Scarred Lions Read online

  Scarred Lions

  FANIE VILJOEN

  This book could not have been written without the kind help of the following people:

  Marita, Carel and Annemarie van Aswegen,

  Hanlie and Riana Haasbroek,

  but especially Hannes Haasbroek, whose superior knowledge of the South African animal and plant life helped form the backdrop to this.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  About the Author

  In the Same Series

  Copyright

  Main characters

  Buyisiwe (meaning returned)

  Teenage boy, narrator

  Themba (meaning trust, hope, faith)

  Father, game ranger

  Lwazi (meaning knowledge)

  Tracker

  Mama Unahti (meaning ‘She is with us’)

  Kitchen manager

  Simoshile (meaning beautiful feeling)

  Teenage friend, Lwazi’s daughter

  André

  Teenage friend

  Zulu – English wordlist

  Angiphili neze I am not feeling well

  Eish! Oh dear!

  Ibululu Puff adder

  Iklwa Short stabbing spear, assegai

  Isigubhu Drum

  Izolo Yesterday

  Kusasa Tomorrow

  Namhlanje Today

  Ngiyabonga Thank you

  Ngiyakwemukela Welcome

  Ngiyazi I know

  Phuthuma Hurry up!

  Sala khale Keep well

  Sanibona Hallo (a group)

  Sawubona Hallo (one person)

  Suka Move / Go away

  Thokoleza ukudla Enjoy your meal

  Umfana Lad

  Ungakhathazeki Never mind

  Unjani How are you?

  uNkulunkulu (or Ukulunkulu) Sky God

  Street language / slang

  Tsotsi Criminal or thug

  Afrikaans – English wordlist

  Beskuit Baked and oven-dried dough, cut to almost finger lengths. It is mostly flavoured with aniseeds, sour milk, or whole grain wheat and dried fruit, like raisins

  Boomslang Directly translated as ‘tree snake’

  Engelsman Englishman

  Foefieslide Flying fox / zip line

  Kom Come

  Swempie Coqui francolin

  CHAPTER 1

  There was blood on my fists. And blood on the boy’s face. His name was Jonathan. A crowd had gathered around us in the school hallway. Jonathan lay there on the floor, looking up at me. His eyes still challenged me. He smiled as he wiped the blood away from his eye.

  ‘Lucky shot!’ he said.

  ‘You want some more then?’ In an instant my mind replayed the blow that floored Jonathan. The tension in my muscles. Teeth grinding. Eyes meeting eyes for only a moment. The pain shooting through my fist and up my arm as the blow hit home. The crowd around us was like a pack of hyenas, hungry for more.

  And then the teacher came.

  There was trouble in the air. I just knew it. For days now I could feel it. It pushed up through the cold, wet streets. I breathed it in everywhere I went: the crowded trains in the London Underground, school classrooms, the newsstand on the corner, up through the streets. It had been going on for weeks now. And it made me scared.

  It was late in the afternoon. Friday. I took the escalator and finally stepped out of the musty underground tunnels. Behind me I could still hear the echo of the underground railway and a busker playing the saxophone. The morning rain lined the streets. Specs of light from shop windows reflected on the wet pavement. Like scattered diamonds under the soles of the passers-by. I could hear their footsteps and suddenly wondered if they could hear mine. I wondered if they even listened. I wondered if they even cared.

  Of course not, it was Friday. They all wanted to get home as soon as possible. Grey clouds covered the city. It would rain again very soon.

  Trouble, I thought again.

  There was trouble in the air.

  The gripping fear made me quicken my pace. I tried finding comfort in the warmth of my jacket; in the familiar surroundings, the graffiti-covered walls. But the uneasy feeling followed me still. It hunted me like an animal.

  I caught a sudden glimpse of my reflection in a shop window. Black face, fearful eyes, jaws clenched with cold. The cut on my lip.

  And I felt like a stranger.

  How could this be? I had lived in London all my life. I lived here with my mum in a two-bedroomed council flat above the street. I went to a state school here.

  But somehow I was a stranger.

  Was that what was bothering me?

  Buyisiwe. My name echoed in my head. A stranger’s name. Why not James, Chris or Peter? Or even Jonathan for that matter? Why not any other name, like most of the boys in school?

  Buyisiwe. That is what they called me.

  A Zulu name that meant: returned.

  The rain was coming down in drifts as I got within a block of our flat. I hurried home. My clothes were cold and wet when I reached the front door. Determined to leave my fear outside, I breathed out forcefully. I stepped inside without glancing back.

  Inside it felt warm. Safe.

  I pushed back my cap and took the stairs to the second floor.

  Shouting voices came from one of the flats. I ignored it like I always did. It would die down in a while anyway. But not before there’d been a banging of doors and maybe breaking glass. I didn’t know any of the people living around us. I saw their faces every now and again. But I didn’t know their names.

  They certainly didn’t know mine.

  They didn’t care, and neither did I.

  Mum wasn’t home yet. I switched on the TV on my way to the kitchen. The cartoon sounds of Tom and Jerry drowned out the world. In the kitchen I gulped down some milk straight from the carton. If my mum could see me now …

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you to use a glass?’

  That’s what she would say.

  Sometimes I do it just to piss her off.

  There was some leftover pizza in the fridge. The cheese had turned an unappetising dull yellow in a sea of scattered bits of olive, pineapple and some sort of meat. I heated it in the microwave and went back into the living room. I made myself comfortable on the couch. Images flashed by on the TV screen. I didn’t really take any notice. My mind drifted back to the fight I’d had at school. I tried telling myself that Jonathan deserved everything he’d got.

  ‘Zulu!’ his voice still rang in my ear. ‘What are you doing here, Zulu? Why don’t you go live with your people?’

  Your people.

  This was my home. I didn’t know any other place.

  I changed the TV channels and got up to fetch the pizza.

  Somehow I knew that Jonathan’s words weren’t the only thing bothering me that day. There was something else: a hurried conversation Mum had had with me that morning.

  ‘We have to have a talk,’ she’d said.

  ‘Not now, I’m late.’

 
‘It’s important, Buyi.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Tonight then. When I get back from work.’

  I knew something was troubling her too. It had been for more than a month now. I didn’t want to ask her about it. I knew she would tell me when she was ready.

  Trouble, said a voice from the back of my mind.

  Trouble was brewing. And it wasn’t something I could simply lock out. The trouble was already inside the flat.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mum sighed as she came in through the front door. Her eyes had dark rings under them; the rest of her face was paler than usual. Her blonde hair was in a mess, her clothes wrinkled. She tried to keep the door open with her foot, as she had shopping bags in one hand and a pizza box in the other.

  ‘Well, don’t just lie there, Buyi, come help me.’

  ‘What? Pizza again?’ I complained as I got up from the couch. ‘We had pizza last night.’

  ‘I’m tired. I’m not going to cook. Besides, you like pizza.’

  ‘Yeah, but not every day.’ I dropped the box on the kitchen counter and helped Mum with the bags.

  ‘You could have cleaned up a bit, you know.’ My eyes scanned the piles of dirty dishes, Coke-splattered counter top, overflowing dustbin. And the rest of the flat didn’t look any better.

  ‘I’m also tired. It’s Friday. Who works on a Friday evening?’

  ‘People who don’t want to have rats and filthy cockroaches running amuck.’

  ‘You can clean up tomorrow.’

  ‘I have to work tomorrow!’

  ‘Sunday then.’

  Mum sighed and wiped her hands over her face. When she dropped her arms to her sides, there were tears welling up in her eyes. She leaned against the counter. ‘You don’t make life any easier for me, you know, Buyisiwe.’

  ‘It’s just rubbish, nothing to get excited over.’

  ‘It’s more than that. You don’t help out at all around the house. I really struggle to keep food on the table, a roof over our heads. Do you know how tired I am of it all? But I can see now that I’ve made the right decision.’

  ‘What decision?’ The fear returned. I had seen my mum tired before, but something was different. There was a tone in her voice that I had never heard before. It was like she had given up. She was like an animal trapped in a cage, trying desperately to get out.

  ‘I tried to tell you this morning, but you were in such a hurry. So, I let it go. I thought: let me think it over for another day. And then make my decision.’

  Mum turned away. Tears were streaming down her face now. Her shoulders were shaking. I wanted to put my arms around her, but couldn’t. Somehow there was a wall between us.

  ‘You know I don’t make rash decisions. I mull things over and over … And this time it hasn’t been easy. It is probably the most difficult decision I have ever made.’

  ‘Mum?’ I now whispered.

  ‘The thing that happened at school today, just confirmed everything. It was like a sign.’

  ‘So, you found out about it?’

  ‘The school phoned me, Buyi.’ Mum wiped away the tears. She tilted her head slightly. Her face was sad. ‘Mrs Fletcher told me about the fight. Apparently it wasn’t the first one you’ve had. My heart sank when I heard about it, Buyi. Mrs Fletcher was adamant that she’s had enough. And now I know that the time has finally come. I can’t keep up supporting two people on my small salary. I’ve tried, and you know it.’

  Mum fell silent for a moment. I could feel my world starting to spin around me. Things were about to change, I knew it. So this was it, I thought. This was the thing that had been following me around like a shadow. It was finally going to show its face.

  ‘You are fourteen now, Buyi.’ Mum almost whispered now. ‘It is time for you to meet your father. Themba. I’ve phoned him a couple of times over the past month. I told him about our financial difficulties. We talked things over …’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Wait, Buyi, let me finish. I know he hasn’t been there for you as you were growing up. But that will change now. He … he has agreed to look after you from now on.’

  ‘What?’ I cried. Terror filled my voice.

  Mum nodded. ‘Buyi, you’re going to live with your father in South Africa.’

  CHAPTER 3

  I couldn’t sleep for days after my talk with Mum. Her words kept haunting me: ‘You’re going to live with your father in South Africa.’

  Every time I thought about it, my stomach churned. Africa? Where the hell is Africa anyway? Why do I have to go to Africa? Just because I got into a fight? For not fitting in? For being different?

  I tried getting out of it, but Mum seemed to have thought it through carefully.

  ‘You know I love you, Buyi, but it would be best for both of us now. When things take a turn for the better, we could discuss it again. Besides, you would like to meet your dad, wouldn’t you?’

  I really didn’t know if I wanted to. She’d talked about him once or twice as I was growing up, but I’d never paid any attention. Where’d he been so far? He didn’t care about me, or else he would have phoned or emailed. That’s if they even have computers in Africa.

  He didn’t ask for pictures of me growing up. He didn’t even send me gifts on my birthdays.

  Why would I suddenly like to meet this man who has been ignoring me all of his life?

  Following our discussion I often heard Mum talking to Themba, my so-called dad, on the phone.

  Once she even held the handset out to me: ‘Do you want to say hallo to your dad?’

  I turned my back on her.

  But I couldn’t do it forever.

  Mum had planned everything. She arranged my passport, got my father to pay for the ticket, packed my bags and off we went to Heathrow airport.

  ‘You look scared,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t be, please Buyi. It will turn out all right, you’ll see. You’ll love it, I’m sure. I’ll phone.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as you get there.’

  Here, and there. London and Johannesburg.

  I didn’t really have friends here, but if I had I wondered how they would have felt. It is not easy leaving everything you know behind. It is not easy packing up and simply going to live in another country.

  South Africa, I thought, what would it be like living there? I have seen bits on television. Not much, though. It’s the place where Nelson Mandela comes from. And they’ve got lots of wild animals down there. Would they be walking the streets? Do they even have streets and shopping malls? Do people over there live like people in London?

  I’m sure I could have found loads of information on the Internet. But that would somehow have made leaving London all too real.

  It couldn’t have been more real than saying goodbye though.

  ‘I love you, Mum,’ I said, before I had to enter the departure hall. I don’t think I had actually said it before and really meant it like that.

  ‘And I love you, Buyi,’ she said as she took me in her arms and hugged me. I wished I could have stayed there forever. But the time had come to leave.

  ‘Come visit. Please!’ I am sure it sounded like a cry for help, but I didn’t care. Tears welled up in Mum’s eyes. I wiped them away with my fingers. We both tried putting on a brave face but we couldn’t.

  And later when the plane took off, all I could think about was Mum, returning to an empty flat. Crying.

  It was an eleven hour flight. The man sitting next to me was reading a newspaper. He had already been through it twice, and was busy with the third attempt. I caught glimpses of the headlines, but it didn’t interest me. Neither did the movies they were showing. Around me I heard the voices of the other passengers. Strange languages. What language would they speak in South Africa, I wondered. This scared me. What if they didn’t speak English! I didn’t know any African languages.

  My worry was soon replaced by another. The plane began to shake heavily.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ annou
nced the captain, ‘we are entering an area of turbulence. It will only last for a few minutes, but we request that you fasten your seatbelts.’

  My seatbelt was still fastened from our take-off. My eyes caught the white paper bag in the seat pocket in front of me. What would it feel like throwing up in an aeroplane miles above the Atlantic Ocean? Would the boring old man next to me even look up from his newspaper?

  All the passengers fell silent. The plane shuddered heavily at times. And occasionally suddenly dropped. I closed my eyes but somehow it felt worse. I opened them again. Lifejacket under your seat were the first words I read on the tray table in front of me. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of worse things to come. My mind flashed back to the emergency procedures given at the start of the journey. I looked around for the nearest exit sign. Again I noticed the lights on the floor. They didn’t really look like lights; more like strips of plastic.

  Before I could start imagining myself floating in a lifejacket in the ocean, the turbulence stopped.

  The seatbelt sign was switched off. A few women rushed to the toilets. The air-hostesses continued serving drinks and snacks.

  All was back to normal again.

  I decided to get some rest. Leaning back in the chair I closed my eyes and dreamt of London.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are getting ready to land at O.R. Tambo International Airport,’ announced the air-hostess. ‘Please ensure that your tray tables are stowed, that all laptops and electronic devices are switched off and that your seatbelt is fastened.’

  This was it. The moment I had been dreading. There was no turning back now. The air-hostesses strolled by, helping passengers, removing cushions and blankets, cups and glasses. Smiling. They really smiled a lot, these people. But of course they knew what to expect when we landed. I didn’t. And I didn’t feel like smiling either.

  Nervously I glanced out the small window. The plane had descended below the clouds. The city of Johannesburg lay stretched out beneath us. Grey, dotted with splashes of green. Buildings as far as the eye could see, but it was different from London. There were tall buildings, but not really many skyscrapers. As we dropped even lower I began to see more clearly: trees, houses, patches of bright blue that could only be swimming pools. Lots of swimming pools. And cars. Thousands of them bustling down highways. And within moments the scenery below us changed. The large houses were replaced by suburbs with smaller houses. Grey, with silver roofs. Then again it changed to a large piece of land dotted with tiny shacks. Roughly constructed boxlike structures that had poverty written all over them.