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DOWNFALL AND FREEDOM
A Novel about the Arms Trade, South Africa, and the KwaZulu
By CHARLES E. WEBB
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Charles E. Webb
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6817-3
Chapter One
13 August 1975
He was born to Jane Broosler Zooma in a small hospital in a village in central Natal, South Africa, on April 30, 1965. His father was Matthew Wesley Zooma. Although his father actually had a different tribal name, he used the one given him by the foreign missionaries that came to his village in 1923. When his son was born, he named him after the founder of the Methodist religion that he and his wife practiced as a result of the work and sacrifice of all those missionaries. John Wesley Zooma was a full member of the Zulu tribe. His village was taken over in the 1960s by a cult segment named the Zulu Warrior Society when violence in the townships began. He saw many strange things happen in his village as he grew up, but one incident on August 13, 1975, changed his life.
John Wesley Zooma was on his way home from grade school with three of his friends on this mild, mid-winter day in Natal. The rains had come in July and early August, but now the ground was dry and dusty, and the grass was turning a yellow brown. Each day they stopped by Bulewessi's, a small, local food shop in the township, and bought a cold soda or candy before they continued on. Walking up to the store on this fateful day, they noticed a police township truck, called a Kaspir, coming from the other direction in a hurry, beeping its horn to get people out of its way as it pulled up to the store. The township police truck was very imposing; painted a medium green, it sat on very large, treaded tires almost ten feet high, and it was made of high strength, armored, bulletproof steel—it was more like an armored personnel carrier than a truck, with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the front on the top. Ten soldiers—two white, the others black—jumped out from the cab and the back and rushed into the shop.
The four boys ran to the other side of the street, and a small crowd gathered to see what was going on. Zooma and his friends moved to the front of the crowd but were no closer to the shop.
From inside came the ear-piercing screams of women and much shouting. Six of the black soldiers appeared from the store carrying the owner, Mr. Bulewessi—a friend to all the many children in the village—to the middle of the intersection. They tied his feet together and his hands behind him and sat him down. Two more black soldiers followed the others out of the store and went to the huge army truck. The two white lieutenants next came out of the store, pistols drawn. The women inside poured out like a flood, shrieking and crying at the top of their lungs. The noise could be heard throughout the small village, and the crowd swelled around the intersection from all directions.
Two soldiers went to the Kaspir and came back with a tire and a gasoline can. The six soldiers that had brought out Mr. Bulewessi were facing the crowd with rifles ready and Mr. Bulewessi in the center of their circle.
It happened so fast. John Wesley Zooma had heard about these things, but it was spoken about only in whispers. The soldier with the tire placed it around the neck of Mr. Bulewessi, who was pleading for his life—but to no avail. The soldier with the can poured the gasoline on the tire and Mr. Bulewessi, soaking him thoroughly. The soldier dropped the can in the road and moved to the truck while the first soldier lit a match and threw it at the tire. Immediately, the flames shot upward, and Mr. Bulewessi was totally engulfed and screaming. The crowd gave a collective gasp of horror. Almost everyone was screaming or crying, including many men. The leader of the soldiers, a young lieutenant, pointed his pistol in the air and fired two shots as the crowd moved forward. But it was already too late for Mr. Bulewessi. The flames had finally gotten to his brain. His pain and life were ended.
The lieutenant waited for the crowd to stop screaming. Now there was just the sound of soft sobbing. He said to them, "This man was subversive and dealing in contraband. This is a lesson to all of you not to engage in actions against the government!" With that said, the group of soldiers retreated to their truck, climbed in, and drove off, their rifles still pointed at the crowd.
Several men ran and got blankets to smother the remaining flames and cover the charred body of Mr. Bulewessi. Zooma and his friends were crying; they were in front and had witnessed the entire scene. They wondered, what was this subversive activity? What did that mean? Why was there no trial for Mr. Bulewessi? Zooma felt tremendous rage burning immediately within him, and he wanted revenge for seeing a friend of his literally destroyed before his eyes. He and his three friends turned and ran up the dirt street to their houses, which were three blocks away.
John Wesley Zooma ran into the house and into his mother's arms. She had heard the screams, the gunshots, and the wailing of the crowd. She suspected what had happened, but she didn't know yet to whom. She had feared most for her son, for he was not yet home from school and his usual stop at Mr. Bulewessi's. When she heard him come in, she felt so relieved, knowing he was safe. She cried with him as he related his story about what had happened and held him close for a very long time, until he went to his small bedroom to rest until dinner.
John Wesley Zooma lay down on his bed and continued to cry for a while. The emotions of the afternoon event had totally drained him. There were so many questions: Why had they done this? What had Mr. Bulewessi really done? Why did they torture and kill him like that in front of the whole village? Zooma wanted to kill the white lieutenant. And the black soldiers too! How could they do that to one of their own? Finally, sleep came over him.
About two hours later, his mother woke him up with a hug and kiss on the cheek. John Wesley Zooma could hear his father in the other small bedroom. He got up from his small wooden bed, which was only a thin feather mattress, and walked into the one room that served as kitchen, dining area, and living room. His mother smiled at him, and he sat down at the table. His father appeared in a few minutes, walked up to his son, and knelt by him.
"John, today you saw a terrible thing. This is what we call a 'necklacing.'" He pulled his son to him and held him tightly in a hug.
"Daddy, why did that happen? Why did the black soldiers do that to one of us? What did Mr. Bulewessi do to be killed like that? I don't understand."
"Son, there are some things that just can't be explained. Mr. Bulewessi was a good man, and this was unjust. This was our government trying to keep us down and scared. But, someday, we will show them the power and strength of the mighty Zulu, as we have done before. We must wait for our time. Now we must be quiet, pray for the soul of Mr. Bulewessi, and pray for ourselves. I want you to be very careful. Today you saw the power of the government that tries to keep us in fear, but we must be patient. Do not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand me clearly?"
"Yes, Daddy. But I still want to know why."
"John, we may never know why. Accept what has happened and take care of yourself. I love you," his father said quietly.
Matthew Wesley Zooma released his son slowly from his loving grip on his shoulders. He knew the reasons for the killing, but he couldn't fully explain it to his son now. Maybe someday. Be patient, he thought.
That night after dinner, John Wesley Zooma went out to visit his three friends. They talked for an hour about all that had happened and how they felt. Each one was ready to fight and die for their homeland. Then and there, they made a pact with each other for life, as friends do when something like this happens. They would get revenge for this and all the many government oppressions and killings. They would gain control of their country. Natal had always been Zulu; someday it would be again.
Chapter Two
15 January 2001
Arriving in Sao Paulo, Brazil, late that afternoon was a rather short, bearded, spectacled man carrying only a small briefcase and an under-seat bag. He was dressed in a polo shirt and nice slacks and was indistinguishable from many of the other business class passengers on the flight from Mexico City. He had traveled there the previous day from New Orleans to Chicago to Los Angeles, meeting casually in each location with a business associate in the Admiral's Club of American Airlines. It was a lot of traveling, but the face-to-face encounters were necessary.
An associate met him at the airport in Sao Paulo. Without much talking, they walked the short distance to the parking lot and left for the journey to Santa Rita and another yearly meeting with his longtime partner in several ventures, none of which were legal.
Clarence van Dyke Jackson, an African American, was almost fifty-five now, very rich, and he was thinking that it may be time to quit this dual life he had been living for the last twenty years. Jackson was about 5' 8", medium dark completed, and had deep, brown, eyes that looked intense all the time. He was very fit and tried to continue the exercise routine every other day that he had become accomstomed to in the army. He was the owner of a legitimate, large electrical-contracting business in New Orleans. He'd been very successful over the years, especially since it was a minority business and had gained many local contracts because of that fact. His other business was in supplying arms as needed to the Special Forces, armies of "liberation," and foreign nationals in selected lands. His contacts from the US Army and National Guard knew how to obtain extra weapons from the "surplus" that always seemed to be available and ready for disposal at just the time Jackson needed it.
Jackson was born in Wiggins, a small town in south-central Mississippi whose economy was fueled by the local lumber industry. His father, Jimmy, a large black man, over six feet one inch tall, and weighed just over two-hundred pounds, drove a logging truck for the big, local lumber company that supplied logs to the plywood mill. His mother, Cynthia, was slight in stature, just five feet three inches tall, and her skin was a velvet light brown. She worked at the local hospital and was friends to many in the small town, white and black, because of her caring spirit and always warm smile.
As Jackson grew up in this small town during the forties and fifties, he saw the Klu Klux Klan, he knew well the art of keeping out of trouble with white folks, and he learned the art of the street and survival.
He had not started his life with hatred. It had only come to him once—very personally. In late November, 1953, he was just clearing the dishes for his mother after dinner when he heard a noise behind the back barn where his dad kept the '47 Ford. He looked around the kitchen for his mother, but he didn't see her; he thought she must have gone to the front bedroom. His dad was in the living room, reading the paper and listening to the radio. He decided to go outside and see if the noise was a raccoon looking for something to eat from the garbage.
Clarence went outside and closed the screen door behind him. He walked quietly through the backyard, past the large oak tree with the branches that reminded him of a large octopus, and toward the side of the garage. He walked even slower as he neared the garage, for his worst fears were upon him now.
As he rounded the garage, he was grabbed from behind by strong arms and held very tightly. A big hand was over his mouth, and the voice from it said, "Keep quiet, boy, we have no quarrel with you anyhow." It was useless to yell now, and Clarence couldn't break free of the arms holding him or the hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out.
Several others in white KKK robes and masks came out of the timber stand behind the barn. There were ten in all. They walked quickly to the backyard and yelled for Clarence's dad and mom to come out back and not make any trouble, because they had their son,. James van Dyke Jackson and his very beautiful wife, Cynthia, came to the kitchen door and looked out on the backyard scene where eleven, white, strong, armed men in KKK robes stood, one of them holding their son. The apparent leader of the group now came forward.
"Y'all come on out here now. We jus' want to talk some."
James replied, "Why y'all here? We ain't done nothin', and my son always shows his respect."
"We ain't got no quarrel with your son, Jimmy. We jus' needed to talk a while with you and the missus. You see, we been hearin' that you tryin' to get yourself moved up at the mill, and you better learn now that those foreman jobs are for us whites. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I understand. I haven't asked for one. I heard talk, you know, but if someone goin' to give me another job managin' the rest of the drivers, I ain't heard it yet. I jus' tryin' to do my job, like I told. I lived here all my life and ain't bothered no one. Y'all know that."
"Well, some of that's right. But we got to show you we mean business. Grab her, boys!"
Three of the KKK took hold of Cynthia while four others each took hold of Jimmy's arms and legs. He struggled to get free, but they were too many, and they were too strong. From out of nowhere a fist came forward and knocked him in the stomach and the face. Meanwhile, Cynthia screamed as the men dragged her to the big oak tree. They put her up against it, face first, and held her arms around the sides. The trunk cut into her arms and face. The leader now came forward again and ripped her dress, baring her back.
"Jimmy, we do this so that each time you see your wife's back, you goin' to know we always behind your back as well."
The leader pulled a whip from under his robe and let go with ten lashes on Cynthia. The cuts were deep, and blood ran down and stained her dress. Jimmy yelled, but was hit again in the stomach, and the wind was knocked from him. Clarence screamed as he tried to break free, tears streaming from his face for the pain of his mother. He would give anything to be in her place and not have her hurt.
Almost as soon as it began, it was over. The men holding Cynthia let her fall to the ground, and they began running to the trees. At the same time, the men holding Jimmy and Clarence let them go and also began to run. The leader now walked backward with one final word: "We know you goin' to remember well this little talk we had, Jimmy. You keep up the good work, but you remember, you only good enough to drive that truck. Don't go talkin' about this little talk now, and we all goin' to get along jus' fine from now on. You hear?" He then disappeared into the darkness.
Clarence was first to his mother, and he held her tightly in his arms. Jimmy crawled and then stumbled to her and held them both. He stood up, keeping his arms around them, took them in the house, and set them both in the kitchen. Jimmy went into the bathroom, brought out a wet cloth and basin, and washed the lash cuts on his wife's back while Clarence watched in silence. After the cuts were cleaned, Jimmy told his son to go to his bedroom and wait for him while he took Cynthia and put her to bed.
Clarence went to his room, filled with a rage and a memory he would never forget. He sat on his bed and cried until he went to sleep.
He awoke with a start to see his dad standing over him. He sat down on the bed and held Clarence tightly.
"They is right, son. Don't you go tellin' anyone about this, now. This is for us to keep to us."
"Daddy, did you really know anything about a foreman's job at the plant?"
"No, but like I said, you know, some of the guys were talkin' that, maybe since the plant is expandin' and needs some more drivers, that one of us might get a job bossin' some drivers. Nothin' much, really, jus' keepin' the time cards, the haul numbers, and each driver's timber stand position each day, while drivin' his own loads in the mornin'."
"Do you know any of the men that were here? Did you recognize anyone? I didn't."
"Well, son, yes and no. I think I know one of them who held me, but I didn' recognize no one else, includin' the son of a bitch that hit your mama. It don' matter none. No one goin' to do anything for us except ourselves. So you jus' keep quiet, you hear?"
"Yes, Daddy."
Jimmy left his son and went outside. He went inside the barn and cried for a while. He was so ashamed that he didn't want his son or wife to hear him.
Clarence pulled off his jeans and went to the bathroom to wash up. When he came back, he looked out his window and saw his dad just standing in the backyard, looking at the big old oak tree. After a few minutes, he pulled the covers back and slipped into bed and immediately went to sleep.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from DOWNFALL AND FREEDOM by CHARLES E. WEBB Copyright © 2011 by Charles E. Webb. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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