heard the great roar of truck engines. There was much running and shouting in the streets. I saw them, as I’ve always seen them on my assignments: the Casspirs. On five occasions they ran down our street at great speed, hurling tear-gas canisters at random. On the fourth occasion, they got our house. The canister shattered another window and filled the house with the terrible pungent choking smoke that I had got to know so well. We ran out of the house gasping for fresh air. So, this was how my child was killed? Could they have been the same soldiers? Now hardened to'their tasks? Or were they new ones being hardened to their tasks? Did they drive away laughing? Clearing paths for their families? What paths? And was this our home? It couldn’t be. It had to be a little bird’s nest waiting to be plundered by a predator bird. There seemed no sense to the wedding pictures on the walls, the graduation pictures, birthday pictures, pictures of relatives, and paintings of lush landscapes. There seemed no sense anymore to what seemed recognizably human in our house. It took only a random swoop to obliterate personal worth, to blot out any value there may have been to the past. In desperation, we began to live only for the moment. I do feel hunted. It was on the night of the tear gas that Buntu came home, saw what had happened, and broke down in tears. They had long been in the coming... My own tears welled out too. -How much did we have to cry to refloat stranded boats? I was sure they would float again. A few nights later, on the night of the funeral, exhausted, I lay on my bed, listening to the last of the mourners leaving. Slowly, I became conscious of returning to the world. Something came back after it seemed not tb have been there for ages. It came as a surprise, as a reminder that we will always live around what will happen. The sun will rise and set, and the ants will do their endless work, until one day the clouds turn gray and rain falls, and even in the township, the ants will fly out into the sky. Come what may. My moon came, in a heavy surge of blood. And, after such a long time, I remembered the thing Buntu and I had buried in me. I felt it as if it had just entered. I felt it again as it floated away on the surge. I would be ready for another month. Ready as always, each and every month, for new beginnings. And Buntu? I’ ll be with him, now. Always. Without our knowing, all the trying events had prepared for us new beginnings. Shall we not prevail? Njabulo S. Ndebele won the Noma Award of Fools, a collection of short stories set in Char- terson township: He currently is a lecturer in African, Afro-American and English literature at the University College of Roma, Lesetho. Ndebele is an articulate critic of the cultural oppression which succeeds colonialism and has been called “possibly the most influential figure in South African literary studies.” Death of a Son first appeared in TriQuarterly 69,2020 Ridge Ave., Evanston IL 60208. Subscriptions are $16 for one year. Cecil Skotnes is a South African artist. Mary Conway is a Twin Cities artist. Connie Gilbert is a free-lance graphic designer in the Twin Cities. Her unique, effective print solutions have delighted and satisfied her clients in growing businesses, the arts and education for over six years. WRITTJVG TIME classes in creative writing a t th e Loft where writers leam from other writers for a free class brochure, call 341 '0431 TOWN/NORTH BEACH • BASQUE CUISINE • ROOMSFROM$30 • 1208 STOCKTON ST. • SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 94133 • (415)989-3960 • OBRERO HOTEL & RESTAURANT IN THE BASQUE TRADITION duest Suites Overnight Accommodations • 13 SUITES FURNISHED INOLDVICTORIAN STYLING • PHONE &COLORTV INALL SUITES • CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST • EACHSUITE COMPLETEWITH KITCHEN&BATH. • CHILDRENACCEPTED. • ALL MAJORCREDIT CARDSACCEPTED (206) 385-6122 714WASHINGTONAT QUINCY PORT TOWNSEND, WA 18 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988
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