We Are Not Such Things (70 page)

The countryside had been so black that once we reached town, even the pitted paved roads and feeble streetlamps seemed like luxuries. We drove to the Nofemela family house in Lady Frere for a quick supper of samp and beans. Wowo wanted to wake at 4
A
.
M
. to drive back to Cape Town, since he was worried that Monks might need him. I negotiated him up to a 6
A
.
M
. start time, and then Easy and I walked down the street to the neighbor’s place. Only a few houses let off a faint yellow glow, and the sky was clear, starry, and infinite.

“Remember in one of our first meetings, when you told me you trained out here for APLA?” I asked. “And you told me you could take me to the training camps?”

“I remember.”

“You never trained for APLA, so what was your plan?”

Easy began to chuckle and hooked his arm in mine. “Nomzamo, no, I will take you exactly to the place. I know exactly what’s going on. I will tell you exactly the place that the people used to go and train.”

“People, maybe, but not you.”

“Me also.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Serious, serious. I know exactly what’s happening here years ago.”

We knocked on the door of the schoolteacher’s house, and she welcomed us in. She had warmed the samovar so that we had hot water. We brushed our teeth and washed in shifts. The little oil heater pumped out as much heat as it could manage, but we each dressed for a night in an igloo, me with a hood tied around my neck and Easy with his hat pulled over his ears. We climbed into our respective twin beds, and huddled beneath woolen blankets.

“In Xhosa we say: Don’t talk the truth on top of the fire,” Easy said. “It means don’t ever try to talk the truth, even if they hold you over fire. The fire make you strong so you never surrender. But I know you, Nomzamo. You did find out the truth. I tell you a straight truth. I’m not now joking.”

It was silent in Lady Frere, set in a former homeland, the birthplace of the Nofemela clan, not far from Nelson Mandela’s ancestral village. The borders had been drawn and rearranged by Europeans, and the town had been named after the wife of a Welsh colonial employee who had warred against Xhosas and Zulus for the British cause. It was situated on a bleak plain, hemmed in by red hills, dotted with sheep. The low-lying house in which we were staying had been set on land once belonging to blacks, then ceded to whites, and then abandoned and given back to blacks, who still had to leave to work in the far-off cities so their families could survive. It was dark in the room, and peaceful.

“No, I’ll never know the true story,” I said from beneath my mountain of blankets.

“I told you before: Is life, this. Full of tricks, disappointment. Love directed in the right direction. Love directed in the wrong direction. People have two side or three or more side. Don’t listen too much to what anyone is saying,” Easy said.

“Including you, apparently.”

“Including me,” he said, and laughed loudly, and then we went to sleep.

For Samuel David Choritz

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply indebted to the people of Gugulethu.

—

Of those people, Mzwabantu “Mzi” Noji was my translator, historian, and investigator. For years, he shared with me his hard-won wisdom, offered me protection, and was the truest friend. Without Mzi, I would never have been able to write this book.

—

And without Easy Nofemela—big-hearted, unapologetically himself—there is no story. Easy started out as my subject, but also became a teacher, a guide, and, as so often happens in these unexpected situations, a friend. I am forever grateful to him and to the Gugs branch of the Nofemela clan who shared their lives with me—in particular, Tata Wowo, Mama Kiki, Uncle Taku, Asange, Mongezi, and Aphiwe.

—

I also owe thanks to Ndumiso Bolo; the Nojis; Ilmar Pikker; Mike Barkhuizen; Chris Malgas; Dianna Healley; Zahira Adams; Yasmeen Mitole; my high school English teacher James Bucar; Peter Gastrow; Tracy Randle; the historian/revolutionary Madeleine Fullard; and my insightful Xhosa expert Oscar Masinyana.

—

Aimee-Noel Mbiyozo offered conversation, perspective, and analysis. Mpho Mbiyozo, Rito Hlungwani, Jo Goyen, and Nyasha Karimakwenda helped me navigate a new land and the many cultures within. Jenny Vaughan kept me sane in Addis Ababa while I wrote.

—

Percy and Irene Choritz, my parents on another continent, welcomed me into their family with remarkable generosity.

—

Cindy Spiegel saw, in the raw proposal for this book, its potential. She gave me the freedom to follow my nose, and supported this project from beginning to end. I admire her courage in the way she goes about choosing and publishing books. Simply put, she’s my dream editor.

—

At Spiegel & Grau/Random House, Annie Chagnot, Fred Chase, Vincent La Scala, Rachel Ake, and Greg Mollica seamlessly brought together all the pieces required to turn a manuscript into a book.

—

Anna Stein, my lovely and amazing agent, had faith in my ability as a writer before she had reason to.

—

Mary Marge Locker has kept things in check. Andrew Kidd, John McElwee, and Alex Hoyt helped shepherd the manuscript into the world.

—

I thank my mother, Patricia van der Leun, for everything, as always.

—

Samuel Choritz—my South African, my first and most valued reader, my toughest critic—has walked beside me every step of the way. When I met Sam, I knew he would be my partner in life, but I didn’t know that he would become my partner in my work. This book is our collaboration.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J
USTINE VAN DER
L
EUN
is the author of the travel memoir
Marcus of Umbria.
She has written about South Africa for
Harper’s
and
The Guardian.
She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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