The Order of Things

by Basil Georgiou

Overview

Discrimination, ambition, assassination, love and tragedy shape this fast-paced tale about the lives of three men from different backgroundsduring the tumultuous period in South Africas history from the 1930s, through apartheid, to the first free election in 1994.

The Order of Things weaves their gripping stories as conflicting political and social forces threaten the survival of each of them.

Marius Strydomheir to a politically powerful Boer farmeris nurtured by the lore of the bitter battles of his people against the British. His boyhood playmate, Jeremiah Ngubeni, born to black labourers on the farm, is banished by Marius as a young man. The ambitious Neil Robertson, raised in England, leaves home to seek his fortune in Johannesburg.

While doors open for the two white men, Jeremiah experiences a different South Africa. All three are tested by the order of things as each tries to forge his destiny.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504308212
Publisher:	Balboa Press AU
Publication date:	08/09/2017
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	444
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

Basil Georgiou was born in 1956 in South Africa. After studying law, he joined the Johannesburg Bar in 1981. Basil has lived in Perth, Australia, since 1986 where he became a senior partner of a leading law firm.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

On a cold winter night in 1930, Thomas Ngubeni stood shivering outside the mud-walled hut from which his wife had banished him. He knew Saleena was young and strong. Their first child arrived soon after the pain started, but some hours had gone by now. This second child was different.

Like candles at an outdoor feast, the flickering stars illuminated the black sky of the South African highveld. This was a good omen, he thought: no clouds, no storms. He paced up and down, trying to keep the cold at bay but not wanting to stray far. It should not be long now. But his optimism dampened as the frost settled into his threadbare pullover.

He selected some thorn-tree twigs he had stacked nearby and packed them into a rusted drum pocked with ventilation holes. Then he lit the kindle, bent low and blew the fire alive. He stood over the barrel for warmth, drawing comfort from the sweet acacia scent. This provided a temporary distraction.

The muffled moaning in the hut drew his attention again. Every time he thought there would be news, a lull followed. He sat down next to the fire, which crackled and spat as he kept feeding it. He wrapped himself in the thick woolly blanket thrown to him by their neighbour, acting as midwife, as she said, "This one's in no hurry, Thomas." After feeding the fire again and again, he heard the groans from inside become more frequent, as did the sound of the midwife's encouraging voice.

Then he heard a different noise: the farm truck rattling and whining towards him. He got up and flung the blanket off when the truck lights emerged from the bush. It screeched to a halt two yards from the fire. He blinked the dust away from his eyes.

A voice roared from the cab, "Come on, Thomas. Get onto the truck. We must go now."

Thomas looked back. Before he could say anything, baas (boss) Herman Strydom added, "You can see your baby later. Hurry up, man."

To be near his wife was all Thomas wanted. If he could just pop his head into the hut and see what was happening —

"Come on, boy," ordered baas Strydom. "The market won't be there later. They'll close, and then we will have to come back with all the potatoes. And you don't want that."

"Yes ... no, Baas." He ran to the truck. Saleena would realise he had to go.

Thomas climbed into the back of the Chevrolet and clambered on top of the cargo of potatoes. His neighbour, Alfred, was already there, clinging to the backboard, a shadow in the dark morning. They grunted a greeting to each other as Baas Herman crunched the truck into gear and put his foot flat on the accelerator, covering Thomas's family shack in a fog of fumes.

"I told him we didn't need you, but he insisted," said Alfred, pointing back towards the cab.

"I know." Thomas rubbed his hands and blew to warm them against the Transvaal predawn. He had known that Saleena might go into labour this week. He had taken Alfred with him on these trips over the last two months and had shown him what to do. He had even told the baas that Alfred could take his place and Thomas didn't have to be there. It was easy. He just checked the scales when the payload was weighed at the market. Once he was satisfied that the correct weight was written on the papers, he took the docket to Baas Strydom. Alfred could do that.

But there was no swaying his boss, who wanted the faithful Thomas with him when he delivered his cargo. Baas Strydom would have it his way.

The three men arrived in Nelspruit just as the sky was turning pink. Baas Herman went to the manager's office to have coffee and large, hard, dry, dunking beskuit (biscuit), while Thomas supervised three men unloading yesterday's crop of potatoes. Thomas checked the quantities recorded, doubled back, knocked on the window of the office, and held up the docket he had been given. Baas Herman opened the window and grabbed the receipt.

"Ja, this is about right," he said after examining the document. He turned to the manager. "I'd like cash this time," Thomas heard just before his boss shut the window.

He knew Baas Herman would gossip with the white manager for a while, so he returned to Alfred. They greeted arriving trucks from other farms in the district. Soon a small ring of black farm labourers huddled around a fire, breathing out wisps of morning frost, their hands extended as though they were patting the flames in a morning ritual.

The talk was centred on Thomas's child, who, they assured him, would have arrived by now and must be happy to be in Saleena's arms. "The longer the baby is kept away from your ugly face, the better for the child," said one of them, and they all laughed.

Thomas chuckled. "You're just jealous because you haven't got my royal nose," he said, lifting his chin towards the sky and tapping his prominent nose gently.

As the warm rays of the sun softened the bite of the morning chill, the men stood back and let the fire go out. By the time Baas Herman stepped out of the office, there was just a pile of warm ash.

"Come, boys, let's go," he commanded from a distance, marching towards the truck.

Some of Thomas's companions patted him on the back and others shook his hand. All wished him strength for his new responsibility and said they would wait for the good news and some home brew to celebrate when they next met.

Baas Herman's truck moaned briefly and then smoked to life. "Hurry up," he shouted as he drove towards the gate. The two black friends hopped on while the Chevy accelerated. They clung to the empty bed of the truck and dragged themselves towards the bulkhead where they sat, facing back, their legs flat against the floor. After a short bumpy trip, the truck pulled up at the general store just as the doors were swinging open for the day's trade.

"On time again. Let's hope he's quick. I want to get home and see what's happened," Thomas said to Alfred, making sure Baas Herman could not hear him.

Their employer disappeared into the dark shop, leaving them on the pavement outside, waiting to be summoned. Eventually he called them to load a couple of crates of provisions.

They did so in haste and then jumped in the back again, where they braced themselves for the jarring drive back to the farm.

*
Thomas smiled to himself: his friends could joke about his nose, but he had been told by his mother that this was part of the heritage of his ancestors. She had said many times that she was a descendant of the original rain queen, Maselekwane Modjadji. He was born during the reign of Queen Masalanabo Modjadji.

His mother once reminisced about her privileged life, which had continued after her union with Thomas's father and the birth of Thomas, their only child, whose real name was Mpapatla.

Their future, as heirs to the enormous wealth of the Balobedu tribe, had seemed secure. She told him of the many cattle that fed on the vast Limpopo lands of the tribe. Their queen, who lived in the royal kraal (village), was waited upon by a close circle of royal women. She was revered as having powers to bring rain to her friends and drought to her enemies. His mother told him of the frequent visitors who brought gifts to the queen and daughters for the men of her tribe. In this way the Rain Queen extended her influence beyond her kraal.

Thomas's family had been part of the royal circle. And his mother recognised Thomas's nose as being distinctly from her family line. Knowing that, he was proud of it and hoped his children would inherit it too.

But their family suffered towards the end of the queen's reign, when her royal quarters were surrounded by white militia who demanded that she be handed over to them. Thomas's mother fled with a group of the women (and Thomas) towards the south, the real queen with them.

Other members of the tribe presented to the white aggressors an old dying woman as the queen. His mother never saw his father again and was later told that he died heroically in a skirmish with the whites.

The group of escaping women separated, intending to meet at the caves that were some way from the Limpopo. But his mother became confused and never found her way back. She walked and walked, hoping to find a familiar feature that would guide her home. After many days and nights, she found herself in the town of Lydenburg.

Thomas was too young to recall these events, but the life he knew was far removed from that of a royal household. His mother moved from job to job as a domestic servant for white families. Thomas and his mother lived in backyard quarters – overcrowded shacks – which they shared with other groups of black workers trying to earn a living in the white towns of the Transvaal. When his mother had no work, they slept on mats of newspaper under trees or in the corners of shop yards. The memory of sleeping outside in the winters, when the chill never left his bones, still haunted him. He was determined that his family would never be without a roof over their heads.

He cried for two nights when fever claimed his mother. At just 12 and with no family to care for him, he needed food and shelter. With nowhere to go, he walked the few streets of Lydenburg, not knowing what he was looking for or what he would find. It seemed better than doing nothing. He came across a makeshift military camp at the end of the main road entering the little town. Soldiers were stumbling in, on horseback, on foot, and in horse carts. All their uniforms were muddied and many were bloodied, especially those being carted in. He stood under a tree and watched. The soldiers had obviously been in a recent battle.

Luck was on his side: one of them beckoned to him. With that invitation, he became assistant to the camp cook for British forces engaged in the Second Boer War until they decamped three years later. By then the conflict between the two warring white factions had come to an end, and a sort of peace seemed to reign between the local farming community and the ruling forces.

After the job at the British camp, he managed to get low-paid work as a labourer but never had accommodation he could call his own. He shacked up with a group of young men in an abandoned shed that the military had used for storing guns and explosives. Although the place was overcrowded, he remembered those times with a smile. His companions were Zulus, Swazis and Sothos who, like him, were far from their people.

At the time, all of his friends spoke about their dreams of returning to their tribal homes. Thomas knew that, for him, this would not be possible. He could not remember enough about where he had come from and where to return to. His mother and father were dead. He knew his name, Mpapatla, and his mother had often used the name Ngubeni in reference to the family, but he had no way of tracing its origin and did not know of any other relatives.

He had decided that he would adopt Lydenburg as his permanent home. He worked hard and found a good job as a gardener at the Duitse Gereformeerde Kerk (Dutch Reformed Church), where he lived in a storeroom. He was treated well and was happy there; just pleased to have stable employment. He remained loyal to this position for almost twenty years.

But now he turned, as he often did, to that other strong memory: the day he first saw Saleena. In his late thirties at the time, and convinced that he would not take a bride, he was enjoying life with no responsibilities and no one to account to. But when he saw this beautiful young woman, his heart skipped a beat. This had never happened to him before. She looked twenty years younger than him. She would surely not be interested in him. But he was proud of his appearance and spent a fair portion of his wages on good clothing. He was tall and believed in the power of that regal look he had about him. She seemed poor. Maybe he could attract her.

For a few weeks he placed himself "accidentally" in her way and took every opportunity to get to know her. She smiled and spoke to him in a manner that gave the shy Mpapatla hope.

He made enquiries and found out that she and her brother were also orphans. She helped out at the Methodist church. Her brother, Samson, worked in a garage workshop.

Their relationship deepened and became serious. But if they married, he couldn't live with Saleena in his storeroom. Then he remembered that meneer (Mister) Herman Strydom, one of the church elders, had offered him a job at his farm, and a hut all to himself. He had declined, but Meneer Strydom had repeated the offer a few times and, the last time, promised more pay.

Within three months, Thomas had married Saleena and become a permanent farm hand with a hut of his own in the Strydom farm compound. But his boss said he couldn't call him "Mpapapapa ... or whatever your name is. Your new name is Thomas, because you doubted me for so long."

Now Thomas was eager to see his second child.

*
Thomas and Alfred dozed off a few times, but, as they approached Lydenburg, Thomas stood up and leaned on the roof of the cab, peering ahead to look first for the farmhouse, then for his little hut that was hidden from view in the surrounding bush. Baas Herman pulled up outside the shed. "Right, boys. Unload the crates. After you hose the truck down you can go home," he ordered and walked to the homestead nearby, where he shut the door behind him.

The two of them heaved the crates off the truck. They carried the one with household items to the scullery door at the back of the house, and the other with farm provisions into the shed.

"Go now, Thomas. I'll finish up," said Alfred after looking around to make sure the master hadn't reappeared.

"Thank you, Alfred." Thomas ran the half mile to his hut. When the group of ramshackle structures that housed the black farmhands came into view, he heard the crying of his newborn baby.

Thomas entered the one-room hut. He looked in the direction of the soft snuffling sounds and saw Saleena's bright smile and eyes in the candlelit room. "It's a boy, Thomas. Just as you asked," she said.

"Number two. We have number two." He danced and drummed on the table.

"And this baby is strong and has a mind of his own already."

"Good. I think our Jeremiah here will survive all that the world has in store for him."

"Jeremiah? Where did you get that name?"

"From the Bible."

"But we haven't discussed this."

"Jeremiah was tough and overcame all kinds of hardship. Our Jeremiah will be tough too. In this world he will need to be strong."

"Hmm! I like the name. Je-re-mi-ah." Saleena nodded slowly in thought. "Yes, I like it."

As Thomas gently stroked the small bare head with his rough hand, Jeremiah let go of his mother's breast and looked up at his father, his eyes shining. Then he turned his head this way and that until he locked on to Saleena's breast again.

CHAPTER 2

A town south-west of London was not a good place to be in 1940 – not that young Neil Robertson had known anywhere better. This evening, as he looked down at the orange flower pattern on his dinner plate, he heard his father's heavy footsteps approach. He glanced up before the big frame of Milton Robertson entered the dark kitchen of their Guildford home like a black shadow. Milton pulled his chair back and sat down.

Mary shuffled from the stove with a saucepan and piled a generous portion of potato stew onto her husband's plate. Before she moved away, Milton Robertson shovelled a heap onto his fork and filled his mouth.

She then arranged Neil's portion on his plate. "Here, love," she said.

"Thank you, Mummy."

Milton Robertson's chewing stopped. Neil glanced towards him and then away again, but with enough time to catch a glimpse of his father's yellow regent moustache turning down as he acknowledged this exchange with a grunt.

Neil's mother's delicious meat and vegetable stews had become more and more potato as World War II dragged on. She tried to add flavour with gravy that Neil thought tasted like diluted Worcestershire sauce.

On this September evening, Neil could sense that his mother was upset. She looked pale and picked at the small serving she had given herself. "Wasn't today's attack on the Vickers factory in Brooklands horrific?" she asked rhetorically after resting her knife and fork on her plate. "Apparently over eighty were killed and four hundred injured." She paused. Milton filled his mouth again, but Neil froze, focusing on his mother. "It's terrible. They say the Germans simply followed the railway line to the aircraft assembly factory. The poor workers had no warning. The sirens didn't go off."

Neil's mouth dropped as she spoke. He had been following the newspaper and wireless reports with great intensity, especially those of the German air assault on Britain. Until now, he felt like a spectator. But today's events, and his mother's reaction, brought the war close to home.

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "The Order of Things"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Basil Georgiou.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---