Plumes of dust followed the truck as it crossed the wide savannah, a barren landscape quite different from the trees and green bushes that surrounded the Mission. In the heat of the early afternoon, there were few animals visible. Only a lonely black-winged kite soaring in lazy circles gave proof to life on the plain.
“I thought you said Steven lived three miles away?” Patrick squinted, his forehead furrowed despite the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing outside. He shifted gears awkwardly with his right hand, grimacing at the grinding sound.
“It is three miles on foot, Doctor,” Utitshala informed them, “but to travel by car, it is much longer.”
“That makes no sense, whatsoever.” With each minute, Patrick’s confidence was starting to fade and with it, his patience.
“The settlement Steven lives in isn’t at all like the rondavels we’ve seen near the mission, Dad. Steven says–”
“I know, Tim. I did the same research you did before we arrived.” As soon as the sharp words flew out of his mouth, Patrick shook his head in regret.
“I do not think “sense” was the primary motivation in building this road.” Utitshala waved his hand towards the plain. “This road was created when the government began the relocation to the Bantustans. Out here, so far from the cities, we have very few roads, as you know. There is the road into the village where our Mission is situated, and then we have this one. The roads converge far to the North, making a direct route between the settlement and Alice. Do you understand why that is?” As he asked Timothy the question, Utitshala’s old eyes clouded over with emotion and he looked away to the tan landscape.
“I’m not sure, sir. It seems as if the road is meant to make travel more difficult, not less.”
The old teacher’s silence compelled Patrick to reconsider his own tone. After a moment, he began to speak.
“It was to keep the people apart, Tim. The government wanted to isolate the people they were transferring to the homelands. They took advantage of the differences between the tribes and used it to defuse any possible alliances.
“The Xhosa farmers that were already here had their village, they had an entire history here. The Homeland Act didn’t require them to leave, but thousands of others were forced from their homes and their livelihoods and pushed out here on land no one else wanted. These people are poor in ways we’ve never seen, Tim. They have so little power in their own lives.Now imagine that happened to you. How would you feel?”
“I’d be furious.” Tim’s righteous heart shone out of his eyes.
“Precisely. The last thing the government wants is one angry group to start talking with the others.”
Tim considered his father’s words. “So that explains why so few of the children Steven knows come to school.”
“Yes. They are forced to stay home to help the family survive.” Patrick glanced over at the old teacher. “Did I get that right, Utitshala?”
“Yes, Doctor, you are correct.” Composure returned to the old man’s wise face. “I am afraid the government’s plan has worked, to a very large extent. Because of men like DuPlessis, we will find a great deal of suspicion and anger when we arrive. It is my hope that your father’s plan will help make a change, young Timothy.”
Through the ripples of heat hovering above the road, the shantytown came into view. Barely more than shacks, these homes were assembled from scrap wood and rusted corrugated tin. Few had windows, leaving families to shelter in dark, unventilated spaces.
As they drove through the settlement, suspicious faces turned to watch them, eyes full of reproach. In a small clearing, two boys faced each other with two long sticks, their arms up as if to duel. They paused for a moment before one boy called out to them.
“That’s Zinwe, from school. He comes with Stephen sometimes,” Tim said.
“Not often enough. I am afraid that boy could fall in with the wrong crowd if we are not careful,” Utitshala answered. He waved, and the two boys turned their back on the truck to resume their game.
“You’re sure I was right to bring Tim?” Patrick asked, his voice uncertain.
“Yes, Doctor. We are safe here, though I cannot promise we will be successful. Turn here.”
The truck turned down an alley so narrow homes on each side could be reached from the truck windows. At the old teacher’s direction, Patrick continued down a labyrinth of alleys.
“Perhaps we should have left the truck back at the start of the town and walked in,” Patrick wondered aloud.
“I am afraid Doctor Fitzsimmons would have been none too pleased when we returned on foot because her beloved old truck had been stripped down to the ground, Doctor. It is better we keep close. Zakhele Obi is an important man here. No one will bother us if they know we are his guest.”
Patrick downshifted as they pulled along an open lot. Men sat in makeshift chairs clustered in small groupings, some playing cards or mancala, while others loitered about with no direction. Every set of eyes turned toward the visitors as the climbed down from the truck. A small man stepped forward, his eyes on the teacher. He walked with a limp, but his back with straight. His hands touched his chest, moving out from his heart in greeting. “Molo, Utitshala!”
The two men clasped hands and exchanged greetings in Xhosa, their manner that of two veteran soldiers from old battles. They broke apart, and Utitshala introduced his companions to the small crowd that had gathered around them.
“Zakhele Obi, I wish to make known to you my esteemed new friend Doctor Patrick Turner, and his son, Timothy.”
Shrewd eyes passed over the two visitors before Zakhele spoke. “Timothy Turner. My son Steven speaks most highly of you. He has grown complacent in his schooling of late, so I must thank you for the challenge you offer.” He called out to a young boy on the edge of the clearing, issuing an order in Xhosa. The boy dropped his ball and ran off down a side alley.
“I have sent for my son. He would be most displeased if he were not here to greet you properly.”
Timothy’s face flushed with the attention. “Thank you, sir. I’ve already learnt so much from Steven during my stay.”
“It is good to know the boy has done some good himself, then. And this is your father.” He extended his hand for Patrick to clasp. “I am Zakhele Obi, sir.”
Patrick shifted on his feet, aware of the watchful glare from several of Zakhele’s companions and took the other man’s hand. “Thank you for your welcome, Mr. Obi. I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but we don’t have much time here, and I was hoping to have a moment of your time.”
A momentary flash of distrust in Zakhele’s eyes and one of the men behind him spoke softly in his ear. Utitshala answered sharply, all signs of the gentle teacher gone. Zakhele considered for a moment, then answered his companion. The man gave a sullen shrug but kept his eyes on Patrick.
“Forgive us, Doctor,” his voice was smooth and cultured. “My friend Onke is a nervous sort. We do not have many friendly visitors out here, as you might imagine, but a friend of Utitshala is a friend of mine. Let us sit and share a moment of this glorious day.”
At his word, a battered table of crates and plywood was cleared and the three men took seats. Zakhele’s Timothy hovered behind his father, his eyes on the lookout for his friend.
“Mzingisi and I are friends from long, long ago, Doctor Turner. Young lions we were, ready to change the world! Now look at us, eh, my brother? Old and toothless.” He laughed, but the sound was mirthless. “But old lions can still rule the pride. We are not so feeble, after all.”
“Perhaps we would be better off guiding the young ones, umhlobo.” Utitshala’s voice grew weary.
Zakhele sighed heavily. “Doctor Turner, your boy Timothy, here, he is an excellent student, I am told. He will one day go on to university, perhaps be a doctor like his father. It is as it should be. But my boy Steven, he has had to fight for the right to go to school at all. He has had to take many exams and speak before long tables of old white men to try to prove he is adequate for their mediocre school. My Steven, he would be the top student any one of the great universities of South Africa, even your Oxford. He could be a doctor, or an engineer, or even a great statesman, but he will never have the chance.”
“Timothy.” Steven Obi approached the small group, worry across his face. “I did not expect you to come out here today.” He held out his arms in the same manner his father used, his gesture of welcome diffusing the tension around the table. He greeted the other men and turned to his father.
“Tata, I will go to the Academy. If I study very hard, I may be one of the lucky ones to go on. It is what you wanted for me.”
The man rubbed his face, wiping away the emotion he wanted to hide. “You can understand why my old friend and I do not agree, Doctor. He would have us work with the enemy, whilst I would fight him.
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Obi,” Patrick leant in. “I think I may have come up with a way that we can do both. I know you don’t trust me, all I ask is for the chance to earn that trust.”
“Tata, please listen to him. He is here to help our people.”
Onke fired up. “He comes to bring help, but how much does he demand from us? The Mission, they need workers to tend to these missionaries, they take food that should go in our children’s mouths, and for what? So that they may return home feeling proud that they made an effort to fix the poor black man.”
Zakhele placed a warning hand on his deputy’s arm. “Doctor Turner, you can see that we are of very strong opinions here. I am certain you mean well, but you must see how we feel.”
Patrick’s face was earnest. “I do see, Mr. Obi. All my life I have been trying to fight the ills of poverty. Until very recently, most of my patients lived in squalor, homes barely habitable. Change has come to England, and the welfare state has given our poor health care, better living conditions. But none of that just happened. It took hard work, efforts of so many people. We have this chance to make a difference here.”
“But it is not for you to make the change, Doctor. We must be self-sufficient if we are to gain the rights we deserve. Handouts only serve to undermine our independence.”
“Good medical care is a never a handout, sir.” Patrick’s voice was determined. “We can help counteract the problems you face here, and make you stronger.”
He shifted in his chair, and his hands moved with excitement. “We can help another way, one which I think will make both you and Utitshala happy. I’ve spoken with Henry Makepeace, and he assures me that the laws against congregation will not reach to medical clinics.”
Patrick’s words hovered in the air as his plan began to reveal itself. Zakhele squinted as he strove to understand, and Utitshala nodded his head.
“Yes, my old friend,” he explained. “His words are true. If you were to come to the clinic, you could meet with the chief of the village, the people of both worlds could listen to each other. The only way we will win is if we work together.”
“If we fight together,” Onke asserted.
“Perhaps. I cannot support political meetings at hospital, but first you must find some common ground,” Patrick echoed the words of his wife the night before.
Onke was still suspicious. “How do we know it’s not a trap? If we were to gather at your clinic, and the SAP were to arrive, surely we would be taken away.”
“I’m sorry you have such good reason to distrust us, sir,” Timothy spoke for the first time since their arrival. “The British haven’t been entirely respectful of your country, I know. But my father came here to help, all of us did. If we can establish a permanent mission hospital, we can get more funds from the Mission Society in London, enough to give medical treatment to so many people. We can work together, all of us, to put things to rights.” He finished, his face flushed with passion.
For long moments, the only sounds were those of a child crying in a dark hut along the way. Zakhele stood.
“I will speak with my men and we will consider your offer, Doctor Turner. I cannot promise you more.”
Author’s note
Please forgive any inaccuracies.
My Little Yellowbird 
