‘Bullshit!’ says the woman. But one of the others, a man in his thirties, wearing glasses, says, ‘This is good. They’re running scared. They are doing what the old regime used to do.’ They look at each other, the four of them, and smile. Their work has begun.
Just a couple of hours later anyone searching for more details of the incident would discover a link to an unadorned website carrying this anonymous entry:
Today a new struggle has begun. Just over a hundred years ago, in 1913, the Boers passed a law to ROB US OF OUR LAND. Now we must fight for it again. In Mpumalanga Province a MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELIVERED. We did not win our freedom to see the LAND TAKEN AWAY FROM US AGAIN. We, the people of South Africa, will not sit and watch our precious inheritance SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER. Today in Mpumalanga we fired the first shot in our fight against the NEW COLONIALISM. Let them be warned, those who will SELL OUR LAND TO FOREIGNERS, the people of South Africa are ready to RISE UP AGAIN.
It was signed off, at the bottom of the page, simply as ‘The Land Collective’.
In rooms elsewhere in the country, others saw the statement and recognised it for the call to arms they had been waiting for. A fuse had been lit, setting in motion a chain reaction that none of them, least of all the group in Hillbrow, could predict or control.
1
Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder was one of those pivotal moments that seemed destined to change the course of a country’s trajectory. There are some events – a law passed, a speech delivered, a transgression exposed – which are deemed significant only in retrospect, like looking back on a life and realising the point at which things had taken a turn for the better, or worse. This was different. As news of the murder spread across South Africa, its people knew there could be no going back to business as usual. Lesedi Motlantshe was more than a man: he was an idea, a symbol, and with his death that idea had been tarnished.
Lesedi had been one of freedom’s children. Born in the eighties, his life mirrored the changes in South Africa as apartheid’s pernicious laws were expunged from the statutes. A quick and confident boy, he’d once been interviewed by a TV crew doing a piece on the role schools were playing in changing attitudes to race. The reporter had asked the class of teenagers to define racism. In a flash, Lesedi had stuck up his hand. He’d pointed to one of only three white children in the class and said: ‘Racism is like, you know, if I’m unkind to Darren and call him names – “Whitey” and so on.’
The clip had made it onto the evening news. This reversal of the conventional definition of racism – that white people could be the victims – from the lips of a black child seemed to speak volumes for the miraculous journey South Africa was making.
From that day on, Lesedi had become something of a celebrity, not so much teacher’s pet as the nation’s pet. His words were spliced into countless promotional videos produced by the government. He would be dragged out of the classroom to meet visiting dignitaries from China or Europe. A local TV station had adopted him for its ‘Children of the Future’ series, which meant he featured in an annual film tracing his every success (of which there were many) and failure (of which there were none). His progress in school, his three years at the University of Cape Town – all of it was chronicled. In short, Lesedi had become a national mascot – the embodiment of South Africa’s new beginning.
Now he was dead.
Even in a country inured to violent crime, and a murder rate that saw it perpetually leading the wrong kind of international league table, the notion that Lesedi Motlantshe would one day become a victim – another notch on the grim statistics board – was unthinkable. There wasn’t a person in the country, whether they spent their time in a township shebeen or in a gated mansion, who did not know who Lesedi Motlantshe was and what he represented.
So who in their right mind would want him dead?
2
On the day Lesedi Motlantshe was murdered, his father had flown into Dubai, arriving early after an overnight flight.
Despite his immense bulk and thigh-chafing gait, there was an unmistakable swagger to the way Josiah Motlantshe approached the entrance to the hotel. He looked as if he owned the place, the proprietorial confidence enhanced by the familiarity with which the uniformed doorman greeted him. Motlantshe burst out of a pale, lightweight suit, like one of his country’s famous meaty boerewors oozing out of its skin. The crotch, the knees, the elbows, even the armpits – at every junction of his stupendous body the fabric signalled its stress with a collection of starburst creases.
Josiah was a veteran of the anti-apartheid struggle who’d turned his hand – and influence – to business. He was one of the so-called Black Diamonds, that exclusive club of black millionaires, no, billionaires, thrown up by empowerment schemes established by post-apartheid governments.
He’d been met off the private charter from Johannesburg by one of a fleet of Bentleys the hotel owned. It was just one of the many perks offered by a place that attracted a clientele rich enough to afford such luxury and spoiled enough to feel they deserved it. Its marketing brochure boasted that every wish would be granted and every desire fulfilled. The South African politician-turned-billionaire could certainly attest to that, having had his every desire – including one or two that were not on the official list of services – met with alacrity and, where appropriate, the necessary discretion.
Josiah Motlantshe’s personal ‘butler’, a service assigned to those who stayed in the penthouse suites (and Motlantshe never stayed in anything else), started unpacking the obligatory Louis Vuitton cases, breaking off every now and then to pick up the various items of clothing that were being thrown onto the floor as Motlantshe undressed.
In a vest and a pair of briefs that were barely visible under an overflowing belly, Motlantshe eased himself onto the armchair, its leather upholstery sticking to his moist, hairless skin as he shifted this way and that till he was comfortable. With his pudgy hand he made one final adjustment of his balls, which nestled in the stretched cotton of his briefs, like a pair of oranges in a sling, and he was, at last, ready to make his first call – only to realise he’d left his mobile phone in the sitting room.
‘Hello! Whassname! Bring me the phone,’ he shouted.
The butler, a slight and professionally obsequious servant of South Asian origin, who had been busy laying out a fresh set of clothes in the dressing room, scurried in and picked up a handset from the bedside table.
‘No, no, not that one. I want my own phone. It’s there.’ Motlantshe pointed to the lounge. ‘And put this TV on – I want BBC.’ He sat there, every obese inch of him exuding an air of entitlement. He’d come a long way from the time when he was so thin, so bony, that sitting on the wooden benches on Robben Island for more than a few minutes at a time was agony.
So, who to call first? The wife or the mistress? On this occasion duty prevailed. One of his three children answered.
‘And how’s my Thandi today? … It’s who? Oh! My little princess. It’s a bad line. Daddy is far away in Dubai. You sounded like your sister. So you have not gone to school yet? You are going to be late.’
‘I’m not going today.’
‘Is my little princess not well?’
‘I’m fine, but Mummy talked to the teacher and she said some bad men were outside our school.’
‘Bad men? What kind of men? Where is your mother? Bring her to the phone.’
‘She’s in the garden.’
‘Go and fetch her. Hurry up.’
Motlantshe was irritated. He wished he’d phoned the other woman now. He imagined her at the flat