Читать книгу The Lyndi Tree - JA Ginn Fourie - Страница 5

It is seven o'clock on a hot September morning, and I am driving on the N2 highway. I am thinking about the trauma classes I’m going to facilitate today. By chance I turn on the radio.

The program is about a book launch; I hear the name Letlapa Mphahlele. I recognise it immediately. My breathing becomes shallow as I listen to the interview and hear his voice. My friend, and fellow researcher, Marleen, is going to a book launch today. Is it the same one? In my head I reconfigure my lectures. My foot goes down on the accelerator, and I start vying with the minibus taxis.

As soon as I get to my office at the University of Cape Town’s Division of Physiotherapy, I phone Marleen,

“What book launch are you going to?” She gives his name, in her clear clipped American accent

“Do you know who Letlapa is?” I ask.

“Sure, he was a commander of freedom fighters in the struggle.”

“Can you get me a ticket?”

I spend the rest of the morning in the orthopaedic wards of Grootte Schuur Hospital, trying to engage with students and patients, but my mind keeps wandering.

“Focus,” I tell myself. “Postpone your suspense for just a little longer.”

I arrive at the Press Club lunch at the Waterfront promptly. Although I have given myself plenty of time, I am anxious to find the right place and to meet up with Marleen. This is the moment I have been waiting for; I am about to confront the ‘evil’ that has been lurking out of reach for nine years. I look around at the black men trying to figure out which one is Letlapa.

While the waiter's hand around food, Marleen tells me she is planning to interview Letlapa for her doctorate on ‘forgiveness for perpetrators of political violence.’ I try to eat, but the food tastes like saltless porridge, and I push it aside.

Letlapa Mphahlele is introduced by his publisher; his book is called ‘Child of this Soil – The Journey of a Freedom Fighter’. A tall black man rises to the podium. He has a stern expression. After thanking everyone for being present, he tells his story of struggle and constant vigilance – his adversaries, the South African Police, were relentless in pursuit of him. As I watch the press attacking him, I am surprised that I feel sorry for him.

“How could you kill innocent people who had nothing to do with apartheid?” they ask.

“You knew the first democratic elections were scheduled for the next year in April 1994, why go on a killing spree when Mandela put so much effort into freedom from oppression?” Like a pack of hyenas attacking a solitary buck. When they finish, I stand and identify myself,

“I am Ginn Fourie, mother of Lyndi, killed at the Heidelberg Tavern on your orders.” He looks startled, I proceed,

“Did you not trivialise the Truth and Reconciliation Commission₁ by withdrawing your amnesty application?” My heart sinks as I hear anger or is it reproach in my voice, I thought I had forgiven him. In a loud, clear voice, he responds,

“You may see it that way, but from my perspective, the TRC trivialised the fact that we were at war by treating my cadres- soldiers as common criminals. The South African Defence Force, who committed worse atrocities, and made no amnesty application, remain members of the new Defence Force.

“Furthermore,” he continues, “if the TRC were after the truth, why were lawyers appointed to tell the applicants what the truth is?”

The silence burns my ears. There is nothing more to say at this point; it is too overwhelming to think of the denigration of values and self-worth for ‘his people’ over 300 years. The entrapped hopelessness of trying to have their plight considered by the authorities in years past is suddenly apparent. Added to my sadness, I am emotionally wrung out. Time stops. He has brought to consciousness, what I know deeply, and the tears are ready to roll.

He heads straight from the podium to where I am standing. The press cameras are flashing, and he asks the media to step aside to give us some time and space. He puts out his hand, holding his right wrist with his left hand, a sign of honour, of respect. He introduces himself quietly,

“I will be here for a week, and I am willing to change any arrangements if you and your family will meet with me.” My heart is pounding so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I watch his shoulders sag and the face he’d put on for the press dissolve. Is that mist welling in his eyes?

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