Silent Valley by Malla Nunn

Emmanuel asked, even though he could see only small walking tracks traversing the hills and knew that the access road to the white-owned farms was eaten away by potholes.
    ‘No,’ Kaleni said. ‘You must go there on your own two feet.’
    There was no option but to go up the mountain. At a steady pace, Emmanuel hoped the trip to and from the Zulu compound would be completed in full daylight.
    ‘You’ll get us there and back to the car again, Shabalala?’ Emmanuel removed his tie and shoved it into his pants pocket, then freed the top three buttons of his shirt.
    ‘I will find the way, Sergeant.’ The Zulu detective shrugged off his jacket and tied it around his waist. They were going to set a blistering pace to try to close the gap on Mandla’s impi .
    ‘If you have anything to add to your statement, now’s the time, Baba.’ Emmanuel expected nothing new from the preacher and his mind was already on the hard miles ahead. Chief Matebula and his son had to be brought into line or more people could get hurt.
    ‘There is but one thing more, inkosi .’
    ‘Yeah?’ Impatient to get going, Emmanuel turned to Baba Kaleni. The preacher’s hand moved in a blur, his palm slamming hard against Emmanuel’s chest. The physical contact literally took his breath away. He lifted his own hand to defend himself and push back.
    ‘Wait, Sergeant,’ Shabalala said. ‘He means no harm.’
    The heat from Kaleni’s hand burned deep into the skin. Emmanuel had never felt palms so charged. His heartbeat slowed and amplified to a boom. Time lagged. Baba Kaleni leaned closer and Emmanuel could smell river mud and grass.
    ‘Where are the two boys and the girl that you promised to give to your mother?’ the preacher asked. ‘They are ghosts, still waiting to be born. You are also a ghost. You float in the land of the dead.’
    Emmanuel tried to speak but couldn’t. Pressure built in his head and his ears rang just as they had when a concussion wave from an exploding shell knocked him off his feet outside a French village during the war. He blinked. He was twelve years old again, sitting in the kitchen in Sophiatown; the wind rattled the corrugated-iron walls and rain lashed the grimy windows. From outside, he heard the squeal of children splashing in the mud and footsteps running to the front door. Then came his mother, hurrying into the room humming a tune with her silky hair tousled by the rain and a bag of groceries in her arms.
    ‘You’re early,’ Emmanuel said. She normally came home after dark, when candles lit up the windows and the bars opened their doors. ‘And you’ve been drinking.’
    ‘Three glasses of sherry isn’t a crime, Emmanuel.’ She put the grocery bag on the kitchen table, sat down on a rickety chair and kicked off her shoes.
    Emmanuel made her a cup of rooibos tea, black with three sugars. She smiled and stared at him over the lip of the cup. He looked to the door. His father would be home soon, seriously drunk and angry with the kaffirs , the coloureds, the Indians and the rich English bosses. He’d be angry most of all with this rain-washed woman, happy and beautiful in a shack with dirt floors and a leaking roof.
    ‘Come here, Emmanuel.’ His mother grabbed his hand and pinned it to the kitchen table. ‘Let me read your fortune.’
    ‘I don’t want you to.’ He already knew the future. A fight, broken cups and plates they could not afford to replace, a black eye for her and a cut lip for him.
    ‘Keep still.’ She traced each individual line in his palm with the tip of her index finger and said, ‘You’ll have three children: two strong boys and a girl with the heart of a lion. Your sons will favour you but the girl will be different, more like her mother. Life won’t be easy but you’ll have a home and a happy family.’
    Emmanuel tried to jerk his hand away but she hung on, tightening her grip. Her hair retained the scent of cooking spices and cigarettes and the peppermint candies kept