Allegiance
By the same author:
An Ordinary Day
(2010)
To Len and June
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Published in 2012 by Umuzi
an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd
Company Reg No 1966/003153/07
First Floor, Wembley Square, Solan Road, Cape Town, 8001, South Africa
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
© 2012 Trevor R Corbett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
First edition, first printing 2012
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
ISBN
978-1-4152-0174-9 (Print)
ISBN
978-1-4152-0476-4 (ePub)
ISBN
978-1-4152-0477-1 (
PDF
)
Cover design by publicide
Text design by Nazli Jacobs
Set in Minion
ONE
November 2007. The Swaziland–South Africa border
Shamoo raised his arm to indicate to the nineteen men, women and children to lie low in the bush. Arshad Tanveer felt his heart pumping harder in his chest. The men holding the ropes as guides, two at the front, middle and back, were probably South Africans, and had done this trek hundreds of times. It was routine for them. He still battled with the realisation that his long journey which had started in Karachi, via the exhausting flights to Dubai, then Nairobi, on to Dar es Salaam and finally to Manzini, Swaziland, was almost at an end.
Shamoo, their guide, had driven him and seven others from the airport to a farmhouse outside Manzini, where they were joined by the remainder of the border crossers, another six men, three women and three children. One of the children, a boy of about seven, played with a Rubik’s Cube. A black woman with a clipboard said something Tanveer didn’t understand, and pointed to an old, light-grey Bedford truck with a canvas tarpaulin pulled over the back. The group, tired and jetlagged by this time, would have done just about anything she’d asked them to do. The boy’s Rubik’s Cube dropped to the gravel as he climbed up and hesitated on the tailgate. His mother, Tanveer guessed, told him in Urdu to leave it and pushed him inside. As the lanterns outside were turned off and the Bedford’s engine roared to life, Tanveer stepped up, but not before picking up the plastic toy and giving it to the boy. ‘Shukriya,’ his mother mumbled. Thank you.
It was a hell ride. The Bedford’s suspension had long given up and the only thing worse than the jarring bumps and jolts was the dry dust mixed with diesel fumes that swirled around inside the truck. After about an hour there was a particularly rough section of road and the truck swerved, recovered, and hit something with a sickening bang. It braked, hit something else and came to a jarring halt. Tanveer could hear a strange panting noise and moans outside. He pulled the canvas flap open and saw two torch beams through the dust, zigzagging away from the back of the truck. The torch lights of Shamoo and the black woman fell onto a large brown shape on the dirt road. It was a cow. A heated conversation was going on between the black woman and their guide. She wanted them to load the cow into the back of the Bedford and Shamoo was refusing. After three or four minutes, she walked back to the driver’s cab and revved the motor. They started moving again.
After an hour, they stopped and Shamoo told them to get out the back of the truck with their belongings. Tanveer could just make out a rocky outcrop, some trees and a few stones painted white at the side of the road. A marker of some type, he thought. The Bedford ground into first gear, and the woman accelerated away, leaving a cloud of dust behind and taking with it the noise and light which had provided some comfort to the border crossers. Now it was eerily quiet and dark until Shamoo switched on his lantern and called them close together for a briefing. The walk through the bush would take an hour, he said. Stay between the ropes and don’t talk. When the moon comes out, lie low. If there’s shooting, run in different directions and if you’re caught, claim political asylum. Have R500 rolled up and ready to press into the hand of the immigration official or policeman; there’s a good chance he’ll let you go. Tanveer had no reason to doubt Shamoo’s abilities. That night, their faith could be in no other hands.
Tanveer nudged the man lying next to him in the dark whose name he didn’t know. ‘I paid 200 000 rupees for this journey. Shamoo should treat us with some respect.’
Shamoo pointed to Tanveer and drew his hand across his throat. Tanveer dismissed him with a wave as the sky darkened further and the guides raised the ropes in the darkness. Shamoo emerged from the bushes and the group moved forward again between the ropes, the only sounds the laboured breathing of the fatigued travellers and the shuffling of shoes through the dry bush. Tanveer was 30 and considered himself reasonably fit; he had done military training in Pakistan and even signed up at a gym in Karachi just before receiving the call to say it was time for him to pack a suitcase and pick up his air ticket. Like the others, he was struggling to keep up with the guide. More and more of the men, some much younger than he, started tossing suitcases and bags into the bushes, the burden of carrying them far outweighing their value.
At around three in the morning, the silhouette of a round building came into sight and the group was told by Shamoo to lie down in the bush. Tanveer could hear whispers. It sounded as if someone was speaking on a cellphone. One of the guides collected the passports from the men and gave them to Shamoo. He quietly walked the fifty metres to the building and disappeared. Five minutes later, he motioned for the group to approach the house. They were made to line up outside the door and enter one at a time.
‘You, go in,’ Shamoo called in a loud whisper and pointed at Tanveer. A coffee pot rattled and hissed on a gas stove as Tanveer entered. The aroma of the coffee aroused a brief feeling of nostalgia in him, a quick longing for all he had left behind. A candle burnt inside the house and Tanveer could make out three figures in the room. Two black men, one in a type of uniform. He’d been warned. This was Africa and each step of the journey was going to take cash to get through. He put his right hand in his pocket and felt the roll of notes on his palm. His eyes adjusted in the dim light to the well-built man sitting at a table. The yellow light showed the man’s skin to be dark olive, and he knitted his fingers through a black goatee which was streaked with grey. Shamoo slapped Tanveer on the shoulder indignantly and told him in Urdu to be respectful to the man. Tanveer took his hand out of his pocket and bowed his head.
‘Salaam. Name?’ The man spoke English, but sounded Middle Eastern, possibly Saudi.
‘Tanveer.’
The man flipped through the passports. He found the one he wanted, looked at the photograph of Tanveer and then surveyed the younger man’s face.
He paged though the passport. ‘You’ve been to Srinagar?’
Tanveer involuntarily touched his mouth and nervously pressed his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger. ‘I buried my brother in Kashmir.’ The words were barely a mumble, but immediately he felt he’d said too much to the stranger.
‘Speak up, Tanveer.’
‘Yes, I’ve been there, twice.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’ He lowered his eyes respectfully. ‘I never thought this would be a problem now—’
The man raised his hand and shook his head, without looking up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tanveer said. ‘I mean no disrespect, bhai.’ An acknowledgement of the man’s stature.
‘Your brother. He was a fighter?’
Tanveer felt emotion well up but was determined not to break down here, not in this place, not in front of this man he didn’t even know. ‘My brother was killed by the Indian militia.’ The words came out quickly, before Tanveer could stop them. ‘Militia he peacefully protested against for years and years.’
‘He died a martyr?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mujahideen?’
Tanveer looked away. Who was this man and why all the questions? Tanveer felt as though they were expecting him.
‘I will not forget my brother. He paid a high price.’
‘You don’t trust me.’ The man sighed and was silent while he seemed to gather his thoughts. ‘I hold your life in my hands and you don’t trust me.’
Tanveer shifted uncomfortably on his feet and lifted his eyes towards Shamoo who scowled at him.
The Arab tapped his fingers on the table in a beat which sounded military. He looked at Shamoo and motioned to the two black men. ‘Leave us.’
Without a word, the three men hurriedly left the room leaving Tanveer alone with the Arab.
‘You don’t trust
them
,’ he acknowledged, nodding his head slowly. ‘These are personal matters, things which we shouldn’t discuss in front of unbelievers.’
Tanveer nodded, feeling more at ease.
‘You can be open with me, Mr Tanveer. You honour your brother by speaking of him. The Prophet was a soldier, a warrior; your brother has honoured the Prophet. He has proven his strength to the world.’
The Arab stood up and poured the coffee into a tin cup. ‘Coffee?’
Yes, he wanted coffee. And food and sleep. He wanted to be safely in South Africa after days of travelling in the same clothes and being ordered around by arrogant strangers. ‘Thank you, no.’
The Arab put the cup to his lips. ‘You were telling me about your brother.’
‘Yes, my brother was mujahedeen. He fought in the army of Islam. He died a soldier of Allah.’
‘Thank you. And you? Why are you here?’
Tanveer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Work, money.’
‘Futile pursuits, Tanveer.’
Tanveer was silent for a moment, and then when he spoke, it was with a conviction the man behind the table admired. ‘I have a duty to avenge my brother and I will. I have to go back one day.’
The man took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote a number on it.
‘South Africa is a big country.’ The man handed Tanveer the card. ‘There is a name and a number. Our brothers there will help you find your way around.’ The Arab sipped his coffee and placed the tin cup on the table. ‘Never forget what Omar has sacrificed.’
Tanveer felt a jolt go through his body. How did the Arab know his brother’s name? What was happening? He steadied himself as the sleep deprivation and exhaustion disconnected his body from his brain.