Often the Young Tigers gave the children political education. They taught them about the nature of oppression, the history of the movement, why it became necessary to wage an armed struggle, why it was recently suspended, why the tribal chief was doing such dirty things to the people, and how the government had been forced to unban the political movement of the people and to negotiate with its leaders. Much of this information floated above the heads of the children. This did not bother the Young Tigers. They knew that whatever little information the children grasped, it would make them committed freedom fighters, and upright leaders of tomorrow.
One night, when the settlement was deep in sleep, Battalion 77, supported by migrants from a nearby hostel, invaded. They attacked at random, burning the shacks. When the residents ran out, sometimes naked, the hostel inmates, uttering their famous war-cry, chopped them down with their pangas and stabbed them with their spears. The soldiers of Battalion 77 opened fire. They entered some shacks, and raped the women. They cut the men down after forcing them to watch their wives and daughters being raped. In one shack, a woman who was nine months pregnant was stabbed with a spear. As she lay there dying, she went into labour. Only the head of the baby had appeared, when it was hacked off with a panga by yet another warrior.
The whole exercise took less than thirty minutes, and in no time the invaders had disappeared into thin air. Those who had survived went to report to the police, who only came to investigate three hours after the bloody event.
The next morning, the entire settlement was dotted with smouldering ruins. Fifty-two people were dead, and more than a hundred others were in hospital with serious injuries.
Statements of accusation and denial were flying through the air. The residents and the political movement were pointing a finger at the hostel migrants and Battalion 77. The government was denying that Battalion 77 was involved, and the tribal chief was denying that his followers had anything to do with it. It was a terrible thing that had happened, he said, but anyone who wanted to blame his followers had to come up with evidence. It was not enough to say that someone saw the invaders coming from the direction of the hostels, and that they spoke the language of the tribal chief’s ethnic group. People had the right to speak any language they liked, and this could not, by any stretch of imagination, make them killers. Moreover, the tribal chief added, the residents of the settlement liked to attack the hostel inmates whenever they got the opportunity. Many of his followers had been killed and no one was saying a word about it.
Noria was fortunate in that her shack was untouched. So was ’Malehlohonolo’s. They went to help the unluckier families. In many cases, there was nothing they could do. The whole family had been wiped out. In other cases, there were survivors. They took new orphans to the dumping ground, where they were welcomed with open arms by Madimbhaza.
For many days that followed, a dark cloud hovered over the settlement. There was anger mingled with bitterness. People had lost friends and relatives. Husbands had lost wives, and wives had lost husbands. Children had lost parents, and siblings.
The funeral was the biggest that had ever been seen in those parts. The president of the political movement was there in person, together with the rest of his national executive. He, the consummate statesman as always, made a conciliatory speech, in which he called upon the people to lay down their arms and work towards building a new future of peace and freedom. He called those who had died martyrs whose blood would, in the standard metaphor for all those who had fallen in the liberation struggle, water the tree of freedom. He called upon the government to stop its double agenda of negotiating for a new order with the leaders of the political movement, while destabilizing the communities by killing their residents, and by assassinating political leaders. He further called upon the tribal chief to stop his gory activities, and to walk the democratic path.
The national president of the Young Tigers, however, was on the war-path. In his fiery speech he called upon his followers to avenge the deaths of their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters.
‘We cannot just sit and fold our arms while they continue to kill us. The people must now defend themselves. Those who were in the armed wing of the political movement, who came back home when amnesty was declared and the armed struggle was suspended, must help our communities to form defence units. Our people shall not die in vain. Every death shall be avenged!’
After the prayers and the speeches, fifty-two coffins of varying size were lowered into the fifty-two graves. Fifty-two mounds of fresh soil were shaped with shovels and spades, and wreaths were laid. Some of the messages that were read came from presidents and prime ministers from all over the world. Ambassadors representing foreign countries were among the dignitaries who were at the funeral. There was no one who was not disgusted with the senseless killing. Indeed, the residents of the settlement saw that they were not alone in their hour of bereavement.
After the funeral, the task of rebuilding began in earnest. The people were determined to show the tribal chief, and the dirty tricks department of the government, that they would not be destroyed. Their will to survive, and to live to see the freedom that was surely coming soon, was too strong to be destroyed by any massacre.
There was a flurry of activity in the settlement. Street committees met, and planned strategies on how to defend the community. The Young Tigers formed neighbourhood patrols, and interrogated every stranger they saw loitering around the settlement. They stopped cars and demanded identification from the drivers and the passengers. A few stubborn drivers who did not want to co-operate were beaten up. Sometimes their money and watches were confiscated as well, although the leaders of the Young Tigers strenuously denied that they were responsible for such actions. They said it was not the policy of the organization to rob innocent motorists. The agents of the state were responsible for these nefarious activities, in order to sully the name of the Young Tigers.
Each afternoon, the local leadership of the Young Tigers called a meeting in which strategies were discussed. Vutha, Danisa, and other children of their age who had already established their reputations as political activists, always attended these meetings. They might not have understood everything that was happening there, but everyone took their presence quite seriously, as they were the leaders of tomorrow.
After school, the children of the settlement used to play in the marshlands that divided the settlement and a township where some of the hostels were located. In fact, the hostels were on the edge of the township, and faced directly over the marshlands. Vutha, and some of the children of his age who were waiting to be seven so that they could go to school, sometimes played there during school hours. They improvised fishing lines and caught frogs and old shoes in the mosquito-infested ponds.
Noria did not like the children to play in the marshlands because she said it was too dangerous. When it had rained heavily in the past, children had drowned in those marshlands, since the ponds turned into small lakes. She preferred to keep an eye on Vutha and Danisa at all times. They accompanied her to the dumping ground whenever she felt Madimbhaza needed her help. When she drew water for the shebeen queens the children tagged along to the communal tap, and to the shebeens as well.
One day a shebeen queen came to ask Noria to draw water for her. She needed many buckets of water because she was going to brew a lot of beer for the weekend. Noria called Vutha to follow her to the tap. Danisa was at home, since ’Malehlohonolo had not gone to do washing that day. She walked a few steps and turned, only to find that Vutha was not there. He had remained behind.