A Short Story
Blood And Teardrops
By Sammy Gaskin
Beside a fire a few yards away was Wanga, a comrade, just arrived at the camp after an escape from police net. Mundana spread the large map in his hand in front of Wanga, relaxed as he engulfed his head in a lump of smoke as he took the last bit of a cigarette that had been locked between his heavy lips.
"Now let's bear one thing in mind," he began with the reassuring tone of a group leader. "Any good rescue operation must be tactical and executed with speed and precision if positive results were to be achieved".
Squatting on the ground, he continued.
"This is the site of the prison. The compass places it north-east of our present location".
"That is Island Prison" Wanga cut in.
"You're right".
"I'm quite familiar with that site. Remember I was detained in that prison for six days".
"Oh, during the Soweto crisis?"
"Yeah".
"That places us at an advantage. Now, you heard the announcement?"
"I did".
"And what deductions did you make out of it?"
"They are bent on executing him".
"Yes, they are bent on executing him, despite pleas worldwide for clemency, Mundana stated with a cynic look. "And the execution is scheduled for Johannesburg at noon today. We have one last card to play. How well we play it will determine whether we will have him back or whether they will silence him forever, which must not be in spite of the fact that we are not afraid to die".
"That is the spirit. Now unfold the plan".
Mundana went back to the map.
"There are two main routes linking Johannesburg to the Prison".
"Duke Road and Patton Street".
"Yes. We will divide the boys into three units. One unit will standby here against any sudden attack on our base. The other two will be in ambush on Duke Road and Patton Street. We have information from our secret network that they will be conveying him to Johannesburg in the early hours of the day by Patton Street. But we are taking no chances. We are laying ambush on Duke Road as well.
"A few intelligence unit comrades are already stationed near the prison to communicate activities by radio messages to us. They will identify the vehicle they are conveying him in and we will strike when they enter our zone of action and release him. That is the plan. What are your views?"
Wanga ran his left palm over his fully shaven skull, picked up a cigarette and lit it.
Chimpane brought out his shotgun and corked it ready for firing. The grunts from Solo were becoming louder now and this made Chimpane more poised for revenge.
"Quite a marvellous plan. I endorse it".
"Good. I will get the boys on the move at 3 am. By dawn we must be in ambush ready for action".
Meanwhile far away in Island Prison, in a dark cell is Solo, the black activist, awaiting public execution in a matter of hours. He had been chained hand and foot and had been sitting in the corner of that cell, clouded in a feeling of claustrophobia for the past two weeks, without even a bath. He was visibly tired but confident. At the back of his mind was the conviction of absolute innocence of the crime he had been accused of, but he knew he had limited power against a Law that could shrink or expand simply to suit the whims of some few overlords. Just one thing bothered his mind now. Yes, his desire to see his mother before she died; a request that had hitherto been turned down. And now, Solo knew that his hours in this life were very very limited; and with each moment of thought, the clock was ticking away, fast.
Three years ago, Solo left home to join a movement that he believed will liberate him and his people from the injustices prevalent in the society, at the age of sixteen. This was a popular movement. He had had a tumultuous formative period against the backdrop of oppression and discrimination. Life and living had been hard. Police brutalities, air raids and killings - very rampant. His dream had been the day the tears of Azania will dry forever. The day his motherland shall weep no more. Once every year he had come to Soweto to see his mother. It was on one of such trips that in the company of two other activists, Malinga and Chimpane, they were attacked by the State Security Police.
As the shots whistled over their heads through the forest, they sparked shivers through the spines of the innocent lives of the forest, sending the creeping creatures into their burrows and the birds into flight.
As Solo rushed into hiding, a stabbing pain pierced his heart. Blood was gushing from his right shoulder.
He stumbled to the ground. "Solo's been hit" Chimpane shouted to Malinga as they both took cover.
"Goddamn it" Malinga replied. "Those bitches again".
Chimpane brought out his shotgun and corked it ready for firing. The grunts from Solo were becoming louder now and this made Chimpane more poised for revenge.
As he crawled towards Solo more shots followed from the police toward his direction. The policemen were now running towards them. The opposing bullets rang out. The policemen flung onto the ground - one killed, other seriously wounded. Meanwhile, Malinga was fast making his escape through the forest. Chimpane ran to Solo's aid immediately and carried him on his shoulder in a bid to escape from the area but was soon overtaken by other security guards and arrested.
Excessive torture followed at the police station. Chimpane lost control of coherent thinking through horrible bruises inflicted on his head and was driven to an unknown location never to be seen again.
Solo was charged in court for murder. His defence of innocence was stunning and convincing. But when human insensitivity governs a land and the decision makers are clouded by callousness and jungle justice, no amount of evidence or justifiable emotions can change the tide of unjustifiable actions.
A death sentence was passed on Solo.
After two weeks of waiting in that dark cell, the 'ides of march' had come. Solo was not afraid of death. There had been too many of them in his lifetime and they didn't mean anything frightful to him. His concern was the struggle for liberation and his wish to see his mother to reassure her that sooner than later, his motherland shall weep no more. Yes, because his blood will undoubtedly add to the drums of innocent blood that had been shed over the years and these will nurture the tree that bears the fruits of freedom.
Mundana and his men were now positioned at strategic points off Duke Road and Patton Street. About half a kilometre to Island prison are Luthuli and Bungu with their walkie-talkies. The time was now six o'clock in the morning. Luthuli pressed some buttons on his intercom and sent a few sound waves across to Patton Street and Duke Road.
"Land Rover, .. green painted, arrived at the Prison yet to determine its mission... keep standing by... over".
"We're standing by . . . over", Mundana replied.
Inside the cell, Solo had been unchained and was being prepared for the execution. Once again the thought of his mother dawned on him.
"Ay" he confronted the Sergeant.
"I've made repeated requests that my mother be allowed to see me at least once before I die".
"A condemned prisoner like you is not entitled to such privileges".
"Seeing my mother before I die... You call that a privilege?"
"Remember you're a dangerous character".
As the Land Rover departed the prison, its sound was drowned by that of a helicopter that was flying to land near the entrance of the prison. Luthuli radioed the messages promptly but there was confusion over the presence of the helicopter.
The Rover sped along Patton Street en route to Johannesburg. The weather was cold and misty but the driver was managing to average 80 kilometres per hour hour despite the poor visibility. It had barely travelled twenty kilometres when it found itself in a web of guerilla attack. The staccato of shots flattened the trees thus grounding the vehicle. Mundana's men went into action killing Cpl Smith who was guarding two black prisoners to Johannesburg for trial on various charges.
A quick interview of these prisoners revealed that Solo was to be flown to Johannesburg by helicopter, a last minute change. Mundana sighed.
Instantly a helicopter engine buzzed in. The guerillas rushed into the bush to take cover before catching a glimpse at the flying vessel.
As it hovered away into silence, goose pimples spread all over Mundana's skin and a cold tear trickled down his cheek. He bit his index finger hard as he gazed at the helicopter fading away from sight in the cloudy heavens. He knew he was parting company for good with his good old comrade Solo. Yes, physically; but not spiritually because he was convinced that his death will not be in vain, and one day, their motherland shall weep no more.
