It was the middle of June in Cape Town. The evening air cut through Jerome’s track suit jacket. He was walking through Kraaifontein, a long forgotten coloured area where his uncle lived before the ANC took it over. He walked in the direction of an old house. It had four walls, but the roof was caved in. It did not bother him, anything was better than the icy wind.

The house was empty except for a desk that stood in the doorway. It was pushed aside like it was used to barricade the door, a door that no longer existed. A layer of dust lined the top of the desk. It reminded him of the times with his uncle, a time when the NP was still in Namibia.

It was a time when the ANC did not need coloured territory. He carefully opened one of the desk drawers, empty. He opened another. There were only scraps of paper from the old times, but he saw something interesting. It was a photograph; a man standing in a stance ready for combat, a black man.

Jerome turned the photograph over and saw a date and name scribbled in the bottom left corner:

Nelson Mandela, 1961.

The icy wind blew in through the caved in roof and swirled around the house reaching Jerome’s jacket. He got a chill and moved deeper into the house. Who the hell is Mandela? he thought as he dropped the photo and entered the only bedroom.

It was completely dark. He only saw outlines of objects scattered around the room, maybe a bed frame, maybe a dresser. He moved towards the supposed bed frame.

“Oh fuck!” A figure rose from behind the bed frame.

It was human as far as he could tell. He retreated naturally towards the bedroom door, but the figure called out: “Who’s there?” it yelled in Afrikaans.

Jerome’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw that the bed frame was actually a table top resting on crates. The figure edged closer to Jerome. It was dressed in proper winter attire, all black with a large hood over its head.

“Who are you?” Jerome called back. The figure slowly removed the hood and spoke in English.

“Jerome? What are you doing here?”

“David?”

“Ja, why are you here? This place is dangerous. Where’s your uncle?”

“He sent me here. He told me to get something for him, something important.”

“The General sent you here alone?”

David reached into his pocket and produced a small square slab. He touched it and a light came on.

“What is that?” Jerome exclaimed.

David ignored him and continued touching the slab, this time in a rhythm. He pushed the slab against his ear and waited.

“David, what the hell is that thing?” Jerome was growing impatient.

David spoke, but not to him.

“General? Ja… I have the…Okay. Jerome is here. What? Ja… okay.” Jerome stared at David.

The man had obviously lost his mind. David started nodding rigidly, looked at Jerome and handed him the slab.

“What must I do with this?” Jerome said.

“Talk!” David said in hurried Afrikaans.

“You’re mad. You’re then here. Who must I talk to?”

“Put the thing against your ear and talk. It’s your uncle.”

Jerome put the slab against his ear and heard a faint hum coming from the slab. He tried to discern what the sound was, but he suddenly heard a voice.

“Jerome? Can you hear me?” It was his uncle’s voice.

“Sir, is that you? Is this some kind of portable phone?”

“Yes. David will explain everything to you, but you have to listen carefully. I sent you there to…”

“Hold on. Did you send me here to find David? Why?”

“Don’t interrupt me, Jerome”. The General’s stern voice made Jerome stand at attention.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Now listen. I did send you there to retrieve David. I have an important task for you to complete. Your training is over now. This is for the future of the entire movement. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but why me, Sir?”

“David will brief you accordingly. Just follow his lead. UDF unites!”

“UDF unites!”

Jerome handed the slab back to David who had a wide grin on his face. “Haven’t you ever used a radio before?” he said jokingly. “This thing is just like a radio, but it works better. You see those towers the ANC is building? It’s for these things.” Jerome absorbed the information.

“So, where is the tower in Old Kraaifontein?” Jerome asked.

“It’s about ten clicks north.” David mumbled.

“I came from the South. I didn’t see anything.”

“How’d you get here?”

“With my car, why?”

“I’m driving”.

The walk to the car was mostly quiet. The wind had died down. Jerome’s only discomfort was David’s laboured gait. “Are you okay, old man?” Jerome asked jeeringly. David ignored him, but quickened his pace. The moon shone out illuminating the dark streets that Jerome had walked through earlier. The desolate ruins favoured the atmosphere. Jerome shivered and caught up with David. Their footsteps on the tar provided the soundtrack for their journey. Clouds were moving towards the moon as they saw Jerome’s car parked under a winter worn tree.

“Nice car. Did you steal it from the Nigerians?” David said.

Jerome looked affectionately at his car, an old Nissan Datsun with a few rust patches on the back doors, SSS faded on the back.

“No, General gave it to me a month ago. I like it,” Jerome stated defensively. David grunted and made the universal gesture for keys. Jerome dug into his thin tracksuit jacket and gave the keys to David.

“Does it have enough petrol?” David asked while opening the Datsun’s door.

“Yes. I stole some from the Nigerians,” David cracked a tired smile and climbed into the car. They drove for ten minutes and stopped.

“Listen carefully now. This is not going to be like your training. There are people here who want us dead. There are no friendlies here. You have to be ready. You have to defend yourself.”

David handed Jerome a Z88 9mm pistol. He had only ever used these in training, shooting sacks of wheat and old soup cans. Jerome felt the weight of the pistol and looked out the car window.

They had stopped outside a small settlement where the cell tower was situated. He could see the large metal invention watching over the metal shacks. Its blinking light reminded him of a monster he had once dreamt about as a child. This is it, he thought. All the years of training had led up to this point. He looked back at David and nodded slowly.

“Do you know what happened in ‘91?” David asked purposefully.

“Yes. The ANC killed De Klerk and forced the NP out of South Africa.”

“That’s only half true. Yes, De Klerk was killed, but the ANC didn’t do it. We did.”

“What?” Jerome felt the weight of the pistol again. The metal was warming in his hands. David’s revelation made everything click. The ANC and UDF work together often. It would only make sense that they ended Apartheid together.

“We are helping them build these towers to unite the country, Jerome. But they’ve gone too far; keeping us in the dark about the NP’s whereabouts, denying us access to foreign technology. This is us taking back our freedom. We are going to destroy this tower,” David pointed to the metal invention and stared at Jerome. He looked tired, but passionate.

“How?” Jerome mimicked the passion reflecting in David’s eyes by placing the pistol, safety on, into his thin track suit jacket. He sat at attention. He was ready for the mission.

“We have a contact living near the tower. She’ll help us.”

***

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