I have been haunted, these past few days, by the memory of a sound.
The metallic clash of soldiers’ bayonets. A trap door snapping shut that no amount of charm or wit can open. Helpless in front of a power greater than yourself.
The military of my country is well trained. Not only in war and bullying, but also in how to recognise an enemy. No expense has been spared. They are subsumed in hogwash and truly think that people of Dirinda and Natal’s tribe are dirty, defective and out to murder our countryfolk in their beds.
I can’t blame the poor soldiers, really. When I say poor, I mean they own nothing. Of course the soldiers believe everything they are told. Dependency renders them childlike.
What does it take for a rookie to ignore what his seniors tell him? It would take a mind of steel. Or maybe it’s another element – that of water.
A fluid mind may ask: Why are they telling me this? Do they have a motive? Can I judge for myself?
But where does the fluid mind come from? I often ask myself this. Kheila, for instance, has never slavishly followed her elders. If anything she has taken the opposite course. Was she born like that? Or was there something in her family upbringing that made her feel secure enough to trust her own thoughts?
Sometimes, out of three children with the same upbringing, you get one maverick. While two are docile, the third asks questions.
I have spent my whole life toeing the line and admiring the mavericks: Kheila, and now Dirinda.
I thought I would never have the courage to join them. Until the night of steel.
Dirinda and I were hurrying across the square. The moon was full and Dirinda’s moon shadow tagged her, bumping over the cobblestones.
The bayonets came from nowhere, barring our paths. The clash of metal made my breath draw in so sharply, I couldn’t breathe out. I sensed Dirinda stiffen, beside me.
“Permits,” ordered a disembodied voice.
The lights from the square shone yellow on his outstretched hand. We fumbled in bags and pockets.
“Are you being slow on purpose?” said the second soldier, with a hungry voice.
The one in charge held his bayonet at ease.
“Your scarf,” he said to Dirinda.
She pulled it back from her head, revealing her black hair. There was enough light to see its shine.
He inserted Dirinda’s card in the scanner attached to his belt. A weird electronic glow lit up his face as he studied it.
“A religious one, are you?” he asked. “Your elders don’t like their women out so late. Can’t see the problem myself. No one would want to touch their dirty holes anyway.”
He gave both cards back.
“You won’t be so lucky next time, witch woman. Even if you are in the company of a legitimate.”
As we turned the corner away from the square, I could hardly walk, my legs were trembling so. Born in this country, I was safe, a legitimate. But Dirinda?
“Now do you see?” said Dirinda. “It’s getting worse. I knew it. Now do you understand why I have asked you to take Natal?”
