in a jar at the front of the Cape Trader General Store where she worked.
‘Promise me, Emmanuel.’ She was deadly serious now. ‘Promise me you’ll try to make this fortune come true.’
‘I promise,’ he’d said and looked away from the fierceness of her love, the unspoken hope that one day he would leave the heaving slum of Sophiatown and build a life without violence or fear.
Three hard taps of Baba Kaleni’s fingers against Emmanuel’s chest brought him back to the wide reaches of the Kamberg Valley. He sucked in a mouthful of air, trying to break the preacher’s spell.
‘Listen, my son.’ The old man hadn’t finished ripping out Emmanuel’s internal wiring. ‘Pleasure is easy to find between the legs of a woman but happiness is built over time and with much effort, like a hut. The woman who shares this hut with you will help carry your burdens, and you hers. Keep your body from strange beds and the night will reward you with stars bright enough to guide your way. In the name of the Father and the Son, amen.’
‘Amen.’ Shabalala mumbled the word but kept his face turned to the horizon. Physical pleasure and strange beds were not matters he’d ever discuss with the detective sergeant.
‘Stay well,’ Baba said and moved away.
‘ Hamba khale , Baba.’ Shabalala called the traditional farewell. Emmanuel remained silent, wavering between shock and embarrassment at this revelation of private events.
‘And you stay well, my son,’ Kaleni said and trundled back to the True Israelites. A gospel hymn drifted across the hillside and Emmanuel glanced at his partner, trying to assess the effect on him of Kaleni’s words. Shabalala continued to study the drifting clouds with a blank expression. The preacher’s message had disturbed the easy camaraderie they’d shared earlier.
‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it.’ Emmanuel took off his jacket and tied the sleeves tight around his waist with angry movements.
‘The old one means no harm, Sergeant,’ Shabalala said. ‘The spirits of the ancestors send messages through him and he must speak these out loud.’
‘Well, the spirits have no idea what they’re talking about.’
Emmanuel could count on one hand – no, less – the number of strange beds he’d crawled out of in the last year. There was Janice, the divorced hairdresser from London Styles salon with the freckled nose and dimpled chin. And Lana Rose. Two women was hardly a tide of flesh. Davida Ellis, the coloured girl he’d broken the law to have over twelve months ago, stayed alive only in his dreams. He’d met Davida in Jacob’s Rest, the isolated rural hamlet where Detective Constable Shabalala and Dr Zweigman had both once lived. His investigation into the murder of Captain Willem Pretorius exposed the Afrikaner policeman’s secret double life and put Davida in danger. When she’d come to his room in the middle of the night, open, vulnerable and seeking comfort, he forgot his professional obligation to protect the weak. He could still remember the way she tasted and the feeling of her arms around him. Sleeping with Davida was a mistake, an error in judgement. Yet he couldn’t shake the notion that if they had not been dragged from bed by the Security Branch they might have stayed wrapped in each other’s arms forever.
‘If you say the spirits are wrong, then it is so.’ Shabalala motioned to the path. ‘Ready, Sergeant?’
‘You lead. I’ll keep up.’ Emmanuel vowed to keep up even if it meant coughing up a lung.
‘To the river,’ Shabalala said and hit the downward-sloping terrain at a sprint. Emmanuel followed him, crushing the red earth underfoot. The sun was hot on his shoulders, the breeze cool on his face. He pushed hard to a place of pure physical sensation. Five minutes more and the world would break down to sweat, breath and aching muscle. It would hurt, but in the temple of his body he was safe and strong.
Baba Kaleni’s words echoed in
‘Promise me, Emmanuel.’ She was deadly serious now. ‘Promise me you’ll try to make this fortune come true.’
‘I promise,’ he’d said and looked away from the fierceness of her love, the unspoken hope that one day he would leave the heaving slum of Sophiatown and build a life without violence or fear.
Three hard taps of Baba Kaleni’s fingers against Emmanuel’s chest brought him back to the wide reaches of the Kamberg Valley. He sucked in a mouthful of air, trying to break the preacher’s spell.
‘Listen, my son.’ The old man hadn’t finished ripping out Emmanuel’s internal wiring. ‘Pleasure is easy to find between the legs of a woman but happiness is built over time and with much effort, like a hut. The woman who shares this hut with you will help carry your burdens, and you hers. Keep your body from strange beds and the night will reward you with stars bright enough to guide your way. In the name of the Father and the Son, amen.’
‘Amen.’ Shabalala mumbled the word but kept his face turned to the horizon. Physical pleasure and strange beds were not matters he’d ever discuss with the detective sergeant.
‘Stay well,’ Baba said and moved away.
‘ Hamba khale , Baba.’ Shabalala called the traditional farewell. Emmanuel remained silent, wavering between shock and embarrassment at this revelation of private events.
‘And you stay well, my son,’ Kaleni said and trundled back to the True Israelites. A gospel hymn drifted across the hillside and Emmanuel glanced at his partner, trying to assess the effect on him of Kaleni’s words. Shabalala continued to study the drifting clouds with a blank expression. The preacher’s message had disturbed the easy camaraderie they’d shared earlier.
‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it.’ Emmanuel took off his jacket and tied the sleeves tight around his waist with angry movements.
‘The old one means no harm, Sergeant,’ Shabalala said. ‘The spirits of the ancestors send messages through him and he must speak these out loud.’
‘Well, the spirits have no idea what they’re talking about.’
Emmanuel could count on one hand – no, less – the number of strange beds he’d crawled out of in the last year. There was Janice, the divorced hairdresser from London Styles salon with the freckled nose and dimpled chin. And Lana Rose. Two women was hardly a tide of flesh. Davida Ellis, the coloured girl he’d broken the law to have over twelve months ago, stayed alive only in his dreams. He’d met Davida in Jacob’s Rest, the isolated rural hamlet where Detective Constable Shabalala and Dr Zweigman had both once lived. His investigation into the murder of Captain Willem Pretorius exposed the Afrikaner policeman’s secret double life and put Davida in danger. When she’d come to his room in the middle of the night, open, vulnerable and seeking comfort, he forgot his professional obligation to protect the weak. He could still remember the way she tasted and the feeling of her arms around him. Sleeping with Davida was a mistake, an error in judgement. Yet he couldn’t shake the notion that if they had not been dragged from bed by the Security Branch they might have stayed wrapped in each other’s arms forever.
‘If you say the spirits are wrong, then it is so.’ Shabalala motioned to the path. ‘Ready, Sergeant?’
‘You lead. I’ll keep up.’ Emmanuel vowed to keep up even if it meant coughing up a lung.
‘To the river,’ Shabalala said and hit the downward-sloping terrain at a sprint. Emmanuel followed him, crushing the red earth underfoot. The sun was hot on his shoulders, the breeze cool on his face. He pushed hard to a place of pure physical sensation. Five minutes more and the world would break down to sweat, breath and aching muscle. It would hurt, but in the temple of his body he was safe and strong.
Baba Kaleni’s words echoed in
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