The Confrontation
“There’s something approaching.”
She, Elsa, puts down her sketchpad. On the sheet, a vista of the semi-arid Karoo, in the region of Cradock in the Eastern Cape; plains of long, yellowing stalks of grass met with squat, dolerite-studded hills and mountains, dotted with thorny acacia trees and bushes. All this against the backdrop of a piercing blue sky flecked with sparse clouds, illuminated brilliantly by the late Summer sun. It is a scene which something has now intruded upon in reality.
She gets up from her chair and steps to the edge of the stoep, trying to get a better look.
He, Jason, lifts his eyes from his book. Peering into the far distance, within the saddle of two tapered hills, he spots a dark shape, moving quickly and steadily, small against the expanse of sunlit veld. The grinding sound of rubber on dirt crescendos across the air. A long wake of billowing dust clouds becomes noticeable as the shape draws nearer. It appears to be a single vehicle, driving through veld grass; if there is a road, it is not visible.
“Should there be anyone else here besides us?” he asks.
“No,” replies Elsa, withdrawing into the house. She returns with a pair of binoculars, steps off the stoep and walks several paces in the direction of the incoming car. Jason follows, stopping slightly ahead of Elsa, in a show of wanting to protect her.
“We’re making ourselves easy targets – they could have a gun,” Jason remarks, uneasiness in his voice, fear even. Paranoia perhaps, but an isolated farm can attract danger. Elsa ignores him, not sharing his worry.
The vehicle slows to a stop. Squinting against the glare, she can make out a grey bakkie, but not the occupants; who would seem also to be regarding them from afar. The hum of the idling engine reverberates through the air, as if filling it with everyone’s deliberations.
The bakkie starts to accelerate again, continuing towards them at a steady speed. There is a glint of eyes as it rises and falls abruptly over a hump.
“There’s three of them,” observes Elsa. She hands the binoculars to Jason. Indeed, there are two adults upfront, a male driver and female passenger, and the smaller figure of a child in the back, perched halfway in the space between the seats, clutching the headrests to stay balanced. A family of three. A black family; or rather, light brown-skinned; or rather still, African.
“Let’s go inside. We can lock the doors and ask them what they want through a window,” implores Jason.
“No. We can speak to them out here,” is Elsa’s answer.
They are not on equal footing now, Jason and Elsa; she has taken charge, asserted her will, not least because she, descended from settlers, is the one with something invested here. This is her family’s farm; she must have instinctively taken up the notion of defending the homestead. Although the land is no longer used for any sort of agriculture, the house is still frequented as a retreat by her extended family. This house, with its thick stone walls seemingly cloven out of the very earth around it by her late grandfather (who must have been as redoubtable as she is now), a thing of rough-hewn handsomeness to suit the hardy natural beauty of this countryside. To stand guard now with such equanimity is something Jason secretly admires in Elsa.
About twenty metres away, the bakkie halts, the engine turns off. The driver gets out; thickset, with the trace of a beard, his eyes steady on Jason and Elsa. The front passenger looks at her partner with uncertainty. The child, a young boy, has his gaze set upon them too – he blinks and then turns his face to anticipate his father’s next move.
Jason speaks first, calling to the man: “Hello. How can we help? Are you lost?” The man seems puzzled by these questions. The woman and child, now looking at Jason, do too.
“I know where I am. We are not lost,” the man replies, a hint of indignation in his tone. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he asks them.
“We’re staying here,” says Elsa.
The man turns his gaze upon Elsa. His brows knitted, he appears to be growing impatient. “This is my farm,” he says, as a matter of fact.
Surprised, Jason utters a stunted laugh. Elsa responds defiantly: “That’s impossible. You must be thinking of another place.” The man slams his door shut, startling everyone, and advances in front of the vehicle. Jason grabs Elsa’s arm and tries to pull her towards the house, but she won’t budge.
“Loyiso,” calls the man’s wife, having now gotten out of the car too. “This isn’t safe. Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Of course it is,” he replies sharply.
Jason and Elsa exchange concerned and confused glances.
The woman, slender, with a long-haired weave tied into a ponytail, walks to her husband’s side; she moves awkwardly, not accustomed to the terrain. Taking his hand, she addresses Elsa: “Do you know… maybe, if there are other houses on this property?”
“Ayanda, I’m not mistaken. That is my house,” insists the man, loosening his hand from hers.
“The only other houses are the workers’ flats,” answers Elsa.
Now the man laughs, fixing Elsa with a look of contempt.
“Tata, is this where you lived?” It is the child, appearing from behind the woman, having crept unnoticed out of the car.
“Lindiwe!” shouts the woman, pulling her child close; actually a slender girl of about ten years, with close-cropped hair, and not a boy as first thought. The man looks at his daughter, softness in his eyes.
“Yes, Lindi. This is where I grew up,” he tells her. Though it is a tender moment, it only throws more disarray into the minds of Elsa and Jason. If it is a yarn he has spun to his family, Jason thinks, then he has done it with great sincerity and believability. But isn’t that in the nature of all good yarns? Fabrications spun with threads of truth and untruth, so well that the material of the one cannot be told apart from the other. It is clear that this man believes his story, as do his wife and daughter.
“My name is Elsa Frome. This house belongs to my family,” declares Elsa. “May I ask who you are, and why you are here?”
In a measured manner, the man responds: “That house has been empty since my mother passed away. This farm was left to me. I never sold it. If you and your family have been staying here, then you have been doing so illegally.”
“You are the ones that have trespassed,” retorts Elsa.
There is a stunned silence. They are at a standoff. These two opposing figures echoing a conflict that has played out for centuries, in this land which they both call home. This whole time each party has been maintaining a considerable physical distance, but it seems there is a wider gulf between them than can be measured in space.
Loyiso is disbelieving, this confrontation unfathomable. Suppressing his rising irritation, he takes a breath, and beholds the vastness of the landscape that surrounds him. Memories that this spot in the Karoo holds for him come flooding through. This is where he was born, where he was raised. It can be a barren place, but some have managed to coax beauty and life out of it, his parents amongst them. Though he has not returned in a long time, he has a deep connection to this earth. Now this young woman, white no less, is challenging that connection, somehow claiming it as her own. Her partner, Asian, but South African given his accent, seems out of place here, not only in this locale, but in this dispute.
“There’s obviously been some sort of mistake. If you want, I can show you proof that this farm belongs to my family,” Elsa offers, changing tack. “There are photographs of my family, taken while they lived here, some that date back decades. I can go inside and fetch them.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” responds Loyiso, unimpressed. “Do you have a title deed?”
“Not here.…”
“Well it must be a forgery. What gives you people the right to come squat on my land?”
Elsa is taken aback, the man’s adamance unsettling her.
Suddenly he removes something from his trouser pocket. Jason flinches, his eyes dart to the man’s hand. It is a cellphone. The man dials and lifts the phone to his ear, but shortly after drops his hand down, looking at the phone in frustration. There is no reception. It crosses Jason’s mind: the disadvantage they are at being incommunicado here. Yet there does not seem to be any immediate danger of this man attacking them, as long as his wife and child remain a tempering influence.
“I want you to leave this property,” Loyiso demands. “Right now. If you do not, I will come back with the police.”
“Good. Go and get the police. You will only be making trouble for yourself,” contends Elsa.
Get JLL’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Finally losing his patience, Loyiso advances towards the house.
“Loyiso, it isn’t safe!” warns Ayanda.
Elsa and Jason turn and run for the door.
“We can’t get close to them,” yells Ayanda. She catches up with Loyiso and tries to pull him back, unsuccessfully.
The couple have already disappeared into the house. Loyiso heads for another door, against the continued pleas of his wife and daughter.
He is in no rush. He wants to scare these interlopers, to let them know that they have messed with the wrong person. He tries the door, it is locked. He tries several others before finding one on the other side of the house that is unlocked. As he pushes it open, something flies at his face, issuing a panicked shriek. He just manages to dodge it, catching sight of a flutter of wings before it flies away.
He notices, at the upper part of the doorframe, a swallows’ nest. For a moment, he admires the familiar shape of the creatures’ abode; like a small, inverted brown igloo made from bits of mud and twigs stuck together. He recalls his mother complaining once about one such nest, similarly built outside one of the doors. She had insisted on breaking it apart, claiming that the door was for people to use, and that the nest was in the way. It had made him feel downcast afterwards, and he had wondered why they could not all live peaceably together, his family and the swallows. Loyiso shakes the memory from his mind as he opens the door and crosses the threshold.
He had expected to be entering the kitchen, but is instead in the dining room. He looks back through the open doorway. He sees a part of the front garden through it – had he just walked around the whole house again without realising it? No matter. He wonders how else the house has been changed since he was last here. It is almost the same as he remembers, and gives the impression of recently being cleaned and dusted. It is cooler inside, the air still. In fact, he does not hear a sound throughout the house. They must be hiding, he thinks.
He enters his parents room; no one is there, though there are signs that someone is staying in it. Another memory of his mother comes to mind: an image of her lying in bed, sickly, near death. He remembers her saying then that she was going to a better world. She told him that there are other worlds besides this one, some better, some worse. It only required a bit of imagination to get there.
Then he sees something odd: a suitcase, just like the one that he brought with him. Examining it further, he notices the one zip is bent in the same way as the one he owns.
About to open the case, he hears the sound of cars and voices coming from just outside the house. Loyiso heads back out. When he emerges, he is baffled by what he finds.
Their bakkie is now parked with its tailgate open onto the stoep. Another bakkie is parked similarly alongside it. Working hand in hand, unloading stuff from the vehicles, are Ayanda, Lindiwe, and the couple.
“Hey! Get away from there,” he yells at the couple. Everyone looks at him, momentarily thrown by his outburst.
“Why so grumpy all of a sudden” asks Ayanda playfully.
He watches in disbelief as the couple, carrying boxes of produce, walk towards him, smiling, not a hint of hostility in their entire demeanours. They place their loads on the stoep, before the man attempts to pat Loyiso in a friendly gesture. Loyiso steps back, startled.
“What’s the matter? Did you think we weren’t coming back?” jokes the man. He is met with a bewildered look from Loyiso. Not reading too much into it, he heads back to the vehicles with his girlfriend to resume unloading. Loyiso is dumbfounded by this new bonhomie from a person he hardly knows and with whom, just moments ago, he was in dispute. Ayanda observes her husband, disquieted by his behaviour.
“Where are you?” she asks. He does not hear. “Loyiso, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she prods.
“Ayanda, why are these people here?”
“‘These people’? What’s wrong with you?”
He looks down at one of the boxes, containing a few tomatoes.
“We didn’t sell out today,” she informs him, going back to the vehicles.
Loyiso is uncomprehending. Lindiwe now approaches, offloading a box. She smiles at her father. He looks for some explanation in her eyes, but there is none. Or rather, there is an innocent joy. She rushes back to fetch another box, joining the couple, easygoing and familiar with them. Loyiso feels as if he is in a dream, and is fleetingly swept up by it.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Loyiso is broken out of his reverie. It is the white woman, standing in front him. He regards her coolly. “Sorry, I disturbed you.”
“Whose farm is this?” he asks. She is surprised by the question. “Who does this farm belong to?” he rephrases.
“It’s your farm, Loyiso.” He is conscious of hurt and resentment in her response.
“Then what are you doing here?” he asks vehemently. She is struck speechless.
“Loyiso, are you out of your mind?” chides Ayanda, having heard the backend of the conversation. “What’s gotten into you? This place belongs to all of us. Elsa and Jason have been helping us farm here for two year’s now. It’s just as much their home as it is ours.”
At a loss, he asks, “What about Coronavirus?”
“Coronavirus? What are you on about?”
“He’s caught up in one of his stories again. You know us writers,” the Asian man chips in, teasing.
Someone laughs weakly. Loyiso snaps, grabbing the man by the shoulders.
“What is going on here?” he shouts madly.
Lindiwe screams in shock. Ayanda and Elsa try to separate the two, pulling at Loyiso’s arms and hands. Jason pushes back at Loyiso, trying to free himself, but the latter is too strong.
Loyiso soon releases his grip, backing away in shame and contrition, realising he’s gone too far.
“Ayanda, we need to leave,” he says. Ayanda looks at him, frightened, along with everyone else. “Take Lindiwe and get into the car.”
“You’re scaring us, Loyiso…. What’s wrong?” asks Ayanda, her voice faltering.
“Please just do as I say. I’ll explain it to you later,” he urges.
“No! This is crazy,” she yells back, hysterical. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Tata,” breaks in Lindiwe. Loyiso is stung by the fear in his daughter’s eyes. “Whatever it is, we can work it out, together. We all love you.”
“Yes, Loyiso. We’ll help you through it,” offers the Asian man. His girlfriend, next to him, reflecting the same sentiment.
Tears begin to well up in Loyiso’s eyes. He looks at the faces around him, discerning, behind their current fear, genuine care and concern emanating from each one, even those that are strangers to him. He feels like he is going insane, that his mind or some sadistic demiurge is playing tricks on him. There are relationships here, histories, that he is not privy to, or has simply forgotten altogether. For a second he thinks about how diverse this small group is: a Xhosa family and a mixed-race, white/Asian couple. They could all get along so nicely, he imagines, despite their differences and antagonisms. But he feels out of place. Can this be real? Is that really Ayanda and Lindiwe? He hopes he will wake up from this fantasy, but what if he continues to live in it indefinitely? It is a fiction that he is unable, and possibly unwilling, to believe.
Loyiso cries out wildly in torment, a true madman, a stranger unto himself and his loved ones. He bolts for one of the bakkies, jumps into the driver’s seat and locks the door. The others clamouring around the vehicle.
He starts the engine and pulls off, leaving everyone shouting, imploring him to return. He bears in the direction of the road he remembers arriving on. Except that it is not there. He finds another and takes it, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if he is being followed by the other vehicle. The road is empty behind and in front of him. He speeds up, determined to get away. Hectares of yellow and green hills and patches of dry red soil fly past, becoming indistinguishable blurs. Loyiso suddenly glimpses something, his eyes widen. He slams on the brakes, jolting forward in his seat. Ahead of him, in the distance, there is a familiar-looking house, with someone standing on its stoep, staring out at him.
