Thokozani S.B. Maseko - Like a Lily on a Mountain, Love Grows on Rocky Terrains

Inhalt

Imprint 2 Imprint All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved. © 2021 novum publishing ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-182-8 ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-183-5 Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA Cover images: Ewa Niwczyk, Hongqi Zhang (aka Michael Zhang), Bruno Monteny, Grobler Du Preez | Dreamstime.com Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Chapter 1 3

Chapter 2 13

Chapter 3 28

Chapter 4 36

Chapter 5 60

Chapter 6 78

Chapter 7 87

Chapter 8 110

Chapter 9 118

Chapter 10 137

Chapter 11 152

Chapter 12 165

Chapter 13 177

Chapter 14 187

Chapter 15 201

Chapter 16 209

Chapter 17 222

Chapter 18 238

Chapter 19 251

Chapter 20 268

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2021 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-182-8

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-183-5

Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA

Cover images: Ewa Niwczyk, Hongqi Zhang (aka Michael Zhang), Bruno Monteny,

Grobler Du Preez | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Chapter 1

Hannah sped down the Mbabane-Manzini Highway in her rented Chevrolet Cruze as though her survival depended on it. It was always the case when she worked, and she was always working. Hers wasn’t what you call an eight-to-five job. It was some kind of mania, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

Still incensed from her unsatisfactory outcome in Manzini, she overtook a snail-paced vehicle and honked at the driver as she passed. No one seemed to understand the urgency of her mission.

When she’d engaged the Manzini Police Department, they’d been adamant that with no court order, Musa Shabalala’s failure to return home didn’t warrant a police search for him. His babynapping concerned no one, even those at the various television stations. Even the local newspapers chose not to mention the story. It appeared that pending the settlement of the divorce and the custody, that Musa Shabalala was fair game. Even though his mother, Betty, was frenzied, it appeared that everyone had consented to disregard the snatching; everyone! everyone but Hannah, who was not prepared to allow an eleven month old child, to become another casualty in a domestic conflict.

***

The sun sparkled off a brown board that read ‘Café, Phone and Gas – next exit road.’ A muffled curse passed her lips. She’d sworn to call the office back in Mbabane at around ten. She flashed a quick look at her watch: one fifteen p.m. Notwithstanding her assertions, that she was absolutely able to take care of herself, her colleagues would be worried about her. Swerving off the road, she obeyed the sign and pulled up at a decrepit souvenir shop stuck at the side of the road. Its woody balcony needed only a gigolo with a sunhat covering his eyes, and a cheroot protruding between gritted teeth to be mistaken for the back lot of Channel S Studios. A large bird hung overhead, seemingly waiting for the shop to finish dying.

The interior was dark with a faint musty stink. It was over thirty-four degrees Celsius outside and it had to be at least thirty-two inside. Apparently, there was no trace of a phone. Actually, there was no trace of life, but for the mould thriving on the angles of the old refrigerator case. Regardless of the tags promising ‘cold Coca Cola’ all around it, its mantelpieces were heaped with grimy brochures. They had titles that stimulated apathy at first sight, for Hannah. Titles like: Sex, Loneliness, and fathers. Hannah neither discussed nor read about such things.

“Can I be of service?” Hannah turned around at the echo of a man’s voice. “Miss?”

“Your container looks broken,” Hannah said, motioning towards the refrigerator. “Do you have something cold?”

He shot the container a what-the-hell-is-that look. “Power’s out,” he eventually said. “None since four, maybe five weeks ago.”

“All right then, a phone?” she asked.

Just like her, he had denim trousers and boots on, but he had also added a cowboy hat, a blade on his girdle and a napkin around his neck. No one had told Hannah that in Siphofaneni, it was still the wild south.

“Over there,” he said, motioning his head towards the dimmest part of the room. “Suppose it still works.”

It was a British phone. Hannah couldn’t recall the last time she’d used one of these, but it served the purpose all right. It linked her to an operator, and she was connected to her office.

“Social Welfare, Sophia speaking. Can I help you?”

“It’s me,” Hannah said. “I’m a few kilometres past Siphofaneni now, so you can relax.”

“Hannah? I’ve got Mrs. Shabalala on the line. Hold on a second, and I’ll tell her you’ve got everything in the palm of your hand.”

“Just put her through, Sophia. I’ll talk to her myself.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. The tiny phone booth was hot as a furnace, and she imagined something might have sneaked into her shirt. She hoped it was just a sweat bead.

“Hannah,” Sophia went on, “Allow me to tell her. You have enough stress to handle without Betty Shabalala crying miles and miles away. I can manage.”

“Appreciated, Sophia, but it’ll soothe her if she talks to me.”

“Oh, it’ll soothe her. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then Betty Shabalala was on the line. “Miss? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Shabalala. Can you hear me?”

“Oh! God be praised you’re there. I called John’s supervisor. I acted as if I was the bank, and that I required more information for his mortgage. It’s not enough to mother his child. He mentioned that John was leaving in a few days. When I pushed him harder, he said he supposed he might make a call in from the road, the road, Miss.”

“I did imagine that. I did mention it to you that he would drive, didn’t I?” Hannah asked. Unless they could afford a private jet, they wouldn’t fly. It was too simple to track them that way.

Mrs. Shabalala went on to talk about her former soon-to-be husband, and how getting Musa out of the country before the guardianship hearing befitted his character.

Suddenly, her voice was choked with tears. “You’ll find Musa, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Hannah answered. “Yes, I’ll find him.”

“And you’ll bring him straight to me, right?” Mrs. Shabalala was candidly crying now, and Hannah had to wipe a tear from her eyes.

“I’m sure I will find him,” she reassured her.

If she failed to bring Musa back, she’d hold onto Ron Shabalala’s tail until the lawyer obtained some kind of court directive to bring the boy back. The imperative thing was to ensure that the man didn’t just take Musa and vanish off the face of the earth.

“Do you have company?” Hannah asked, as she heard the unrelenting muffled sobbing. “I could request one of my colleagues to be with you while you wait.”

A man’s voice echoed over the wire. “Miss?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Thabo Masuku. Betty’s father.”

“I’m about two and half hours north of Lavumisa now.”

“Please get him back, Miss. You can’t even imagine what it’s like to lose a child. I hope you never know such heartache and sorrow. I’m really begging the Lord on your behalf …”

Hannah’s eyes finally gave way to tears. “I’ll get him. I give you my word.”