Excerpt: Scorched Earth


Novel inspired by the 1899 – 1905 Anglo-Boer War

‘Do you know what upsets me the most about the Boers in this war, Mr. Steyn?’ he asked, and didn’t wait for a response. ‘You have the Germans, the Irish, the French, the Russians and the Swiss fighting on your side. Not only are you treating them better than you treat the Bantu, but you have promised them some of our lands and minerals as rewards for aiding you.’

He had been running for a better part of the day, now and then glancing over his shoulders to see if his pursuers were gaining on him. He hadn’t seen them for over an hour. Maybe they had given up and returned to camp.
No, the stubborn British never gave up that easily, especially on a lone, unarmed Boer soldier. He stopped to take a breath, his eyes still scanning the wet, sprawling landscape. Then he heard it, the unmistakable gait of heavy hooves. Two horses appeared in the distance, the riders whipping the beasts into a frenzied, speedy gallop.
Steyn took a mouthful of breath, and set off in a sprint. He ran, but he had no hope of escaping. The grassy, muddied open kloof ahead offered no cover or shelter. He couldn’t hope to stand his ground and put up a fight. In his mind’s eye, he already saw the horses’ wide nostrils bearing down on him, and the great hooves raining the fatal blows on his body. In his untimely demise, the soldiers didn’t even have to fire a shot.
He decided the wise thing to do was to give himself up and hope he won’t be summarily and unceremoniously executed. He sank to his knees, and placed his hands behind his head. He felt the booted foot kicking the back of his neck. He fell facelong into the mud. The soldiers merely wheeled their mounts around him, the giant hooves threatening to squash his legs and hands as he lay in the mud. It seemed the soldiers wanted him alive.
‘How far did you think you were going to run?’ one soldier asked, as he kept reining his restless horse in. ‘We annexed this entire rotten land. There’s a patrol for every ten kilometres.’
‘Were you hoping to be shot dead?’ the other soldier with a lieutenant’s stripes asked. ‘The war is almost over and you want to be shot dead. You are hoping to be a martyr, aren’t you? You want to be Cornelius Broeksma? A dead hero.’
The British soldier was referring to Broeksma, who was executed by an English firing squad in the Witwatersrand, on 30 September 1901. He was convicted of violating the neutrality oath and inciting others to do so. He had spoken out about the deplorable conditions of Boer women’s camps during the war. His picture, along with that of his family, was put on a post card in Holland, celebrating him as a martyr.
‘Perhaps we should make his dreams come true, Lieutenant,’ said the other soldier.

Steyn was dragged away to a makeshift British camp, just as an embarrassed soldier ran past dressed only in his underwear. He later heard that the soldier was one of many who had been caught by the Boer commandos. But instead of being summarily executed or detained, the Boers simply stripped them of their uniforms, their boots, horses and weapons and then chased them away. The British soldier’s story gave Steyn hope that the khakis will return the favour and release him in his undies.
He was mistaken. For three days in a row he was marched out to the bush for what he thought would be his encounter with the firing squad, but for some reason they never got round to killing him. They simply sat under the shade and chatted, commenting about the din of gunfire in the distance, smoked and then led him back to camp.
It was on the fourth day that he knew his luck had run out. He woke up to a camp bustling with activity, as the soldiers packed away their supplies and mounted their horses. They were abandoning the camp.
Two soldiers came riding in his direction, while their comrades rode out of the camp. He was certain the pair were his executioners. They were going to kill him, and then reunite with their comrades thereafter. The two soldiers, barely a day over eighteen, joked nervously, in a bid to build up the courage to shoot a man at point blank range. They had clearly never done it before.
Their jestering was abruptly interrupted by a flash of fire, as bullets ripped the ground near the horses’ hooves and whistling past their heads. The horses, startled by the gunfire, raised their hooves into the air, tumbling the riders into the muddied ground. The beasts galloped into the distance.
Steyn saw the two soldiers raising their rifles, and then their uniforms perforating at innumerable places, as bullets ripped into them. They dropped next to him shuddering, wide-eyed, their lives ebbing slowly away.
Steyn stared, startled at the source of the gunfire. It was a group of twelve armed black men who rose from the grass, just ten metres away. He was shocked at their appearance – some of them were dressed partially in British military uniforms and carrying British army issue rifles, the bolt action Lee-Metford and the breech loading Martin-Henry. He knew the weapons from disarming many British soldiers, both captured and killed. It was the tufts of grass on their heads that helped to camouflage their presence as they lay hidden in the grass.
‘Stand up!’ came the order from their leader, a tall, dark man dressed in muddied overalls that had to shed their sleeves to expose the man’s bulged, muscular arms. ‘Are you injured?’
‘No, thank God,’ Steyn replied.
‘Shouldn’t you be thanking us?’ asked the man, amused. ‘We are the ones who saved you. Your God had nothing to do with it.’
‘No, I meant…’
‘Relax, I know what you meant,’ he said. ‘A figure of speech. Yes, I know what you are thinking. An educated Bantu. We have the missionaries to thank for that, don’t we? My name is Mathew Ramatekoa. You might have heard about us. We are the Bantu Resistance Movement.’
Steyn had heard of the Bantu grouping with no allegiance to either side of the war. It failed dismally, leading to its leaders and a handful loyalists going into hiding. They had tried to mount defences of their own villages from being overrun by either the Boers or the British. But as the war raged on, their villages grew increasingly attractive and strategic for both fronts. Their locations, most of them alongside rivers and streams, were perfect for military outposts and for their ready supply of Bantu labour.
The stories of Bantu groupings resisting the European advances spread quickly, and gained favour with some villages. They found themselves being active participants in the war which they earlier tried to stay on the sidelines of. But thousands others enlisted for the war on either sides. Most of them soon found that they wouldn’t even be allowed to shoot a gun. They became agterryers; they were good enough to tend to camp chores, drive wagons and look after horses.
The Resistance effort was bound to fail, thanks to a cleverly crafted ploy by the Native Refuge Department to reward the families of those black men who accepted employment in the British army. They could buy mielies at half pence per pound, while those who continued to resist enlisting paid double.
Leaders like Mathew found themselves exiled for fear of arrest and the certainty of facing the firing squads. They scoured the land, launching guerrilla warfare on mostly British outposts, supply trains, wagons and roving patrols. The guerrillas dwindled even further after the Native Affairs permitted the recruitment of Blacks, for the re-opening of goldmines that had been closed down because of the war. Most men were recruited from the concentration camps, which meant Matthew’s men had to volunteer or be captured. During interrogation, some broke. That’s how Mathew became the most wanted man of his time.
‘I am Lloyd Steyn,’ he said, wondering if he should extend his hand for a handshake. Mathew hadn’t offered.
Steyn turned to look at the men, some who were already disarming the dead soldiers. The uniforms wouldn’t do; they were heavily bullet-riddled. He was stunned into silence.
‘Thank you,’ Steyn finally regained his ability of speech. ‘Unless of course, you are still planning to kill me.’
‘Mr. Steyn, our war may be against all foreigners who believe they have more rights than us on the land of our birth, but we would never pull the trigger on an unarmed man,’ said Mathew. ‘That’s the only reason these two are dead, and you are alive. The dueling field wasn’t even. You were outnumbered and outgunned. As long as this war continues, we will meet again, Mr. Steyn. Maybe then, we will exchange gunfire. But on this day, we will share a meal.’
Mathew and his men set up camp in the walls of a demolished farmhouse that Steyn and his men had passed just a week earlier. The silent military precision with which the men operated, from the smokeless camp fire, their seamless blending with the landscape and guard-posting, told Steyn that they had received expert military training. He wondered if the resistance had been tailing him and his men all along.
‘You are wondering whose side we are on in this war, aren’t you?’ Mathew asked, chewing noisily as he and a few of his men dug ravenously from the same bowl of meat and porridge. ‘There was a time when the answer would have been neither. But that meant we would have both warring parties gunning for us. We had to choose a side, the lesser of two evils.’
‘There already have been Blacks fighting on both sides of the war,’ Steyn pointed out. ‘You might say, evil had already been in the eye of the beholder, then?’
Mathew smirked.
‘Another figure of speech, albeit your own,’ he said. ‘Indeed, our people made their choices, uninformed and coerced choices. It would not have hurt to wait. It would not have hurt to use hindsight. Boers and the British have never seen the Bantu as an equal, and they are not going to anytime soon. There’s already talk for peace, an end to the war. Who is representing Bantu interests? We haven’t even been invited to the table, because this wasn’t our war in the first place.’
‘Yet you are still fighting,’ Steyn said. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘From the beginning of this war, we were the ones who had to pick a side, but were the conditions conducive for us to make an informed, objective choice?’ he asked. ‘We are talking about men whose lives were interrupted, who because of your war, had to leave their jobs in the Witwatersrand, the Free State and the Transvaal, and return to villages ravaged by poverty. They were not in a position to make an objective decision which side to pick in this war. They simply took what was on offer. Yet you, the warring parties, still agreed amongst yourselves that we shouldn’t be armed. You felt our methods in war were brutal, you felt we cannot be trusted with guns. A black man with a gun might not be easy to govern after the war, you said. So we were still not good enough for both sides, Mr. Steyn.’
‘Yet here you are,’ Steyn said, and accepted another piece of meat from the bowl the men kept passing around as they feasted.
‘We are the other side, the side both the Boer and British feared might be born out of this war, the independent-thinking Bantu,’ he said. ‘Not your agterryers. We have thought of fighting with you, Mr. Steyn. Your people have shown a willingness to make the land your home, to start afresh. Not to make it yet another colonised outpost of Her Majesty the Queen. But it is up to you how long you want our rifles pointing the other way.’
‘But we have almost already lost the war,’ said Steyn. ‘The British have nearly won this war.’
‘Our struggle is just beginning,’ Mathew said. ‘The British might have won, and for you it is over. But not for us. You will have to remember, Mr. Steyn. Both you and the British have been fighting for land that belonged to neither of you. We are the undeniable, lawful owners of the land. But we are the ones who now have to live in hiding. We cannot go back to our homes. There would be no trial. Only the gallows await Bantu who kill mlungu. Even the Boers agree.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Steyn as a matter of fact.
‘Only because it was the Bantu who saved your life from your sworn enemy,’ Mathew said, standing up and wiping his hands on his overalls. ‘Had your enemy killed you, it would have been accepted that you were a casualty of this war. Had I killed you, it would have been murder. You recognise that this isn’t a blackman’s war only when it suits you. You are not the only Boer we have saved, Mr. Steyn. We have opened fire on many other mlungus to save lives. Black lives. But for that we face the gallows. You know why? Because black lives don’t matter. Not to the British, and not to the Boers.’
Mathew drew a deep breath, and stared at Steyn intently.
‘Do you know what upsets me the most about the Boers in this war, Mr. Steyn?’ he asked, and didn’t wait for a response. ‘You have the Germans, the Irish, the French, the Russians and the Swiss fighting on your side. Not only are you treating them better than us, but you have promised them some of our lands and minerals as rewards for aiding you. I am going to go and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.’
One of Mathew’s men, who had been placed on guard duty, gave Steyn his rollbed. For the first time in many months, Steyn actually fell asleep. He opened one eye just after midnight, and saw the men quietly alternating guard duty. Then he drowsed into a sound, peaceful slumber.

Read the novel for free if you are already subscribed to Kindle Unlimited. For hard copies, WhatsApp +2783 487 4440 to place your order, or purchase on Amazon on the link below:
https://a.co/d/1ed0MKQ

FAQ’s Authors Often Ask Self-publishers

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly, The Silly, The Hilarious and The Downright Bizarre

FYI: This Is A Loooong Read!!! This is a dramatisation with answers provided by an honest publisher (Publisher Y), and a not-so-honest publisher (Publisher X). Of course, in some quarters both publishers would be labelled as dishonest. Everyone is entitled to their opinions.

Author: I got your contact details from a self-publishers’ group on Facebook. I have a book that I would like to publish. What services do you offer and what are your costs?
Publisher: We offer editing and proofreading, manuscript development where needed, cover design, layout and typesetting, ISBN application and we also print on demand. Our costs are varied depending on the package you are interested in. We have the following packages…
and the costs are as follows….

Author: I think you are a scammer. Why didn’t you ask me about the book itself? You just went for the money. What if my book isn’t worth the paper it is printed on? Are you going to publish it anyway simply because I am paying?
Publisher: I answered what you asked. Let’s recap: You asked about the services that we offer and the costs. That is what I responded on – the questions you asked. Manuscript development means should there be a need to help you develop certain chapters, or overhaul them completely, we can help you with that. Please note, this does not mean we will rewrite the book for you. If it is truly badly written, then we will tell you to go back to the drawing board. We can only rescue what can be rescued. Having said that, if you are not confident in your own work, then you most probably are not ready to publish.

Author: I have every confidence in my work. It is you I am not so sure about.
Publisher: Yet here you are, talking to me. I would suggest that you keep searching then. Never, ever work with a publisher you are not certain about.

Author: I think your costs are exorbitant. I actually got a better offer from Publisher X. They said they will also help me to sell internationally.
Publisher: Yet here you are, talking to me. If you feel Publisher X is best suited for your work, then by all means, get started with them. Do not put one publisher in a position to badmouth another. Do compare rates, ask for sample edits and speak to authors who have worked with them in the past. Your decision to publish shouldn’t solely be based on the cost and promises that seem unrealistic, but also on workmanship, skill, experience, track record and what you envisage for your book in general.
Every author has aspirations of breaking into the international market, but if a self-publisher promises you that kind of success off the bat, I would be suspicious. Most South African authors who have gotten a taste of the international market, have first obtained success at home, with books initially published for the domestic market. Amazon and Draft2Digital, amongst others, have made it easier for authors to reach the world, but just because the book is online does not mean it will now become a bestseller. There are millions of books on Amazon alone. What are you doing to make yours stand out? Curb your enthusiasm and be realistic, otherwise you are setting yourself up for failure and heartbreak post publishing.

Author: I don’t need an editor, I edit my own work.
Publisher Y: Actually, it’s supposed to be ‘I don’t need an editor; I edit my own work’. A semi-colon, not a comma, is appropriate in this sentence because the two lines are closely related to each other. Or you can simply use a full stop. Shorter sentences have more impact. Even the best writers in the world have editors. Let another pair of eyes go through your work, and you will be surprised by what they find that you might have missed. Better yet, get a Beta Reader. They don’t charge you to look at your work. But whatever you do, get your work edited.
Publisher X: That’s not a problem. We will then simply lower the cost, and charge you for only the services we will provide minus editing.

*NB – An honest publisher will not allow a book that hasn’t been professionally done carry their stamp of approval. One that does is a red flag. If it carries their name – and even when it doesn’t – they should do due diligence. How many times have you been asked, “So who did you publish with?” The question is asked for one of two reasons – the book is badly written, or it is done just right. Your publisher should put as much an effort into your work as you do. He or she shouldn’t just copy and paste and then print.

Author: I don’t think you should be charging people to publish. Self-publishers cannot be trusted. Traditional publishing is the way to go.
Publisher: You said you got my details from a self-publishers’ group. What are you doing in a self-publishers’ group when all you are interested in is traditional publishing?
Author: The way you speak to me is rude and unprofessional. I think I am right about you, you are all about the money. You are a scammer.
Publisher: Your last sentence shows you still need to learn where to use a comma and where to use a semi-colon. Regardless, I think I have been professional and accommodating with you, much more than I should have. I have answered your questions as candidly and as professionally as I could despite the sheer provocation you keep dishing out. Honestly, I should have ended this conversation a long time ago. If there is one thing I will not do though, is to allow you to determine what is professional and what is not. By merely asking me about a service you know you don’t require and are not even remotely interested in, is a waste of my time. You were unprofessional from the word go. You are therefore not in a position to determine what is professional and what is not.
Please visit the Publishers Association of South Africa for a list of reputable traditional publishers. Study each one, especially their submission guidelines, and pick those that you feel are more likely to publish your work. Some rarely accept unsolicited manuscripts, while others have submission windows. Good luck.

Author: Let’s say I publish with you. Do you think my book will sell?
Publisher X: Yes, I think you have a gem here. This book will fly off the shelves. It will sell like hotcakes. This is what the country and the world has been waiting for. There is a big market for authors like you. You are certainly the next Steven King.
Publisher Y: I don’t know. Do you think your book will sell? Do you already have a well-defined market or target audience for your work? How big a following and fanbase have you grown and how many people out there are aware that you are about to publish a book? Have you marketed it or yourself as a brand? Are you an authority in your chosen subject matter? If you are, and there are people out there patiently waiting for you to drop this book, then most definitely, your book will sell, because you have done the groundwork.

Author: When, then, would you say a new author is ready to publish?
Publisher X: When your book is done, and you have put together enough money to publish. Just come to us and we will make your dream come true.
Publisher Y: You are ready to publish when you have satisfied yourself that you have done all that is humanly possible to market yourself and your book to your target audience. The best way to check if you have done enough groundwork, is to call for pre-orders. Anyone who wants to buy your book, will not hesitate to pre-order it. This cannot be overemphasised – LIKES ON FACEBOOK CAN NEVER TRANSLATE TO SALES. Do not order or print in bulk based on the people who liked your posts on Facebook and promised to buy as soon as the book is out. People on social media have a very short memory. Over a hundred people can like your post, but less than ten might actually follow up with a purchase. You might end up with hundreds of unsold books gathering dust in your garage.

Author: Can you get my book into bookstores?
Publisher X: Yes, of course. All our books go to bookstore X and Bookstore Y and Bookstore Z. Yours too will be on their shelves.
Publisher Y: We do everything in our power to get your book into bookstores, but we also need your help to do it. For starters, no bookstore will keep a book on their shelves if it is not generating traffic through their doors. If it gathers dust on the shelves, it will be removed to make space for books that actually sell. Bookstores are also a business and need to make a profit. It is therefore your responsibility to market your book to death, so that it brings traffic through the bookstores’ doors. As you may know, major bookstores are reluctant to work with little known self-published authors and prefer to work with distributors. This is another avenue you can consider. Exceptions, however, can be made for authors who show diligence in marketing themselves and whose books are in demand.
Either way, ensuring that the book remains on the shelves is your responsibility, not the self-publisher’s. You are, after all, an independently published author. Even if this is in the contract, do not expect a self-publisher to help you post publication because they rarely do.

Author: Can you get my book to be read at schools?
Publisher X: Of course. Many of our authors have had their books accepted by the Department of Education.
Publisher Y: Annually, various provinces in the country open submission windows for authors and publishers to submit their books for evaluation. It is however not all the provinces who do this and not every book is accepted. While your book may be accepted, there is a chance that the department might not order more than 100 copies. These are the stories authors don’t tell for fear of being laughing stocks. There are authors who have received orders for as little as two copies, while some who were approved have been told they would be considered the following year. The government just doesn’t have the money, so don’t get your hopes too high.

Author: What if you help me to publish and then get your money from the sales of the book?
Publisher X: Yes, we can certainly do that. I will simply hold on to the artwork and you will print through me. Basically, I will be selling you your work so that you can resell. I will also own the copyright of your work for at least three years. After all, no one knows your audience more than you, so you will do the selling until your debt is paid.
Publisher Y: Yes, we can certainly do that, if you can show me your marketing plan that will convince me that this arrangement will give me a return on my investment. You see, this arrangement works best with celebrities like Somizi and Khanyi Mbau, because they already have an established following and a fanbase. As an independently published author, I would not advise you to opt for this arrangement, because you will not fully own your work until your debt is fully paid. The publisher gets to decide when this debt is paid. You could enslave yourself until your book sales reach the ceiling, or until you can’t sell anymore. Some publishers can tie you up with contracts that require you to purchase a certain number of books from them monthly, even when you do not have readers who have ordered the books. And in the event that some bigshot producer is interested in adapting your book for the big screen or television, it is the self-publisher they would be negotiating with as they still own the rights to your work.

Author: Why should I choose to work with you instead of Publisher X?
Publisher: If you want to work with a publisher who will tell you what you want to hear, then by all means, pick Publisher X. I have no doubt Publisher X will do a splendid job with your book. The only problem I envisage, is when the other grand promises they have made do not materialise. You might find yourself dishing out dirty linen on them on these Facebook streets. I would suggest that you pick a publisher that resonates with you and ask them to be blatantly honest on what they can do and what they can’t. No unrealistic, over-the-top promises such as international bestseller.
Publishing a book is easy. Selling the same book is the hardest part. Often, this is where the author and publisher find themselves at loggerheads – because the author had expectations that the publisher has fed with promises and they became a famished, fire-breathing monster. Like a jilted lover, the author becomes bitter and demands that the promises be honoured or that he/she be refunded. Meanwhile, the publisher has moved on to another author and has no intention of refunding you. The end result might land you in court, defending a defamation lawsuit.

Do You Have A Road Accident Fund Story To Tell?

Have you been awaiting your Road Accident Fund compensation, and are wondering why it is taking so long to pay out? What if the money has been paid out and your lawyer keeps telling you RAF still hasn’t paid out just so he scores a good interest for himself? It is possible that your money was paid out a long time ago, but your lawyer has declared you incapable of handling your own affairs and appointed himself as your proxy.
In my 16-year career as a journalist, I have unearthed countless stories of corruption, fraud and plain thuggery by those put in positions of power and trust. The stories that have hurt me the most, however, have been those of the theft of Road Accident Fund benefits – theft not from the fund itself, but by lawyers stealing from those who are supposed to receive the money.
In Delmas, Mpumalanga, I unearthed a sodded tale of a man who lost his leg in a car accident. His life got so bad that he lived in the streets as a hobo, while waiting for his lawyer to inform him about the progress of his RAF claim. Unbeknownst to him, the lawyer had received the money, over R1 million, two years earlier, but had been telling his client that the RAF is yet to pay out. Now and then, the lawyer would give him loans of between R1000 and R2500, promising to deduct the money when his benefits are finally paid out.
In Secunda, another client who used the same lawyer had been awaiting his payout for over three years. What he didn’t know was that the money had in fact been paid out, and that the loans the lawyer had been giving him were from his own money. The man lived in abject poverty, plagued daily by the aches and pains from the hoffiric injuries he sustained in the car accident, unaware that he was already a multi-millionaire.
In Bronkhorstspruit, Groblersdal and Mashishing I dug up the tragic accounts of three vehicle accident victims who simply vanished on the eve of their RAF payouts. One of them was found a day after he vanished. He was dead and his body run over by countless cars on the N12. The last people known to have seen them were their lawyers.
In Springs, I was tipped off about a lawyer who receives the clients’ benefits, but does not immediately dispense the monies to the people who desperately need it. The clients need the money for, amongst many other pressing needs, their medical bills and necessities of life such as food, transportation and shelter. The legal eagle without clout opted to keep the money in his bank account for up to six months to a year, so it would accumulate interest that he wouldn’t dispense to the client. This is over and above his 25% of the payout that he is allowed by law to pocket for his services.
Of course, some lawyers cut themselves quite a bigger slice, bigger than the 25% they are allowed by law. After all, how would the client even know? Most clients are so excited at receiving the windfall, they don’t bother to do the Math or check exactly how much is due to them.
But how are these lawyers able to do this and get away with it? Simple: they set up a trust and their clients’ payouts are then paid into this trust. Next, they declare the client mentally incapable of handling his or her own affairs. The lawyers then appoint themselves as trustees, practically giving themselves proxy or signatory powers over the clients’ benefits. The Delmas homeless man for example, was at the lawyer’s mercy in that the lawyer built him a shack on an illegal piece of land near the N12, just to separate him from people who were trying to help him. Yes, he was a squatter camp millionaire. A man worth over R1million lived in a shack!
Whatever the rot or modus operandi employed, the fact is, these lawyers without clout are living lavish lives at your expense, and now it is time they are exposed and stopped. In the next three months, we intend to hold interviews with those people who have been through bizarre situations with lawyers who were supposed to help them but turned around and made a meal of them.

Who Do We Need To Hear From?

  1. We want to hear from people who received their RAF benefits but suspect they might have been short-changed by their lawyers.
  2. We want to hear from people who suspect their lawyers might have taken a bigger cut than they should have.
  3. We want to hear from people who, through their lawyers, have claimed from the RAF but suspect the lawyer might have received the funds and is witholding them from him/her.
  4. We need to hear from people whose lawyers are generous enough to give them loans but aren’t forthcoming about their RAF benefits.
  5. We need to hear from people who have lost loved ones who have been awaiting benefits from the Road Accident Fund.

What Would Be Expected Of You?

  1. While we investigate the matter and assist you, we will need you to consent to an interview on camera.
  2. Our investigation and assistance will be free of charge. Anyone who claims to represent us and asks you for money is not a member of our team.
  3. Sign a consent form / release for the video material to be broadcast on TV, newspapers, magazine and on online platforms.
  4. Provide us with all documentation that will assist us in our investigations.
  5. Acknowledge that our intervention might not have further financial benefits for you, but will assist in rooting out bad elements in the legal fraternity.
  6. Depending on the nature of your case, you might be expected to have further engagements with law enforcement agencies including the Law Society of South Africa.
    Do you have a story to tell? Then contact us on WhatsApp at 083 487 4440, or email info@publishdafrika.com.

Photo: Timothy Mkhabela’s lawyer received over R1 million in RAF benefits, but kept telling Timothy that his compensation still has not been paid out. To separate Timothy from people who might show him the light, the lawyer built him a shack near the N12.

Turn That On-the-Job Experience Into A Qualification

You have been doing the work for years and have amassed a wealth of experience, but have never had formal education for the job or obtained a qualification for it. Everything you know, has been obtained from On-the-Job Experience. This lack of formal education has curtailed your career advancement, forcing you to watch less experienced colleagues progress ahead of you simply because they have diplomas/degrees.
Well, not anymore. Your wealth experience can actually be all you need to get an internationally recognised qualification.
The University of South Africa (Unisa) uses the Recognition of Prior Learning (RPL) process as an additional pathway to admit students in its qualifications.
The RPL process is designed to provide students who do not meet the statutory admission requirements of the qualifications but have gained work experience. It acknowledges previous knowledge, skills, and competencies for them to have access, mobility, and better career paths. It permits our prospective students to gain credits within formal certificates, diplomas, and degree qualifications offered by the university based on the level and extent of their knowledge.
This process is also a commitment to being responsive and student-centered through providing a supportive and enabling environment for students with work experience and skills to study further through UNISA’s comprehensive open distance e-learning (CODeL) model and opportunities.
Whereas Unisa has been using the RPL process for many years, the community is unaware of this pathway. Unisa staff members are available to explain the benefits of the RPL process through the media.

For enquiries and interviews requests, please contact Tommy Huma (Unisa: Senior Media Officer) on 072 218 6197 / humartm@unisa.ac.za OR Edgar Rathelele on 063 731 5456 / ratheme@unisa.ac.za

$1000 (17 800) Up For Grabs In Short Story Contest

This is the 5th year of the Afritondo Short Story Prize and a special landmark for us at Afritondo. We thank all our writers for their contributions and look forward to reading all the stories for this year’s contest.

THEME
This year we want writers to respond to the theme of “fate”. You are welcome to give the theme your own personal interpretation.

As always we are looking for stories that surprise us, that take risks with imagination and language. A good story for our theme will offer unique insight into the theme and explore characters in refreshing and imaginative ways.

Deadline: December 15, 2023.

PRIZE
The winner will receive a cash prize of $1000. Four other shortlisted writers will get $100 each. The longlist will be published in an anthology in August 2024.

The 2023 Prize was awarded to Alex Kadiri for his story, The Hyena and The Two-Headed Goat, published in the anthology, The Anatomy of Flying Things.

The 2022 Prize was awarded to Howard Meh-Buh Maximus for his story, Grotto, published in the anthology Rain Dance.

The 2021 Prize was awarded to Desta Haile for her story, Ethio-Cubano, published in the anthology The Hope, The Prayer, The Anthem.

The 2020 Prize was awarded to Jarred Thompson for his story, Good Help is Hard to Find, published in the anthology Yellow Means Stay.

The entry guidelines for the 2024 Prize can be found here:

https://afritondo.com/entry-guidelines-2024

Women Breaking The Glass Ceiling

ISBN: 978-0-6397-4568-8

Women Breaking The Glass Ceiling
Glass Ceiling (noun): An unacknowledged barrier to advancement in a profession, especially affecting women and members of minorities. – Oxford Languages.
*A metaphor usually applied to people of marginalised genders, used to represent an invisible barrier that prevents an oppressed demographic from rising beyond a certain level in a hierarchy. No matter how invisible the glass ceiling is expressed, it is actually a difficult obstacle to overcome. – Wikipedia
*The invisible – but impenetrable – barrier(s) between women and the executive suite, preventing women from reaching the highest levels of the business world regardless of their accomplishments and merits. – The US Department of Labor.
The term ‘glass ceiling’ was first popularised in the late 1970s to describe invisible barriers to women’s career advancements. Though society has made giant strides towards levelling the playing field, the odds are still stacked against women who have the ambition and potential to lead.
In this book, 18 scholars dissect these unacknowledged rules and obstacles waylaying women in their paths of career advancement. Each chapter, backed by published studies conducted around the globe, probes these ‘speedhumps’ that are not in a form of well-defined policies, but still go a long way in preventing women from gaining leadership opportunities, leaving them at the bottom of the workplace hierarchies and appreciated merely as homemakers.
PUBLISH’D AFRIKA co-founder Thokozani Magagula said the book is a must for every woman with an ambition to climb the corporate ladder in business, government, construction, engineering and any other sphere known to be male-dominated.
“The authors look into the glass ceiling at institutions of higher learning, the business world, industries and in how the glass ceiling affects widows in the African cultural setting,” he said. “The book also covers colonial influence, White domination and power structures in academia, as well as gender and age biases in the workplace, culture and widows.”
Professor Maehabo Magano, a full professor in the Department of Psychology of Education at the University of South Africa (UNISA), said there are many critical issues regarding the lack of equity and parity for women of colour in the workplace. These include unequal representation, lack of sociocultural understanding, embedded institutional racism, and insufficient collaboration and relationship building.
“In many societies around the world, women also face greater societal scrutiny as well as unequal treatment in the workplace, at home and in relationships,” she said. “In this volume, titled Women Breaking the Glass Ceiling, we explore various ways in which women draw on their individual resourcefulness, traditional values, and support of female and male allies to navigate the ways and means of breaking the proverbial glass ceiling.”
Women experience a myriad of challenges in different spheres of life that may prevent them from achieving their full potential. According to Professor Dolapo Adeniji, of Adelphi University in the United States, most women work very hard to equip themselves academically and make sound contributions to their practice and broader community. Some of their contributions are even cited and implemented in various fields and disciplines to make a difference globally.
“Yet, despite their sound and valuable academic contributions, very few women ascend the academic ladder to reach managerial leadership at the apex of institutions of higher learning,” she said. “Those who manage to lead and be appointed to the middle and top-level management roles also face pressure from their counterparts and other structures in society. They also struggle to achieve their full potential in other sectors including society, tribal groups, politics and economy.”
“Thus, it is necessary to examine how women are perceived globally and how patriarchy has bedevilled the society. Will the world ever have a paradigm shift in recognising women? Are women pushing hard enough to break the glass ceiling that exists globally?”
The current body of work is an attempt to address these questions and to leverage on the experiences of women, especially those in higher education, to create a scholarship of possibility and a reality for women to break the glass ceiling and ascend the ladder of success in any discipline and lead.
To order the book, please email info@publishdafrika.com

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – August 2023 Leg/ Phakamisa Mayaba

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: Dear Zweli
Written by Phakamisa Mayaba

Awaiting a letter from a father you haven’t seen since your ninth birthday must be a tough ask on anyone, not least a sixteen-year-old. So I figured I’d be a dad for once and explain to my son the reasons for not having gotten back to him sooner. All night I’d spent mulling it over when it dawned on me I didn’t really have any. Work, work; it’s always work, isn’t it? I think you’re at that age now when you can pick up on a lie. Maybe – heaven forbid – you can spin a fine one yourself. So what do you say we cut the fluff and play open cards for a change?
Your last letter, my boy, was full of noteworthy curiosities. Though I’m hardly the sort of person who cries easily, man, your penmanship had me ruffling for an old Dylan record, just so that anybody who was around would know: Geez! The only thing that’d ever make this guy cry is music.
From the pages leaped at me the anguished torments of a child having to grow up really fast. With his mother (how is Kathy doing by the way?) putting in overtime at the hospital, his father miles away; the sheer idea of a normal family is, no doubt, missed on him. To be sure, dear boy, it’s a rough place to be in. Having to put up appearances; forging mom’s signature on the excursion indemnity form; lying about why your dad never picks you up from school; that your last oral presentation was of an imaginary dog you don’t really own because they have a strict no-pets policy at that haggard downtown apartment block which your mom can barely afford.
Judging by some of the stuff you’ve entrusted upon me, I can see where this is going but whether it will get there, only you will decide. You see, Zweli, in life you can be one of two people. Am I beginning to sound like a shrink? I certainly think so, so I’ll drop the serious, filial spiel for now. Vaguely, you mentioned a girl, Thembi, I believe is her name. Can’t tell you how you must have felt when you found out she has the hots for James, the chizboy? What I do know is that between rejection and jealousy cuts a fine line. So fine you’ll often don’t see yourself crossing it. Before you realise it, you’re clambering through the school corridors in designer greys and shoes. Your nose looks down on those of lesser acquisitions – even your friend Thabo who once welcomed you to this very school with a big smile, bigger glasses and an even greater character seems cumbersome to you of late only because he’s just not cool enough.
Your tie hangs loosely around the neck, shirt sleeves rolled high as you drag on a forbidden cigarette inside a forbidden shed somewhere on the school grounds at break time. You think you’re the proverbial turd and you’re probably right. A turd who has snuck into his mother’s room while she wasn’t looking, ruffled through her handbag and retrieved the last money inside it so that Thembi might finally see that you too could be cool like James. You too could be the one bunking school, slipping inside a liquor store and walking out bearing a bottle of liqueur that you, Thembi, and all the other cool kids will enjoy at a time when the ‘losers’ are bored in Ms Green’s-always-boring Maths class. “Cool” may be what you Insta kids call it, but to me it crumbles to a singular disaster: utter stupidity!
But who am I to pass judgement, right? Absent father! Some hotshot lawyer in a priestly gown, lying through his teeth in an effort to spare some guy who’s done some really bad stuff from doing hard time alongside other bad guys. So I lie – I’m sure your mother tells you so all the time – and I get paid for it. Hardly an honourable way to earn one’s keep but then again what job is without its hypocrisies? For what it’s worth, when I was your age, I’d often ask after my own father.
“He’s in the mines,” my mom would say, “digging for gold.” Every day, she’d continue, from sunrise till sunup, dad was taking a pickaxe to solid granite, ostensibly making his fortune. He was sunk way in the underbelly of the Earth, sweating, bleeding, heaving and I’d like to think that as he was plunging the drill, or wielding the pickaxe, in his mind, between the requisite accuracy, that in the rearview mirror he could still see us, his wife and kids. His family.
Yet, in the fleeting memories I vaguely have of him, he never seemed to have enough to buy me anything; I’d even have to lie to friends every time I happened to get a new pair of anything.
I’d tell anybody around that “My father bought this for me, don’t you dare touch it.” And act like I truly believed it; that my father actually took time from work, told to his colleagues that he was going to buy a copy of whatever it is that the kids were listening to in those days for his son.
That his son mattered.
But one night he came back unannounced, heaving and frail. A week later we buried him in a cheap coffin, not so much a tombstone to immortalise his memory.
I don’t mean to depress you, Zweli, in recounting this woeful yarn, only to say, sometimes a lie is more palatable than the truth. Some things are far more beautiful in how we perceive them than in how they really are. And so when you write about your friend, James, how “in” he is with the crowd and his big brother Tony who speaks tsotsitaal and gets all the pretty girls, I’m happy and worried in the same breath because I see exactly how this is fated to end even though I can only speculate as to how it began.
In Tony’s company you probably feel like the most important person given how he dotes after you. He calls you “kid” and that satisfies a longing for brotherly or, for that matter, fatherly affection, something you’ve never really known. Pour another one for the “kid” he instructs his aides when your glass of beer is spent. “Let the kid have the first puff” when a joint is rolled. He calls you aside to his private room, walks you up to a safe concealed behind a glossy portrait of a duck-walking Elvis Presley. He punches in a few keys and the vault opens. There are gleaming watches, bracelets, gold cufflinks and stacks of money – enough, you think to yourself – to buy a dozen cars. Of those he has plenty in his five garages and you can have them too someday. But there is a snag – there always is – some pound of flesh to be surrendered. Nothing comes easily in this world. But so you can start out small and work your way up, he tells you.
James, along with an older spiv will show you exactly how it’s done tonight. They’ll pick you up somewhere secluded and you’ll be sure to wear black. Your car with no plates and tinted windows will cruise casually around the city. The vigilant eyes of the spiv will yell James to a screeching halt and that’s your cue to leap out the back, approach the car that’s idling at the intersection and point a gun at the driver. Simple as that; like taking candy from a baby. Of course the maiden attempt will go just according to plan – that’s because the car you thought you were hijacking is actually one of Tony’s and the driver is not as unwitting as his expression lets on. He’s just a prop in Tony’s vast organogram, another dramatis persona in this exciting, elaborate tryst in the underbelly of a play where everything looks easy as the audience who applaud, and swoon but altogether harbouring no ties with the actors who happen to be sweating yet are none the wiser before them. But they’ll lull you into thinking you’re a badass, toasting to your courage at a party with the coolest people, and girls who look like they’ve just stepped off a pageant runway.
“Welcome” Tony will announce, “now, you’re one of us.” And there’ll be champagnes popping and glasses clinking. And next time, you’ll scour the city again and maybe you’ll be lucky once more. But the more often you succeed, the slimmer your chances of always getting away with it become. Maybe you’ll be so good as to be worthy of a promotion. But again, a promotion only means your chances of getting out alive are just that much slimmer too. You know way too much to simply hand in the gun and walk out the front door. Now that you’re up the ladder, your name does the rounds and eventually some policeman catches its scent and starts sniffing at your spoor.
You don’t yet know it but you have shadows following you. They loom after you long enough to anticipate your next move. Then boom! Gotcha! These guys always get nailed Zweli. Always. And when you’re standing before the stern-faced judge, you think Tony will be there invoking those brotherly declarations you guys would make when you were hijacking cars that went along the skit of; “I die where my brother should die.”
Not in this lifetime old chap; here you are just another dispensable rag, plenty more out there to trample on. By the time you’ve come to your senses, you’re lying on a fleabed, in a 4 by 4 cell, all alone. Thembi is out there looking ahead to the rest of the life ahead of her. The one every kid deserves, even you. Tony doesn’t even bother thanking you with a visit. Your mom is in tears whenever she summons the strength to see the person who broke her heart forever. And what else can she do, son, except lie that your father is a lawyer when in fact he is nothing but a prisoner who wallows in his cell fighting every day in the hope that his son will turn out not the same way that he did.

Yours, Truthfully
Your Father

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – August 2023 Leg/ The ‘Weird’ Brown Girl

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – August 2023 Leg
THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: A TRAIL OF YOUTHFUL BONES
Written by The ‘Weird’ Brown Girl

Langa watched as children ran around the bedrooms looking for their best clothes to prepare themselves for the day ahead. The sun’s glow permeated through the floor length windows of the orphanage, illuminating the shabby Christmas decorations adorning the walls. Langa would have carried on sleeping if it weren’t for her cruel overseer Mother Tulip.
Mother Tulip was a voluptuous woman of cruel pedigree with a permanent twisted scowl on her face. Mother Tulip was kind to every child in the orphanage except for Langa. Langa wasn’t sure if the reason for such hatred from Mother Tulip as well as all the other inhabitants of the orphanage was because of her skin colour or sharp tongue. Maybe it was both, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.
Langa was an anomaly. Even to herself. She was a tall, thin seventeen-year-old girl with hair as wild and gorgeous as a lion’s mane. Her skin was a smooth shade of black that was so dark it was almost navy blue. Everyone at the orphanage started a rumour claiming that her skin colour was an unnatural shade of black because she had been kissed by a demon when she was a baby. People considered her unlucky or evil. These superstitions led to people alienating her and despising her existence.
Langa had been abandoned by her mother in an alley. She had been tucked in a blanket and placed in an old box with a note that had her name on it, including a small but beautiful crescent moon-shaped pendant with the words, “be the light.”
Sister Shamiso, a nun with a beautiful heart had found baby Langa in the alley wailing, the pendant her mother had left her fisted in her small hand. Langa abhorred her mother for leaving her to suffer the cruelty of strangers. She didn’t want anything to do with her mother, but she was always strangely convicted to keep the pendant her mother had left for her. The pendant brought her comfort, it was her solace and her only hope in a miserable world that fate had fashioned for her. She often clutched it to her chest after some of Mother Tulip’s painful mulberry stick lashes and other people’s horrible comments about her skin. It was her only source of comfort when Sister Shamiso passed away after a difficult fight with cancer. Langa was jostled out of her reverie when Mother Tulip’s massive bosom shoved her away from the window sill.
“Go get dressed Soot, you might get adopted today,” Mother Tulip ordered, her usual scowl etched on her face. Mother Tulip towered over Langa, her imposing build dwarfing the straight-faced teenager. Langa was not the least bit intimidated. If anything, she silently challenged Mother Tulip by squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, her gaze unwavering.
“My name is Langa, not Soot,” she enunciated confidently.
“Your name is whatever I want it to be, you little devil. Now go get dressed and do your best today,” Mother Tulip hissed.
Langa let out an aggravated sigh before stomping off to a room she shared with other girls. She grabbed the best dress she had, quickly yanking it on her body. Langa was a dreamer but she was no fool. She knew that no one cared to adopt her, because of her age. She was now 17 and no couple was willing to adopt a teenager. Langa remembered when she was younger, about six years old, when she wanted nothing more than to be adopted and rescued by people who would love her. That proved impossible seeing as how no one cared enough to even consider her. Couples would take one look at her and disperse, no doubt apprehensive of her dark skin and curious features.
Thanks to Sister Shamiso, Langa had grown up self-aware. She would constantly tell Langa that humans often despised what they didn’t understand. They despised differences in anyone even if the person was one of them. Langa firmly believed that her own people often displayed shocking amounts of self-hatred by ridiculing dark skin. Langa maneuvered her way through the sea of children and nuns bustling around the orphanage in preparation for adoption day. Langa hated adoption days with every fibre of her being. She didn’t like being paraded around like she was up for sale at an auction.
The couples or customers as Langa liked to call them arrived, their eyes lit with the hope of finding a child to call their own. Before Langa could join the rest of the children, one of the nuns in charge pulled her aside and warned her not to be as mouthy as she usually was. Langa couldn’t help but snicker; her tongue was a little sharp. Some couples offered Langa warm smiles which she would return with scowls.
One woman told Langa that her frock was pretty, to which she replied with, ” I can’t say the same thing about yours.” The woman gasped in disbelief and left the premises beside herself with anger. The day pressed on and Langa braved every irksome moment of it. It wasn’t until a couple donning sleek, well-tailored clothes approached her that Langa’s interest was slightly roused.
“I don’t care for politicians,” Langa said and yawned after the imposing couple had introduced themselves to her.
The couple, Rudo and Tino Hove, were some of Zimbabwe’s most prominent politicians. Their faces were plastered on billboards and they always managed to secure themselves an interview on television.
“Well, we’re interested in you, Langa. Mother Tulip tells us that you’re mouthy but brilliant. I mean, your report filled with impressive grades speaks for itself,” Tino pointed out.
Langa scoffed. “Mother Tulip complimenting me? Gosh, she really does want me gone.”
The back-and-forth repartee carried on between the couple and Langa. Langa was surprised that her curt tongue hadn’t ran the couple off yet. In the end, it was clear that Langa had come to like the couple. No sooner than a few weeks later, papers were drafted and filed, the court was paid a visit and miraculously, Langa became their daughter.
After a week, Langa was excited when a sleek black car came to a stop in front of a huge silver gate, adorned by damp intertwined vines that shimmered like emeralds under the afternoon sun. Langa knew that the couple that had taken interest in her was well-off, however she had not expected such a blatant display of opulence. The gates were opened by two security guards, revealing a driveway made of cobblestone. As the car drove up the driveway, she marvelled at the wide expanse of manicured lawns and a kaleidoscope of flowers.
Her new home was ensconced on a small hill, overlooking the lawns. The Hoves were standing at the front door, warm smiles adorning their faces. Rudo’s smile widened when Langa stepped out of the car, her eyes perusing the splendour of the house.
***
Two months had passed since Langa had started living with the Hove couple. They were kind, intelligent and attentive. They gave her just about anything she desired. They had found her an artistic private tutor whom she adored. They spoilt her with books, paint and cameras as she loved art.
One rainy morning, Langa settled down to eat her breakfast when one of the maids, a petite woman with a mouth especially created for gossip, placed Langa’s cup of tea on the table. The maid kept glancing at Langa.
“Spit it out, Farai,” Langa ordered.
“You’re the tenth child,” Farai muttered as she twiddled her thumbs.
“What are you talking about?” Langa sighed.
“You’re the tenth child the Hove family has adopted,” Farai said quickly before scurrying away. Langa suddenly found it difficult to swallow the mealie-meal porridge she had been enjoying. Farai was known to gossip but there were always elements of truth to what she said. Still, ten children seemed far-fetched. If what Farai said was true, why hadn’t Rudo and Tino mentioned any of them? Why weren’t they here? There was no sign that other children had lived in this home.
Langa tried very hard to ignore what Farai had said. She had tried to choke it up to mere gossip. Try as she might to ignore what Farai had said, she just couldn’t. Her curiosity had been peaked. Langa could barely focus during class. After her tutoring sessions, Langa found herself in front of Tino’s study. It was a private room that the staff was only permitted to clean on Fridays. Her parents hadn’t explicitly told her she wasn’t allowed in the study, but it was obvious she wasn’t allowed.
Langa tried to open the door, but it was locked. She grabbed a Bobby pin from the pocket of her tunic and dismantled it, whilst ensuring to elongate one end of the pin. She fiddled with the keyhole until the door opened. Langa had picked this trick up at the orphanage in her countless escapes from the cold and damp detention room. The study was a plain room with a table that had a phone on top of it and two chairs on opposite ends of the table. It was dark as the curtains were closed. The table had a few files on top of it, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.
She scanned the room until her eyes landed on the table drawers. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick file that was placed underneath a myriad of papers. Langa blew the dust off the thick file and opened it, watching flecks of dust saturate the air. The file contained various images of children, including the information about their dates of birth and ages. There were nine children in total, all from different orphanages. Just then the phone on the table buzzed, Langa grabbed it then clicked on the notification that opened a pandora’s box. She saw a message from a Mr Moyo who was excited for Rudo and her husband Tino’s invite to dine on a new child. Langa gasped in horror when she realised that this Mr Moyo was one of many people invited to dine on a new child. She read further and uncovered that the couple had been adopting children in the past only to slaughter them like animals and dine on them. Langa realised that she was their next meal. The revelation was horrifying.
Langa made to grab the phone and the files in order to present them to the police. She heard footsteps trudging up the stairs and her parents’ voices. She quickly put everything back in its place and ran to her room before she was caught. In the morning, she planned to pass by the study, grab the evidence and head to the police but when she went back to the study, everything was gone. Had they cleared the study, fully aware that she had been snooping? Her heart sank and fear gripped her like a vice, but she was determined to go to the police.
“I think my parents are cannibals who adopt children to eat them,” Langa reiterated for the fifth time that afternoon at the police station. The chief of police in Burnside roared with laughter, even going as far as to invite his other colleagues to laugh with him. Langa sighed when she realised that they didn’t believe her. She understood why they didn’t believe her. She had no evidence except for her word. Her word alone wasn’t credible.
The police continued to laugh at her as she pushed her chair backwards and stood up. She grabbed her backpack and left the police station, then headed to a place she couldn’t call home anymore. Her heart was filled with fear. Langa laid awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was well aware that she was in danger. She knew that she had to leave with her life intact.
Where would she run to? Where would she hide? She knew that Rudo and Tino would find her and make her disappear from the face of the planet just like the other nine kids who came before her. No one would look for her. After all, no one cared about orphans. They had resources befitting of crooked politicians that would ensure she was caught and killed. She knew that to be free, she had to face them. She had to bring their dark deeds into the light. To do that, she had to get evidence of their misdeeds and take it to a competent police officer who would imprison them.
Langa knew that if she didn’t act fast, she would end up dead. She immediately sat up straight, kicked off her duvet and rushed for her satchel. Langa yanked on a jacket. She was going to get the phone and the files and flee the mansion before they caught her. Langa was in Tino’s study in no less than five minutes, shoving every file she could find into her satchel. She searched all the drawers for Rudo’s phone which contained all messages the couple had with their fellow cannibals.
“Looking for this?” Rudo asked after switching on a light that illuminated the whole study.
Langa’s heart sank as Rudo marched up to her. She ordered a security guard to apprehend her. Langa felt a sharp pain on her head after the buff security guard delivered a devastating blow to it. Everything faded to black before she collapsed. When Langa came to, she realised she was bound to a chair, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by thick rope. Rudo and Tino were staring at her with hollow eyes.
“You two are cannibals. You’ve been eating them? You’re evil!” Langa screamed.
“Animals eat other animals all the time. How is what we do any different?” Tino asked.
“You two are sick! You’ll never get away with this… all those children—you killed them,” Langa struggled to say as she choked on her tears.
“We put unwanted kids out of their misery, and we enjoy youth-giving meals,” Tino smiled sinisterly.
Rudo set the files ablaze with her lighter. She threw the papers into the metal bin in front of her. “Now, our colleague will come by later today for dinner,” Rudo grinned gleefully. “Try not to look so mortified. Consider it as us taking you out of your miserable existence.”
“You’ll never win!” Langa announced. “Say Hi to the camera; my friend and I have your confession on live and the world is watching.”
“What?” Tino gulped.
“One of my jacket buttons has a camera on it,” Langa smirked triumphantly.
Relief flooded Langa when she heard sirens in the distance. She would make sure the Hove family paid for their crimes. Langa phased out the couple’s panicked noises as she mused about how she hadn’t expected to go sleuthing to live up to a pendant that implored her to be the light.

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – August 2023 Leg/ Ntsarane Nelson Molapo


THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: “WHEN THE PRAYING STOPS”
Written by Ntsarane Nelson Molapo

The chorus had everybody swaying and dancing to the melodic voices of the congregation and the choir, accompanied by the simultaneous rhythmic clapping of hands and the beating of drums. Other members had bell-shaped metal items that they struck with another metal producing their own spice to the mix. The music prepared the congregation mentally and spiritually for the sermon that would be delivered by their leader later. It whipped up emotions and got everyone into an almost uncontrollable frenzy. It drove some members to act like they were in a trance, in their own world! The atmosphere was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
The resident priest, Pastor Sipho Selwane, stayed with his wife and two daughters in an exclusive area that was popularly referred to as the “Billionaires Playground”. Its real name was Serenity. In contrast to the outbuildings in Pastor Selwane’s estate, the house itself was a modern, imposing three-storey building. To complete the picture of opulence that one senses as soon as one enters through the large electrical gates, there’s a long driveway, lined with tall trees on both sides. The majestic house stands a further five hundred meters away. Next to it is a large pool that shows water flowing into a lake adjacent to the property but surprisingly, the pool never empties!
The pastor was a snazzy dresser. He believed in flaunting his expensive fashion taste in everyone’s face. Known to wear top international brands, his trademark among his peers was that he would never mix brands. Whenever he wanted to feel special, which was almost always, he would, on a certain day choose to wear for example only, Gucci or Versace or Louis Vuitton etc. Therefore, on that day, he would wear only that brand, from head to toe! In jewellery, he wasn’t a fan of wearing neck chains or wrist bands. His taste in watches was top notch. In this category, three names dominated – Tag Heuer, Cartier and Rolex. Whenever he needed “go kgalemela lenyatso”, he would wear one of these, knowing very well that they were bound to turn a few heads!
Even though Pastor Sipho was more into bikes than cars, his choice of four-wheeled vehicles was intended to make an immediate impression. He owned only four cars, among them a Porsche Panamera and a Mercedes Maybach S Class. He also had five motor bikes ranging from a BMW to a Harley Davidson. Whenever he felt like clearing his head, he would get onto one of these and as soon as he was clear of the city traffic, he would push the engine to full throttle and enjoy the thrill of adrenalin rushing through his body! All this and much, much more sums up Pastor Sipho’s life. It is a fact that most men of the cloth are poorer than church mice, so “How did this pastor get it right?”
On this day, like in most other days, the large building of the church was packed to capacity. As the singing continued, Mfundisi stood holding the pulpit with both hands, slightly leaning forward with an almost invisible smile pasted on his lips. He was waiting for the critical moment when all resistance would be driven from everyone when he brings up the issue of “Giving to the Lord”. Years of practice had taught him to pick just the right moment to get the greatest financial results from his flock. When the moment arrived, he knew.
In a calculated and well-rehearsed move, he dropped his head to his chest and raised his hand with the palm open and slowly clenched it into a fist, signaling that the music must stop. The sermon that he delivered was hard hitting and could literally have caused blood to pour out of a stone. Mfundisi Sipho Selwane was at his element and some people were moved to tears. He spoke with a well-modulated rough and emotionally charged voice. As he was nearing the end of his sermon, he said:
“Brothers and sisters, you are nothing without the mercy of God. HALLELUYAH!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“God wants to bless you. But many of you cheat God. AMEN!!!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“Even though you want God to bless you abundantly, but when it is your turn to give to Him abundantly, you only give Him small change, AMEN!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“By how much do you want God to bless you today?”
The people opened their arms wide above their heads, indicating the size of the blessing they wanted!
“HALLELUYAH!!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“Come forward and give God your ALL and He in turn will give you His ALL!!!”
With that, he motioned with his hands for the people to come forward and deposit their offerings into the four large cane baskets at the front. Someone burst into a new chorus and everybody joined in, proudly waving stacks of bank notes in the air as they surged forward. Pastor Selwane moved from behind the pulpit and stood watching as his flock filled up the baskets with cash. Just when it looked like it was coming to the end, another moving chorus erupted. It grew in intensity and engulfed the worshippers with ‘umoya’ until they were dripping with sweat.
Mfundisi announced that the day was his birthday. Amid the congratulatory ululating and clapping of hands, the pastor again beckoned the congregation to come and make more offerings. Everyone danced their way to the front and dropped some more bundles of bank notes into the baskets.
Almost unnoticed, a man quietly came into the building through one of the side doors. He was carrying a large gift-type paper bag that was straining under the weight of whatever was inside. When he got to the front, he insisted on handing it directly to the pastor as it was his birthday gift. He then took his place in the back row and joined in the singing. After about ten minutes he quietly slipped out without drawing any attention.
Finally, when he was convinced that everyone had come more than once to the front, Pastor Selwane signaled to two muscled young men and two young women, to pick up the baskets! The one girl’s looks had a way of catching one’s attention without much effort. She had what one could call aggressive beauty. She had a tough looking jaw-line which resembled that of a boxer who had taken a few serious blows in the ring. As the frenzied singing continued, the pastor quietly slipped behind the curtain, shepherding the fortune bearers to a room at the back. The foursome was part of the team of ushers that directs people to their seats when they arrive for the service. But they also had an added responsibility of attending to every whim and wish of Pastor Selwane.
During and after the offering, the strong-men, Lefika and Tornado, who were always armed to the teeth, double up as bodyguards, ensuring the safety of the man of God, and also as security guards for the cash. The girls, Nqobile and Nompilo, were at the beck and call of ntate Mfundisi. Whenever he needed any or both of them, they were always at hand. Nobody really knew the scope or limit of their duties and nobody asked! The four comprised what is known as the inner circle, with Mfundisi holding the center.
The church service wound down and Mfundisi gave the last prayer dismissing the congregants. He then mingled with them and chit-chatted with those who wanted his attention. Slowly the chattering died down and the place appeared empty except for the four of them. They then converged in a secluded room at the back of the building to count the day’s takings. When he was satisfied that every cent had been accounted for, Pastor Sipho pulled out four A5 sized brown envelopes from his jacket and dropped them in front of each one of them. They all broke into loud ululating and praise-singing that bordered on worshipping the man.
After he told them to restrain themselves, he took the two women into a secluded room at the back. There, Nqobile and Nompilo immediately changed into plastic suits similar to those used by medical teams during the COVID-19 pandemic. Mfundisi came in carrying the “Gift” bag that was given to him earlier. It contained two “Brick” sized parcels sealed with black plastic. He took out another two similar bricks from a safe in the corner. The girls knew exactly what to do. They expertly peeled off the wrappings and started spreading the white powder on the foil that covered the table. Then they divided and weighed the stuff, making packages according to a list of orders brought by Mfundisi. He stood behind them, barking instructions:
“I want every gram accounted for, okay?!”
Later, Mfundisi went out into the large backyard where Lefika and Tornado, together with three other men, were busy with preparations for a large meal or party. On a large braai stand under a tree, meats of all kinds were hissing and sizzling under their watchful eyes. Drinks in large containers and buckets of ice could be seen everywhere.
The front gate and door were by now locked and for all intents and purposes the church building looked deserted. But the back of the property, which was hidden from the public, was a hive of activity. Top range vehicles were streaming in through a cleverly concealed entrance. Their occupants, ranging from early twenties and upwards in age, all dressed trendily, excitedly spilled out of the cars, greeting and chatting with each other as they entered the building. Within a few hours after the church service ended, the place had been transformed into a top-class den of iniquity, complete with strip dancers and pole dancers.
The sanctuary of the church was now converted into a VIP area where the big spenders were accommodated. One could say that they had a ringside view. They were lounging in comfortable couches and chairs. Others sat comfortably on the floor. Most women were dressed to please the eye. High stiletto heels, skimpy dresses and bare-backed tops were the order of the day. Expensive drinks flowed freely and the sweet smell of incense that earlier permeated the area was now unceremoniously replaced by the pungent smell of Cuban cigars that eerily hung in the air.
At spaced intervals, the patrons would discreetly visit the back room where Nqobile and Nompilo had all their orders ready for collection. Some would first sit down and enjoy a sniff or a lick of the powdery stuff before collecting their orders. Pastor Sipho would occasionally take a walk around the building, making sure that every patron felt special and appreciated. He was a master in communication and people skills. Once he turned his charm on, very few people could resist him. He made his congregants to believe that they could reach the dizzy heights of success like him, if they gave as much as they could to the church. As a result, they emptied their pockets and bank balances, pinning their hope on him.
The pastor’s family knew how much he enjoyed their wholesome home-prepared meals, so they decided to do that for his birthday. After the service, they bought a few items and headed home. They knew from experience that Daddy had to finish God’s work first, before going home to attend to his own family needs. His wife had a special surprise birthday present for him. With her two daughters turning into teenagers soon, she had been praying to give them a sibling, hopefully a brother. God had finally answered her prayers and now she wanted to surprise her husband by announcing her pregnancy during dinner.
Archbishop Joseph Rademeyer was in charge of thirteen bishops that served under him. Among them was the aging Bishop Amos Zanempilo, to whom Pastor Selwane reported. These two had been watching the growth of both Pastor Selwane and his church. They were certain that when Bishop Zanempilo retires, Pastor Selwane would become bishop. After consulting some senior bishops, it was a done deal. They then decided to give Pastor Selwane the good tidings in person on his birthday!
Nothing beats spoiling oneself a little once in a while, right? Being his birthday, Pastor Selwane decided to let his hair down after seeing that his clandestine operation was going on perfectly. He was joking, laughing and was seen more than once in the center of a group of dancers, screaming: “Make the circle bigger!!!” all to the amusement of the workers and the patrons alike. With all inhibitions gone, it came as no surprise when, completely out of character, he started flirting indiscriminately with some women in the room.
Dusk was falling fast and the dinner preparations at home were spot-on. The large dinner table was being laid to accommodate about fifteen people. Archbishop Rademeyer pressed the buzzer at the gate and was let in. On arrival he explained that he could not get hold of Pastor Selwane and that from the gates of the church, the place looked deserted. Mrs. Selwane promptly invited the two clerics to stay for dinner, adding that they could meet with Pastor Selwane afterwards. The archbishop politely declined, saying that he had great news to deliver to the pastor without delay. Mrs. Selwane smiled and offered to take them to her husband.
Things were spiraling up to dizzy heights at the church, or was it an entertainment venue? From the drinks and assortment of substances that he took, Pastor Selwane felt like he was literally walking on clouds. And he liked it. Without any resistance, he allowed two beautiful girls to lead him to a large chair that was usually reserved for a bishop when he visits the church. It had a regal feel to it. They then put a paper crown on his head and gave him a scepter to complete his ascendency the throne. One girl ripped off his shirt, took out her red lipstick and wrote: “HBD MY KING!” on his chest! The other girl held a platter with white powder close to his face and handed him a R200 note rolled into a straw. He stuck it into his nostril and cleaned out one long line at a go! Smudges of the stuff were all over his nostrils. As he was about to plunge down for another pull, he heard the unmistakable voice of his wife screaming:
“Sipho wenzani?”
He slowly lifted his head up to see his beautiful wife, flanked by their daughters standing in front of him. Her face was a mixture of all the emotions put together. She was shaking like a leaf. The girls just cried! The two men of God stood there in disbelief. None of them could muster enough courage to say anything to Pastor Selwane! The pastor just stared at them!
Have you ever wondered what happens in your place of worship when the praying stops?

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3