A Just Defiance. Peter Harris

to East Berlin for vaccinations and a medical check-up. It was a welcome break from the training camp. Although this was his first outing in civvy street since arriving in East Germany, he was under strict instructions not to speak to anyone. As it happened there was little chance of contact with civilians as he was driven straight to the hospital and escorted to the doctor’s rooms. On the way he stared at the people in the streets. As much an outsider here as he was in the white cities of his homeland.

      After the check-up, Neo waited in an anteroom for the medical report. A middle-aged man and a young woman entered and the man took a seat next to Neo. Neo kept his face blank, looked straight ahead.

      The man turned to him, said in English, ‘How are you?’

      Taken by surprise, responding to the English, Neo answered, ‘I’m fine.’ Then remembering his instructions, he kept his eyes averted.

      ‘Where are you from?’ the man asked. The woman was leaning forward, looking at Neo, hair golden and soft, falling gently over her face.

      ‘Kenya,’ said Neo.

      ‘Oh, really,’ said the man. ‘I have just spent six months there. What part are you from?’

      Neo had never been to Kenya. Knew only that the capital was Nairobi. ‘Nairobi,’ he replied.

      ‘Lovely city, which part?’ the man probed, sensing something.

      ‘The eastern part,’ Neo stammered. He noticed the man shoot a glance at the woman. ‘What is your favourite club?’

      Neo was stuck. ‘Jazz,’ he mumbled, looking down at the floor.

      The man and woman turned away, irritated at his lies.

      And suddenly he was angry that he had to play this game, that he couldn’t be himself.

      His medical report arrived and he left the room, nodding at the man and the young woman. He was tired of this place. Tired of not being able to speak to people.

      When he’d arrived, he’d been told not to drink the water. Not a problem, he’d thought. He enjoyed fizzy drinks. But the drinks like Coke and Fanta carried other names and tasted different. Now, six months later, he longed for the taste of pure water. Tried to remember its crystal sweet taste. It was time to go home.

       18

      I am wondering which is worse: the highway to Pretoria, or flying to Lusaka on Zambian Airways. Tough call. I need to get to Lusaka as quickly as possible and the first available flight is on Zambian Airways.

      The reason they can take a last-minute booking becomes apparent the moment I get on the plane. The steward says brightly, ‘Sit anywhere. Except in the toilets.’

      I am travelling with one of my partners, Thabo Molewa, who has done some work on the case, but on this occasion is consulting the ANC on another issue.

      Thabo is not a good flyer and I can see that the steward’s request not to take his seat in the toilets has rattled him. Me too, for that matter.

      My meeting with the ANC has been arranged through Penuell Maduna, deputy head of the organisation’s legal department in Lusaka. I am taking whisky and chocolates. These are always appreciated by those on low stipends.

      On my left Thabo grips the armrests and looks decidedly unhappy. I wonder if I should crack open the whisky now. Then at least if the plane goes into a terminal tailspin, the descent will pass in a golden haze of Johnnie Walker. Initially the flight is bumpy but smoothes out, and I fall asleep. I am jolted awake by the plane smacking into something hard and Thabo’s screams next to me, as he lunges forward in his seat, madly clawing the air. We are all screaming now as the overhead lockers open and hand baggage and duty-free purchases rain down. Outside, I see lights flashing past as the ice-cool voice of the captain tells us that we have landed and are most welcome in Zambia. No warning about beginning our descent, putting our seats in the upright position and extinguishing cigarettes, just straight in. But I don’t care. I’m grateful to be alive.

      Penuell Maduna meets us at the airport. A large and friendly man with bull shoulders and a barrel chest, he fires off a dozen questions on the drive into the city. What is the latest on the state of emergency? How many people are in detention? Is the money coming through for the trials? When was I last on Robben Island? Who had I seen? Did we know anything about a police death squad operating outside Pretoria? Why was soccer such a shambles? What was the weather like in Joburg? Was the attorneys admission exam difficult? How much did a Castle beer cost?

      I notice he doesn’t stop at red traffic lights. This worries me.

      ‘Bandits,’ he explains. ‘Please keep your doors locked, there have been a number of incidents in Lusaka and nice cars like these attract attention.’

      After our experience on the plane, I am alarmed that we cruise through the red traffic lights like a presidential cavalcade, but the coward in me confirms that it is probably preferable to risk instant death by colliding with another vehicle than to be hijacked by an AK-47 wielding armed gang. My fearful thoughts are interrupted by Maduna.

      ‘By the way, we have arranged for you to see someone about the trial. I’m not sure who it is but it has been arranged. We are very keen to get news of Masina and the others. There is a lot to discuss.’

      We check into the Pamodzi Hotel, the best and most expensive hotel in Lusaka, but clearly a tired establishment. The grand entrance with the sweeping drive seems out of kilter with the run-down exterior and the unkempt gardens. Inside is tatty and dated but busy. The room rates are ridiculously high given their bland utilitarianism, the stained bath and cigarette burns in the threadbare carpet.

      Maduna leaves us in the lobby saying that we will be called after breakfast with the details of our meetings.