Afrika (10 page)

Kim peeked quickly into her knapsack to make sure her father's notebook was still there. Then she tried to listen to what the guide was saying.

“We were fed maize, cattle feed we called it, and not much else,” Amos said, as the group pushed closer to him. “We slept on straw mats. We woke up early and worked for hours in the quarry, smashing
rocks. It was backbreaking work, especially in the summer. Our eyes were damaged from the rock dust and the glare of the sun.”

“Did anyone ever escape?” asked Themba.

The guide chuckled. “No, man. A guard tower overlooked the prison. And the mainland was too far off. Then there were the sharks. Swimming was out of the question. We talked about it though.”

Amos led the group into the prison. They looked at a chart that described the meager food rations the prisoners received. Then they walked along a corridor with cells on both sides. Themba tried to get close enough to Amos to talk to him, but was cut off by the tourists.

“Here is the cell that you have all been waiting so patiently to see,” Amos said, “the cell of our most famous prisoner, Madiba, also known as Nelson Mandela.” He paused. When everyone was paying attention, he continued: “In 1964 Nelson Mandela was captured, imprisoned and sentenced to life imprisonment. Sabotage and plotting to overthrow the government were the charges against him. He served over twenty-seven years in jail, many of them in this modest cell. He was not allowed to have a bed until after 1978.”

Kim and Themba pushed to the front. The cell was tiny. Inside there was a mat on the ground with a low stool beside it, on which sat a tin plate and
cup. Resting in one corner was a gray blanket and in another, a tin bucket with a lid that served as the toilet. Kim looked at the cramped cell and thought of the man who had waited so long to be president. Now here was something to be angry about! The former government had locked him up for twenty-seven years and yet, President Mandela asked people to forgive.

“How did you end up in this prison?” asked an American tourist from the back row. “Blame my wife for my nosiness,” he added. His wife, who was holding a large videocamera, blushed.

“It is my job to answer questions,” Amos said. “I was a student leader and was arrested for organizing protests against the government.”

“How long were you here?” Themba asked. “If you don't mind my asking.”

“No, son.” Amos answered. “Seven years.”

“Seven years?” repeated Themba. “And are you able to show kindness toward the people who have wronged you?”

Amos smiled without answering the question and escorted the group out of the building and into a cement courtyard surrounded by high walls. The tour of the prison was over and the group moved in the direction of the bus. Themba used this moment to approach Amos. “Excuse me, we are looking for someone. Can you help us?”

It was very bright in the courtyard and Kim's eyes took a moment to adjust. As if in a trance, she dug out the notebook and handed it to Amos.

“This belonged to a man by the name of Hendrik Fortune,” said Themba. “He is supposed to live on the island.”

The guide turned the notebook over in his hands. Kim was relieved that Themba was doing the talking because suddenly she could not trust her voice. She looked down at her shoes and pretended disinterest.

“I know a man named Hendrik Fortune,” said Amos. “We call him ‘Cape Town Harry.’ He's been a caretaker here for decades. You will find him near the penguins in the small bay near the boat jetty. Why do you ask?”

Before Kim could answer, Themba jumped in. “It belonged to the pa she has never met. The pa who abandoned her before she was born.”

“Themba,” Kim warned. She did not want him telling this stranger her whole stupid life story.

“Be careful,” said Amos to Themba as he handed the notebook back to Kim. “If I learned anything in this prison it was tolerance, my son. Tolerance for other people's cultures, languages – and pain.”

Themba stepped forward. “Her father, whoever he is, spells Africa with a
K
not a
C
.”

Amos thought about this for a moment. “If I were writing about things related to the Bantu, our people and their lives, I might do so. I might write: ‘Afrika holds a lot of sweet memories for me.’ But remember, other people spell Africa with a
K.
The Afrikaner for one.”

Themba nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “The bus is waiting for us.”

“Go well,” said Amos.

On the bus Kim sat silently with the notebook on her lap. She was no longer angry at Themba for telling the guide her story. Now it was the reality of perhaps meeting her father that consumed her. Could this really be him? Her chest contracted at the thought of it. She had no idea what to say or how to act toward him. When the engine ground to a halt in front of the dock, Kim sank into her chair, frozen.

“Kim,” Themba said. “We have time to go down to the bay.” She sat silently and did not move.“Don't you want to see the penguins, if nothing else?”

“Okay.”

Themba led her down the path toward the sea. The first thing she saw as she climbed over a dune were dozens and dozens of glossy-skinned penguins. They stood in small groups and looked at Kim regally, making no attempt to run away as she and Themba approached.

Nearby was a man in overalls and a red cap with his back to them. His faded shirt had the sleeves rolled up. He had a shovel and was cleaning up after the penguins. Themba approached him.

“Ek soek
Hendrik Fortune,” Themba said.

The man turned toward them, threw back his head, and laughed.“Fortune – dat's me. Holds lots of records for fis' caught.”

This man was Hendrik Fortune! Kim looked closer at him. His skin was dark copper brown and toughened by the outdoors. His eyes were as black as night. This man could not possibly be her father. “This is a wild goose chase,” she whispered to Themba.

“Wait. Give me the notebook,” insisted Themba.

Themba was totally out to lunch. But Kim did as she was told and handed him the notebook. “I'm out of here!” she muttered, retreating. In fact she moved so quickly that she startled a penguin. The bird hopped off a rock and waddled on his wide feet toward the sea.

The noise of the waves filled her head so she couldn't think. The rocks were slick with the spit from the sea and she almost slipped, stepping from one boulder to the next. She suddenly felt dizzy and had to stop. She squatted, balancing herself with one hand on a rock. Out of the corner of her eye
she could see that Themba was still wasting his time talking to the old man.

Sitting back on her heels, Kim picked up two shells – one smooth white mussel shell and a second pretty periwinkle. The feeling of the shells in her palm jerked at her memory. When she was young, her mother had used the dark recesses of a shell to explain the internal female body and where babies grew. What fascinated Kim the most was not the birth process but the fact that afterwards babies were kept together in a large room in the hospital. Whenever her mom struggled to bring the comb through Kim's thick curls, so different from her smooth blonde hair, Kim fired off the same question. How could Riana be so sure that she had brought home the correct baby from the hospital?

A penguin brayed like a donkey and Kim started. Then she got to her feet and waved at Themba. “Hurry up,” she shouted. “I don't want to be left behind.”

Ten minutes later they stood on the deck as the boat started back to Cape Town. Living up to its Cape-of-Storms reputation, the sea was much rougher than when they crossed earlier.

“Why did you run off?” Themba shouted above the wind. “His name was Fortune. He might have been your grandfather.”

“Sure thing,” she said stuffing the notebook into her knapsack. She spun around to look Themba right in the eye. Her cheeks were on fire. The pitching of the boat was making her stomach turn. “That man is –” she paused, furious, searching for the word.

Themba found it for her.“Colored,” he said.“Is that what this is about? You are ashamed of that colored man!”

“I am not!” Kim cried.

Themba paced back and forth. “Kim! Kim! Surprise! What if your pa is of mixed race?”

“Sit down and shut up,” she yelled. She was sick – couldn't he see how sick she was? If he didn't shut up she was going to puke on his foot.

“What has your mom been hiding all these years?” he yelled back. “Ask yourself that! What is the big shameful secret that she won't tell you?”

Where were the washrooms? In the lower deck of the stupid boat, no doubt.

She barely made it to the railing. The insides of her stomach spewed out of her mouth and ran pink and ugly down the stern of the boat. She gagged, coughed again, and hung her head.

“Sit here,” Themba said softly, when she was finished. He knelt down beside her. “Put your head between your legs,” he instructed. “Do you want some water?”

“I'm okay,” she insisted.

After a moment, he spoke. “You're right. He wasn't your relative. He did not recognize the handwriting in the notebook.”

“Why?” she cried over the roar of the boat. “Why did you let me think that when you knew all along he wasn't?”

“Because,” said Themba.“I think you should be open to it.”

Open to what
, Kim wanted to say. Instead she looked directly at him. “Why do you care so much if we find him?”

He did not respond to her question.“I'm going to get you a glass of water,” he said, standing up.

Thank God he was gone!

Immediately Kim was ashamed. What was the matter with her? Why had she shouted at Themba?

When she opened her sticky eyes she saw Themba had returned and was standing over her. He crouched close to her. She looked into the warm brownness of his eyes.

“Maybe we're not so different after all,” he said as he handed her a paper cup of water.

K
im stretched out her legs on the top bunk, her head back against the pillow, and let the sound and motion of the train envelop her. The two-person compartment was dark, except for a small yellow sidelamp half-muted by Kim's pillow. She had no idea where they were. Somewhere en route to the Milky Way Farm.

Kim was reliving her last conversation with Themba. After the trip to Robben Island he had called her twice to make sure she was okay. She had asked Lettie to tell him she was still unwell and couldn't come to the phone. “You sick?” Lettie asked laying a warm hand on Kim's flushed cheek.

“No, I'm in seventh heaven,” mumbled Kim.

But the next morning, when Themba came in person to wish her a good trip, she was relieved to see him. Her feelings toward him swung from one extreme to another. One minute she was unsure and awkward with him, the next minute, with a gesture or a word, he would put her at ease. “We need to work together if we're going to find him,” he said
out of earshot of Riana. “Let's go through it once more. What are you going to do at the farm?”

Kim was one step ahead of him. “I'm going to get photos, ask questions, find answers.”

His face lit up. “Good. How old are your cousins?”

“The girl is fifteen, the boy fourteen.”

“Perfect,” said Themba. “Your cousins will let something slip, or else you'll find something – like an old diary of your ma's in the attic with a secret photo of your pa.” He ran his hands over his tight wooly hair. “Who else is there?”

“My uncle, his wife, and my grandfather,” Kim had said.

“Think clearly.”

Kim had almost forgotten. Themba's relatives lived at the Milky Way Farm, too. Lettie's sister, for example. “Your aunt! Do you think she knows something?”

“You might have more luck with Grandma Elsie,” Themba had said. “When will you be back?”

“In a week. In time for your hearing.”

Themba was silent. The ex-policeman who had been involved in his father's death had applied for amnesty and the hearing was set for the end of next week. Themba was still determined not to attend, even though his mother wanted him at her side. Kim thought better of pushing the subject, and just then,
Riana's colleague, Andries, had arrived to take them to the station. While he helped Riana with her bag, Themba and Kim said their good-byes.

Cool night air whipped through the one-inch crack in the train window. Kim pulled a scratchy blanket, half wrapped in a white sheet, across her body. No doubt whatsoever, she had acted stupidly by shouting at Themba on the boat from Robben Island. But what was his problem? Why had he tried to convince her that she was related to Cape Town Harry? At times it felt like this search for her dad, her pa, as Themba called him, was a bigger deal for Themba than it was for her.

How much could she really miss having her father when she'd never known him? It was curiosity, that's all. Curiosity spurred on by the fact that her mother had sealed up the past. Still, since their arrival in South Africa, she had thought more about her father than ever before.
I need to know where I come from and who I am
, thought Kim. For one foolish second she imagined herself standing up in front of her Calgary classmates and announcing her discovery in a slick school presentation. Thanks, but no thanks.