Downfall and Freedom: A novel
about the arms trade, South Africa, and the KwaZulu
By Charles E. Webb.
Copyright, 2009. All rights
reserved.
Free Preview #1: Chapter 1 (edited)
John
Wesley Zooma was on his way home from the grade school with three of his
friends on this mild, mid-winter day in Natal. Usually, they stopped by
Bulewessi’s, a small, local food shop in the township and bought a cold soda or
candy before they continued home. Today, a police township truck was coming
from the other direction in a hurry, beeping its horn to get people out of its
way. The "Kaspir", as it was called, pulled up at the store. The township police truck was very imposing.
Painted a medium green, it sat on very large, treaded tires almost ten feet
high, and was made of armored and bullet proof steel. It was more like an
armored personnel carrier than a truck. A
.50 caliber machine gun was mounted in the front on the top. Ten soldiers
jumped out from truck. Two were white, but the others were black. They rushed
into the shop.
The
four boys ran to the other side of the street. A small crowd gathered to see
what was going on. Zooma and his friends
moved to the front of the crowd.
From
inside the shop came the ear piercing screams of women and shouting. Six
soldiers appeared from the store carrying the owner, Mr. Bulewessi, a friend to
the many children in the village. They
carried him to the middle of the intersection, tied his hands behind him, his
feet together, and sat him down. Two
more black soldiers followed and went to the huge army truck. The two white lieutenants next came out of
the store, pistols drawn. The women
inside poured out like a flood, shrieking and crying at the top of their
lungs. The noise could be heard everywhere
in the small village, and the crowd swelled around the intersection from all
directions.
Two
soldiers went to the Kaspir and came back with a car tire and a gasoline
can. The six soldiers that had brought out
Mr. Bulewessi were facing the crowd with rifles ready. Mr. Bulewessi was in the center of the
soldiers’ circle and wailing.
It
happened so fast. Zooma had heard about these things but it was spoken about
only in whispers. The soldier with the
tire placed it around the neck of Mr. Bulewessi who was pleading for his life, but
to no avail. The soldier poured the
gasoline on the tire and Mr. Bulewessi, soaking him thoroughly. He dropped the can in the road and moved to
the truck as the first soldier let a match and threw it at the tire. Immediately, the flames shot upward and Mr.
Bulewessi was totally engulfed and screaming. The crowd gave a collective gasp
in horror as the first flames began. Almost everyone was screaming or crying.
The leader of the soldiers, a young lieutenant, pointed his pistol in the air
and fired two shots as the crowd moved forward, but it was already too late for
Mr. Bulewessi. The flames had finally gotten to his brain. His pain and life were ended.
The
lieutenant waited and now there was just the sound of soft sobbing. He said, "This man was subversive and
dealing in contraband. This is a lesson to all of you not to engage in actions
against the government!" And with that said, the soldiers retreated to
truck, climbed in, and drove off with rifles still pointed at the crowd…
That
night after dinner, Zooma went out to visit his three friends. They talked
about all that had happened and how they felt. Each one was ready to fight and
die for their homeland. Then and there they made a pact with each other, as
friends do when something like this happens. They would get revenge for this
and all the many government oppressions and killings. They would gain control
of their country. Natal had always been Zulu. Someday it would be again.
Free Preview #2:
Chapter 2
Clarence van Dyke Jackson was
fifty-five now, an Afro-American, very rich, and was thinking that it may be
time to quit the dual life he had been living for the last twenty years. He owned a legitimate, large electrical
contracting business in New Orleans, very successful over the years, especially
since it was a minority business and gained many local contracts because of
that fact. His other business was
supplying arms as needed to Special Forces, armies of "liberation",
and foreign nationals in selected lands.
His contacts from the US Army and National Guard knew how to make their
own extras from the "surplus" that always seemed to be available when
Jackson needed it.
Jackson
was born in Wiggins, a small town in south Mississippi whose economy was fueled
by the local lumber industry. His father
drove a logging truck and his mother worked at the local hospital. During the 40's and 50's, growing up in this
small town, he saw the Klu Klux Klan, knew well the art of keeping out of
trouble with white folks, and learned the art of the street and survival.
He
had not started his life with hatred. It
had only come to him once. In late
November, 1953, he was clearing the dishes for his mother after evening dinner
when he heard a noise behind the back barn.
He looked around the kitchen for his mother, but didn't see her. His dad was in the living room reading the paper
and listening to the radio. He went
outside to see if the noise was a raccoon looking for something to eat from the
garbage.
Clarence
walked outside and closed the screen door behind him. He walked quietly through the back yard, past
the large oak tree with the branches that reminded him of a large octopus, and
toward the garage. He moved even slower
as he neared the garage for his worst fears were upon him now.
As
he rounded the garage, he was grabbed from behind by strong arms and held very
tightly. A big hand was over his mouth,
and the voice from the arms and hand said, "Keep quiet, boy, we have no
quarrel with you anyhow." It was
useless to yell, now, and Clarence couldn't break free.
Several
others in white KKK robes and masks came out of the timber stand behind the
barn. There were ten in all. They walked quickly to the back yard and
yelled for Clarence's dad and mom to come out back, that they had their son,
and to not make any trouble. James van
Dyke Jackson and his very beautiful wife, Cynthia, came to the back kitchen
door and looked out on the back yard scene with eleven, white, strong armed men
in KKK robes standing there. And their
son was held by one of them. The
apparent leader of the group now came forward.
"Y'all
come on out here now. We jus' want to
talk some"
Clarence
replied, "Why y'all here? We ain't
done nothin', and my son always shows his respect."
"We
ain't got no quarrel with your son, Jimmy.
We jus' needed to talk a while with you and the misses. You see, we been hearin' that you tryin' to
get yourself moved up at the mill, and you better learn now that those foreman
jobs are for us whites. Do you
understand me?"
"Yes,
I understand. I haven't asked for
one. I heard talk, you know, but if
someone goin' to give me another job managin' the rest of the drivers, I ain't
heard it yet. I jus' tryin’ to do my job
like I told. I lived here all my life
and ain't bothered no one. Y'all know
that."
"Well,
some of that's right. But we got to show
you we mean business. Grab her,
boys!"
Three
of the KKK took hold of Cynthia, while four others each took hold of an arm and
a leg of Jimmy. Jimmy struggled to get
free but they were too many and too strong.
From out of nowhere a fist came forward and knocked him in the stomach
and then in the face. The men holding
Cynthia dragged her to the big oak tree as she screamed. They put her up against the tree, face first,
and held her arms around the sides. The
trunk cut into her arms and face. The
leader came forward and ripped her dress, baring her back.
"Clarence,
we do this so that each time you see your wife's back, you goin' to know we
always behind your back as well."
The
leader pulled a whip from under his robe and let go with ten lashes on
Cynthia's back. The cuts were deep and
blood ran down and stained her dress.
Jimmy yelled, but was hit again in the stomach and the wind knocked from
him. Clarence screamed, the tears
streaming from his face for the hurt of his mother and her pain. He would give anything to be in her place, to
not have her hurt.
Almost
as soon as it began, luckily it was over. The men holding Cynthia let her fall
to the ground and they ran to the trees. At the same time, the men holding
Jimmy and Clarence let them go and also ran. The leader now walked backward
with one final word, "We know you goin' to remember well this little talk
we had, Jimmy. You keep up the good work, but you remember you only good enough
to drive that truck. Don't go talkin'
about this little talk now, and we all goin' to get along jus' fine from now
on. You hear?" And then he disappeared into the darkness.
Clarence
was first to his mother and held her tight in his arms. Jimmy crawled then stumbled to her and held
them both. He took them into the
house. Jimmy went into the bathroom and
brought out a wet cloth and basin and washed the lash cuts on his wife's back
while Clarence watched in silence. After
the cuts were cleaned, Jimmy told his son to go to his bedroom and wait for him
while he took Cynthia and put her to bed.
Clarence
went to his room, filled with a rage and now a memory he would never
forget. He sat on his bed and cried
until he went to sleep.
Special Preview
Zooma produced a small package from the ground next to the
tree and gave it to him.
“Michael, this
is a radio receiver with a specially tuned frequency. It will only receive one
station, and that will be a tone signal. When you hear it, and I can’t tell you
when that will be—it could be tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe a year from now,
maybe three years from now, I just don’t know for sure. But when you do hear
the tone, you must leave immediately. Get out of the country, or you and Carter
may be killed. Violence is coming. Many don’t want it, and many do. Both sides.
But I’m doing this because I owe you. Now take it. Hide it. And prepare for the
day that tone goes off. It is the call for people like me to form up in our
units for the action. And that action will be against all the whites that have
not left and against the Xhosa. Now take it and go.”
