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©copyright 2009 Frans Bezuidenhout
It was much warmer in their shack than outside, where night had fallen with dark foreboding over their modest makeshift house. Like many township houses, theirs was small, wedged into a small space— but it was ours, he reflected. He had watched his father build it, bringing home what he could find to shape it like a puzzle into a home.
Watching smoke curl slowly upwards to disappear within layers of soot, he listened, as many nights before, to his mother’s hushed lamentation. Would she also be leaving them, he anxiously wondered as he swiped at a tear. His thoughts shifted as he placed his chin on his knees, drawing his legs closer to seek comfort from dying embers.
He longed to have fun in fields, where each day gave treasured dreams. Often his body was caked with dried mud from frolicking naked at water's edge, where ripples shot silver arrows across its surface. Human anguish within the township, he deliberated, cannot be compared to cries of satisfaction when finding a perfect stone among the herd, which would travel with speed to kill its target. Smelling salt mixed with sweat when they quenched thirst and stilled hunger stealing milk from the herd— he envied them.
His father taught him to hunt, also to leopard-crawl before aiming his bow. Recalling when his mother prepared a partridge dish after his first hunt, his face twisted a quick smile, then with a heavy sigh he shifted closer to the fireplace.
Recalling excitement when his father announced five years ago they would relocate to the city, he remembered his fear. Hearing urgency in their voices, where he sat at his father’s side listening to their conversation while they drank beer, their thoughts seemed to hover in the dusk above the crackling fire when silence fell— suspecting there was more to it than moving to the city.
There were no tears when they climbed into the bus, but he noticed his mother seek comfort in nursing his sister. Township life was different— none seemed friendly, taking them hours to locate the home of his uncle. Although tired, sleep alluded him, as he could not make sense of never-ceasing cries drifting into his room. There was a foreboding in the air.
When they arrested his father that evening, he heard them mention the words “Subversive political activity”, then he knew, like the others who sometimes met at their house, his father would also not come home soon.
Frail in failing health, Robin Island had sapped life— his father had come home to die. They buried him three weeks later.
Winds ripped under lightening, jolting his mind back to the present. Shivering he stood up to share his food with his sister, realising he soon would leave his childhood dreams.
~~ The End
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Based on a true story.
Adding your comment:
So, I hope to get to "The Arm" and "The Boat" sometime tomorrow; after I get my TSaS broadcast prepared and out. 
