My name is France, and this is my story. I was born in the red valleys of Sekhukhuneland. A grand son to kings who trace back their ancestors to the lakes and rivers of Swaziland before they came to rule this lands. France is a name given to me by home affairs officials when I took my first identity document, because they didn’t understand my real name, my traditional name is Maroba Nkomo, but since we’re a defeated people I shall call myself France in this story from now hence on. I have built a home at the foot of Ntsweletau hills where the river Sebelwane flows from the Lulu mountains down towards Masemola hills, at sunset the river glows golden and cast my thatched roundavels into a haze of yellow shades. I used to sit by the wall on a wooden pew and watch the beautiful sunsets before I went blind.

But let me not end the story before it is began, I was never born blind, I was born healthy as a foal and spend my boyhood herding my father’s cattle. My father kept cattle, hens, sheep and goats like any other family in this hills. We had a farm we worked on during autumn when the farming seasons began and we never new the grave of hunger. And after he passed away I inherited the homestead bieng the only child my father had. I’ve been married to Rachel for four years now and we have two sons, Tleebe and Seepe. It was in the 1940s and South Africa was under the British rule. It was a wonderful and peaceful life we led in the far flung countryside, we didn’t much come in contact with our white oppressers, except on a few occasions when we would usually quarrel against each other about one or two things. We were always on the verge of war.

One peaceful morning the phalafala horn broke the silence of the morning and shattered the peace on the blue African skies, even the sparrows stopped chittering that day and listened to the horn, it was unusual to sound the horn in the morning when the sun has not yet passed over backs of cattle, unless the homeland was under threat of invasion, or there was an emergency of enormous proportions. I quickly called on Seepe to bring me my coat, it was an old coat of my father’s, still too big for my shoulders but I stood tall and carried it with the respect it deserved. I joined the men and we walked on to the king’s kraal, others were already gathered and they spoke amongst themselves in whispers and murmurs. What caught my attention was not the gossip of the men but the presence of army Jeeps and officers in uniform all stars and badges on shoulders and brests. Shortly afterwards; Noko appears before us with his bald head smeared with petroleum jelly, reflecting in the sun like a mirror, I dare say I saw my self and the crowd upon his head, his pouch was threatening to fall on to the ground, and if it did, even our combined strength wouldn’t have been enough to lift him upright back upon the podium again. He was the king’s spoke person and his baritone voice sounded in the air startling a cluster of titihoyas that were nestling in a nearby tree, and they took to skies,

” men of Sekhukhuneland, we have gathered here today on an issue of life and death, as you know, there is a war going on in Europe, Hitler has broken the peace of the world, and have sworn to defend our homeland and that of its other British dominions, Mr Churchill calls upon us today to lend a hand in defence of world peace, So his Majesty King Sekhukhune wish you farewell as you’d be going along tomorrow morning to show Hitler strength of an African warrior and the taste of a stabbing spear, all able bodied men leave tomorrow for Egypt, gentleman, this is a matter of agency and paramount importance. Go along now home, and take farewell of your families, I thank you” said Noko, and he disappeared back into the great hut. Then after that the elders of the royal palace stood up with further instructions and registrations, and preparations and deliberations. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived home to deliver the news to Rachel and the boys. But there was nothing in it for them to say or do about it.

The sun is not jealous, whether you are going to war or not, it shall rise as usual, and the morning the shall come. I packed my suitcase and left for the king’s kraal where Jeeps awaited us. We traveled from Sekhukhuneland to Pretoria. And from there we were huddled in helicopters to Cape Town. We were billeted at a hostel somewhere there at the Cape of Good Hope and spend a day learning the machanics of how to use the Holland and Holland 470 rifle, how to balance it upon your shoulder and it it fly, and the following day we were muched into ships. I don’t remember how many days we have been on the sea, but I suddenly felt so tired, I found myself thinking about Rachel and the kids. One would sleep and wake and sleep and wake losing count of days and time. But by the grace of God and the ancestors we finally arrived at a place called La Marsa; a coastal city located in the northern part of Tunisia.

We were to be part of the XIII Corps, The Western Desert Force that fought in North Africa and the Mediterranean. I was part of the officers patrolling the coastal areas around La Marsa. Our force consisted of a mixture of races, black and white. My partner was Themba, a Zulu guy from Zululand, and we grew close into friendship, we sometimes talked about our families back home, it was our first time outside the shores of our country, my first time I saw the ocean upclose with its horrifying waves and terrifying tendencies. There were a dozen ships in the water, patrolling and transporting soldiers to and from different battlefields.

One day our captain received a radio to pursue a certain other ship and sink it. We were also in danger of being sunk, worst part I can’t even swim. Three ships pursued the ship, then all hell broke loose as the other ship began firing canon at us as we got closer and closer to it. My first time hearing the booming sound of canon at sea, I’ve never even believed in my wildest imagination of the existence of such a loud sound and the subsequent equipment it erupted from. There were too many things to get used to, but I was not alone in my puzzlement, the other white guys were equally surprised.

The canon fire looked like a rising sung in boiling water, we were still astonished when our ship was grazed by another fire, immediately after that I’m sure the captain of our ship must’ve changed course to run away. But the ship was hurt and ailing. We struggled on away from the smoking canon at a very slow pace. Then we were overtaken and infested with panic, some of the other guys began edging us to kneel down and pray, a white guy said that it is us black guys who had brought bad luck to the ship. Another suggested that we must be thrown overboard into the sea because we were too heavy for the ship to carry. I was so afraid that day, then the white officers began throwing the black officers into the sea, saying that they were monkeys without tails. I was on the verge of breaking down when another canon fire rocked our boat directly in front of my eyes. All I saw was a bright light, like I was floating in the sun, and the memory of Themba being thrown into the sea it is all that I see these days. I can’t watch the sunsets again.