Johannesburg Airport - A Novel

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

The Airport

"Sorry, sisi, I did not mean to startle you. You slept for most of the flight. We are now serving breakfast. We are three hours from landing in Johannesburg. Do you want breakfast sister? By the way…can I ask you? Why is everyone in the last week or so, coming back to South Africa wearing the Springbok rugby jersey?" The black male airline steward had become very comfortable with me during our thirteen hour flight.

"South Africa won the Rugby World Cup in France. We won! We won!" I replied enthusiastically.

"So, what, we won? You sound like you literally played the game, did you sisi? Besides it was more than a week ago and yet everyone is still flying back home wearing that stupid rugby jersey!" He retorted firmly, clearly unmoved by my excitement.

He moved on to serve the people behind me. His lack of patriotism irritated me. He was blatantly oblivious of our win by our talented team’s massive efforts in the Rugby World Cup Tournament. His tone and manner were unnecessarily familiar, disrespectful! I was very uncomfortable with him calling me sister. Firstly I was married, and secondly much older than he was. I gave him ‘the eye’ to show disapproval and that we did not at all think alike.

I finished my breakfast and stood up to go refresh myself. The toilet door read ‘vacant’ so I went inside the tiny cubicle. The mirrored walls made the cramped compartment seem more spacious than it was.

Flying home to Johannesburg, I was exasperated. Returning to my homeland should have filled me with joy, but on this South African Airways flight I was surrounded by white foreign tourists heading South for the sun and as many rich, white South Africans, traveling back from France from the Rugby.

What a spectacular win my team had had, but even that could not cheer me up. The many white faces that surrounded me were a stark reminder that the South African economy was partly in the hands of a few black South Africans like my family, and frustratingly still mostly in the hands of whites.

It was fair to say that I had become accustomed to being surrounded by white folk in first class on long haul flights, in restaurants, and on holidays. Often the only other blacks were the airline stewards. However, just because I was used to it didn’t mean I had accepted it.

Palesa, dear, Rome was not built in a day! It is what you do from today that will make a difference. If you were broke in 1994 when South Africa got her independence, unless you have radically changed your life, chances are, that four years or fourteen years on, you are still broke and poor. These were the words my father had repeated to me over and over to remind me that change was a slow process.

Thinking this made me smile as only my father could. Dad, I whispered to myself now under the muffled drone of the airplane’s massive engines. I miss you! Rest in peace My thoughts were interrupted with a jolt as the plane descended.

I brushed my almost too white teeth with the airline toothbrush. I looked at the woman in the mirror. I looked good. I was a naturally beautiful woman; my husband told me all the time that I underestimated my own beauty. He often said I exuded this appealing glow with flawless skin and no bags under my large dark eyes, no wrinkles or crow’s feet by my eyes like most of my white friends my age. I wore fake eyelashes, which were unnecessary. Even after I had barely slept on the plane my skin was shiny. I had on my jet black long weave from Paris which brought out my eyes and smooth complexion, a deep dimple on my left cheek. I had always put an effort into how I looked. The dark hair contrasting with my skin made me look shades lighter than I was.

Why did the male steward not appreciate the win in France by the Springboks? Our first major win in twelve years. Oh, forget about him! I spoke to my reflection. Again I remembered my dad’s voice; To change South Africa, you have to change yourself first, by loving yourself, your neighbor, and then by loving your enemy. Dad sometimes sounded like a rambling preacher.

I always found airplanes particularly cold, and the air, dry. The air conditioning system was never the ideal temperature. I was still feeling a bit chilly. Earlier on during the flight, I had put on my Springbok rugby jersey on top of all my clothes and asked the irritating steward for an extra blanket. Oh, that’s why the attendant is complaining about rugby, I am wearing a rugby jersey! He must be annoyed that even black women are wearing the colors that once stood for oppression before the birth of our Rainbow Nation.

I glanced one last time in the mirror, putting the finishing touches on my makeup. I blotted my now glossed-up lips with tissue and pursed them. That’s better. I felt good about my retouched look. I was healthy and at my ideal weight; being 5ft 6 and weighing 120 pounds. I had been working out frequently, even while on holiday. Long runs on the beach, long walks along the Cote d’Azur, in Antibes, Juan Les Pins, Cannes, and Villefranche Sur Mer - the most beautiful little harbor town tucked in the mountains near Monaco. What an incredibly stunning holiday, achieved while following our national rugby team. I could not have dreamt it better.

In the small French university town of Montpellier I had gone to the gym only to find half the Springboks there. They were walking out of the gym: Bakkies Botha, Schalk Burger, John Smit, Jean De Villiers, Fourie Du Preez with my favorite players Brian Habana and Percy Montgomery. They were delighted to hear that I was a fellow South African. It was a real treat to see them so close and chat with them.

That’s it!

I wanted to march up to the steward and tell him that in France it had not mattered what color you were or what your background was within South Africa. If you saw the green and gold jersey on a stranger you were instantly united, fellow South Africans! Arms around each other taking pictures. No more us and them-the plural people.

My mind flashed back to the day my children told me, Mom stop the car! The vendor on the street has a large Springbok flag! You will need a large flag to wave in the stadiums in France. Tumelo my son was adamant, so I stopped the car and bought the flag. A large green and gold flag with a springbok leaping over a protea.

How coveted that flag had become by all South Africans we met at the stadiums, whether they had travelled from another part of the world or directly from home. Many of them offered us money or even a meal with them after the game if we could only give them our flag, or even better, inform them of where we had obtained this scarce item.

Finally in Marseille, at Stade Velodrome my husband and I took pity on six young South African backpackers who offered everything they had for the flag. Seeing it was our last game Michael and I agreed to hand over the flag. So there in front of an excited, rowdy crowd streaming into the stadium we did an impromptu ‘Flag-Handover-Ceremony.’ We stood at attention as we sang together ‘Nkosi sikelel’ iAfrica,’ our country’s unique National Anthem. The anthem written in the five most widely spoken languages of the eleven official languages of our nation. Halfway through the song we drew a crowd who watched, listened and took photos.

How could I ever explain that to the unpatriotic steward?

Before I sat back down in my airplane seat, I pulled out a pair of high-heeled sandals from the overhead compartment and put them on.

There was a phone on the back of the seat pocket in front of me. When I had got onto the plane, I had contemplated phoning my husband Michael from the plane to prank him. I wanted to say that I had been left behind by the plane at Heathrow Airport and therefore would now only get home in four days time. My naughty prankster streak had been quickly dampened by the steward, Sorry phones don’t work aboard our airline blame the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Airlines now consider phones aboard a security risk, he said.

Michael had left France a week earlier than I to attend a board meeting in his offices in Johannesburg. This arrangement suited the children too. They missed their mum and dad, now at least dad was home. I remained abroad, sightseeing, shopping, visiting friends, I even visited a couple of new South African friends that Michael and I had met at the South Africa v USA match in Stade De La Mosson in Montpellier.

Finally I went to London the day before the Rugby World Cup final. This is where I planned to watch the last World Cup match, England v South Africa live from Stade de France, Paris.

During my stay in London my main focus shifted from being a Springbok super fan to being a ‘stock market watcher.’ I witnessed as the financial markets started to dither. A year later they would crash spectacularly causing a global financial crisis. The subprime-sparked credit crunch would cause global fear and panic.

Of course the newspaper headlines in the United Kingdom and around the world fanned the flames of the financial meltdown in the year that followed. The misleading media caused mass psychosis, leading to over reaction by the masses.

I watched the markets obsessively as a recession would hit too close to home, my husband was the owner, and CEO of a fund management, stock brokerage and hedge fund management business. Michael October-Kekana Fund Managers - Mokena Fund Managers for short. Mokena was such a great acronym for Michael because it meant turtle in an ancient language and his tribal totem was a turtle! Michael felt the name was no accident. It was a sign that the company was meant to be.

I could not help thinking that a subprime-sparked credit crunch banking crisis in the developed world countries would be ridiculous! To put it very simply, bankers and other market players were losing the confidence to transact and do business with each other. Players had been lying to each other. Debtors were claiming they had money to pay back if ever they were summoned to pay up, when in reality they were broke. Borrowers also did not have the money to pay back if they too were called upon. The whole world held its breath for a year, when debtors were eventually requested to settle their debts, they dramatically defaulted. This failure to pay caused panic. The hysteria was in the financial industry itself ! Doing business would become like a wife trying to convince herself that her continually adulterous husband, had changed his ways. Like the long suffering spouse the Stock Markets would have massive trust issues and a recession would follow. It was like having a broke-ass, cheating, lying husband.

In the panic, reports of suicides committed by rich young millionaires, who had gone from having it all to having nothing in their portfolios overnight led The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, to issue a prayer in the London Evening Standard and on the internet.

The prayer would help the masses to …put their trust in God, to quote the Arch Bishop and obviously to turn away from their sinful ways of trusting the stock markets.

The Prayer in the Evening Standard would read:

"Lord God, we live in disturbing days,

across the world,

prices rise,

debts increase,

banks collapse,

jobs are taken away,

and fragile security is under threat.

Loving God, meet us in our fear and hear our prayer;

Be a tower of strength amidst the shifting sands,

and a light in the darkness;

help us receive your gift of peace,

and fix our hearts where true joys are to be found,

in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

The crackle and beep of the cabin audio system brought my thoughts back to attention as the captain’s voice came to life in the airplane’s speakers.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have one more hour before we land at the Johannesburg, O.R Tambo International Airport. It’s a beautiful day, sunny skies with a high of 22 degrees Celsius. Prepare to shed those autumn clothes as it will be very hot by midday. I will be coming back to you shortly before landing. Cabin crew, prepare aircraft for landing. Thank you.

The cabin crew cleared the breakfast trays, cleaned up, opened closed window shutters, as we closed our tray tables and raised our seats from a reclining position. A rush of excitement filled the atmosphere. The airplane was about to land! The steward offered a last round of bottled water to all the first class passengers and then went back to the galley.

Home was best. My kids would be beside themselves to see me at the airport arrivals gate. I was thrilled to be coming back to them.

The sound of the captain’s microphone filled the air again.

Ladies, and gentlemen we are well into our descent. We will land shortly. We are in the process of crossing all our ‘i’s and dotting all the ‘t’s. Cabin crew take your seats. Thank you.

The captain had no idea of his word mix up but the passengers were chuckling and laughing at the captain’s faux pas. When the laughter died down the captain came on the air again. Who does that? he giggled, who crosses their ‘i’s and dots their ‘t’s?

The pilot’s landing felt like a near disaster as the airplane came hurtling down onto the runway. One of the worst landings I had ever experienced. The plane swayed from side to side, the right wing looked as though it would touch the ground and scrape the tarmac.

What a landing! an elderly gentleman seated to my left blurted out.

The pilot must have been rattled a bit too, I responded.

Thank you for flying SAA. Thank you for flying with us. The airline attendants repeatedly thanked us and smiled as we filed out.

I noticed the one stewardess who had served our area but had hardly said a word to me or even made eye contact. All her five star service smiles, and flirts had gone to the 30-something-year-old gentleman who had been seated on the other side of the aisle. Now with as much confidence and gusto, the flight attendant handed him her phone number as he walked past her at the exit. He winked at her as he took the piece of paper from her.

I wondered what he would do with it because he was married by the looks of his ring finger.

I cracked up with laughter at the thought of him saying, Oh honey, the flight attendant from my flight gave me her number, why do you think she did that? Then his wife would probably casually reply, Oh darling, that’s so the airline can give you even better service next time you fly!

Ahhh, home sweet home, I sighed as I flicked my long hair out of my eyes and felt the sun touch my face. I put on my Calvin Klein sunglasses, which I had bought from the vendors on William Nicol Drive in Sandton City, a few weeks ago.

The passengers all walked straight out onto the tarmac. The airline had not provided a sky-bridge from the airplane door to the building. There was a clearly marked footpath to the arrivals and immigration building. The privilege of constant good weather meant no need for covered walkways. I felt like kissing the ground, but quickly discarded that image from my mind. It would not look good for the only black woman in first class to start making weird gestures, and doing strange rituals, like getting onto her knees and embracing the ground, while getting off the plane. No matter how happy I was to be home safely, only Pope John Paul could kiss the dirt on getting off a Boeing 737 and still be respected.

The young man who had been given the air hostess’ phone number was now walking directly in front of me. I saw him toss the piece of paper into the bin, as he entered the passageway towards immigration.

That’s correct, dude, it is trash! You are married! I doubled up my steps and caught up with him.

Good move! I could not help myself from saying to the stranger.

He grinned and winked back at me. Oh goodness! It is the winking! You must not wink at ladies, it’s so misleading and flirtatious. I passed him before he could wink at me again, wishing I could tell him off firmly. Do not wink at women like that! That is why women are so misled by you. What on earth does a wink mean? Unless it is Tourette’s Syndrome, don’t do it, bro!

Going through customs was smoother than usual at Johannesburg airport. G.T.C.W.B (Going Through Customs While Black) meant even when I had nothing to declare, the customs officials usually targeted me and searched through my luggage thoroughly. I might as well go through the red route each time.

I seemed to have a sign on my forehead that said, Search me! Please, please, me. Once I had even watched as a major retail shop’s white female buyer, walked straight through customs, no-questions-asked with six suitcases!

The best part of today was that Michael was not at the customs station with me. Bless his heart; Michael declared even the chewing gum he had used while on holiday. Michael was so transparent and did not ever want to cheat the system. Even his taxes were to the cent. A good and honest man. Mmmm. I missed him.

I cannot wait to see my husband, I told the customs inspector in the hope he would relax his bureaucratic, tense, unfriendly demeanor.

A smile of love, a feeling of overwhelming passion went through my body at the thought of Michael. What a pity the kids were coming to the airport. All I truly wanted was some alone time with Michael before I returned to the drudgery of my normal daily routine.

The kids of course would pretend they were happy to see me, when all the while, they were anticipating gifts from overseas.

I walked slowly with the baggage trolley out of customs, out of my holiday mood. I braced myself as the sliding doors opened, expecting there to be an avalanche of kids. All hell was about break loose as all six kids would run towards me, hurling themselves on me;

Mum, mum we missed you, mum.

How are you mum?

Did you bring us anything?

Mum!

Mum!

Always the children brought their works of art, pictures, drawings, and handmade gifts. The au pair put them all to work on creating something for the period mum was missed.

Last year, coming home from a trip to Mauritius, they had made a huge, cute, illegible, hideous banner that read; Welcome Home Mum! I decided that I would hand my bags to the driver and maybe sit on the floor for a while to take it all in while showing genuine appreciation for such artistic, talented, decorative handy works of ‘welcome home art.’

As the sliding door opened, a multitude of people waited longingly for their families, friends, and work colleagues to arrive.

I braced myself. Then, silence. Total silence. No children came out to greet me.

There is nothing worse than being picked up late when you have been on an international flight. I had travelled from far and I was very disappointed at the lack of a warm welcome. How inconsiderate of my absent family.

Where are you guys? I muttered under my breath. I became even slightly amused because my family is never late. It must be a trick. The kids sometimes hid under a bench in the arrivals foyer when we picked up their dad coming from the occasional business trip. So that’s it! They were hiding!

My eyes scanned the waiting crowd as I pretended to be patient. Chauffeurs, taxi drivers, wives, husbands, grandparents. There was a large Indian family waiting ceremoniously for their loved ones, the women wearing their beautiful saris accompanied by children and men chatting happily. No sign of the October-Kekana family or Bassie the driver. No loud, excited, happy, carefree family.

I looked under the benches and in the shops around the arrivals area. This began to feel like a hide and seek game gone wrong.

Sisi, sisi taxi to Sandton sisi? asked an overzealous taxi driver.

"No, thanks, and I am not your sisi!" Call me mama. I am a mother of six kids and you are being disrespectful."

Ahh, sisi you lie. Six children? Why do all beautiful women lie? Next time think of a better lie. Heh, sisi? Did you think I am picking you up? Heh? I did not ask to marry you! I asked you if you want a taxi. It’s not a marriage proposal man sisi! It’s not! Eh, but you are beautiful heh! He continued to harass me.

Leave me alone, I do not want a taxi! I began to feel agitated and uncomfortable. My family was late and the taxi drivers and porters were persistent and aggressive.

Another porter cat-whistled and made sure I was within ear shot as he shouted loudly to his colleague, Bro! It’s true what they say, hey? Women are like parking spots, all the good ones are taken and the ones left are for the handicapped. Shake it don’t break it sisi! Hawu!

I felt positively hostile.

That was the problem with taxi drivers, porters and security guards here. They hoped they could catch any fish in the sea. A porter was headed for me. I was about to bite his head off.

Without warning my blackberry came to life as the mobile network connection kicked in. I glanced at it. ‘Forty-six messages and nineteen missed’ calls in the last 24-hours. Wow! That was a record breaking number of calls and messages. As I tried to open the first message, a commotion came from the crowd. I looked up to see my two sisters Thandie and Khanyi with their respective spouses Dzidzai and Dean with Hazel, Michael’s personal assistant. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. This is an unusual combination for an airport welcoming party!

They looked strange, like rubber figures walking towards me. This is odd! I shouted to them from a distance. I was stunned by this weird grouping of my family. They all had the same expression on their faces. It was not a smile, it was not joy, it was not shock but it was unusual. Something was terribly wrong, that was for sure. This was serious. I wheeled my luggage slowly, closer, leaning forward, eager to hear what they had to say, straining to hear them before they had even spoken.

Hey Palesa, there you are! We went to the wrong terminal, Hazel spoke, her voice stern and extremely controlled. It had a strange rough edge to it.

What is the matter, guys? Where is Michael? Where are the kids? I was shaken and could hardly get the words out.

They are at home, Hazel said.

Hazel, I have forty-six messages and nineteen missed calls! Something is wrong! My mind raced. I felt my pulse beating in my mouth as it went dry.

Is it one of my kids? Is it Michael? I did a simple deduction, if it was one of the kids Michael would be here.

It’s Michael isn’t it? I shuddered. It’s amazing how quickly a brain can play out different scenarios in one-second. Everyone was silent. My younger sister Khanyi had silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She was about to erupt like a volcano sending out warning shots, she trembled before the inevitable explosion.

It is Michael isn’t it? I looked at Khanyi, I prayed, silently hoping, muttering under my breath. God please, no! Hoping in the three to five-seconds before the answer came out that the outcome would change, I petitioned with God, Please, not my husband.

In those few seconds before they were about to deliver the worst news of my life, my heart seemed to stop beating from my chest as it pounded in my mouth leaving my mouth painful. I could taste blood and metal. My pulse throbbed loudly in my ears. Without even thinking it, my brain did an involuntary lottery, as if it had power over the preceding tragedy. If the worst came to the worst who should it be? My children or my husband? Please, God not my husband! If it is one of the children, which one should it be? The ill-fated lottery shuffle persisted in my head. The reasoning of choosing one life over another, and the realization of the fact that I even had this dark place in my heart-playing out all the different possible outcomes silently within me-would haunt me forever. I could never confess to any one of this unspeakable lottery.

God had witnessed the toss-up. The only solace to me weeks later would be the rationalization that humans were far from perfect, I was not perfect, and that dark place, that I had come face to face with, is what makes us all human. I faced the darkness in my heart and saw my own humanity, which if left unchecked in contrast with other living things could be the most beastly.

In that second I reiterated that wretched consideration, if it is the children then which one and in what order? Where did these thoughts come from? How dark is the human heart? The shock to my system that I had a preference of which child it should be and in what order increased the tension in my body as it went cold. The emotion was overwhelming. I knew I had no right to choose one life over another. It was a hopeless, helpless exercise, the few seconds I played God, would never change the reality of what I was about to find out.

Tell me what is wrong! I whispered, tears flowing freely down my face. The phone! I will read a message on my phone. Tell me, Thandie, I pleaded as I reached for my phone. I realized how impotent I was. Dean and Hazel knocked the phone out of my hands. We all watched in slow motion as the blackberry shattered on the concrete airport tiles.

By now Khanyi was crying audibly.

Tell me Hazel, I whispered.

It’s Michael Palesa, but this is not the place to tell you, Hazel said with her head tilted to shoulder as if the weight of the burden and the gravity of the news she bore could no longer allow her to hold her head upright.

No, just tell me. If you were not going to tell me you should not have gathered all this pathetic lot to come with you.

Michael is gone, Palesa, Hazel mumbled.

Gone, does gone mean gone? Gone where, gone? I inquired like a child. I hoped the word meant something different today. She was telling me what I already knew yet I hoped that, just maybe…

Michael is dead, Hazel spat out.

The arrivals hall seemed to dim theatrically as this horrid act came to its conclusion.

He is dead, she said, more softly, trying to take back the frustration and sting of her previous retort.

CHAPTER 2

Life After Death

"No, don’t! Please do not throw that mug at the television. Please! This is my favorite TV in the whole house. I will not have anything to watch my day time soapy, Generations if you smash it!" Mpho implored. My housekeeper had to hold my wrist firmly as I was about to hurl the coffee mug at the TV.

"Don’t Madam, please! Please! Besides, it took fourteen hours for your husband to hang it up, remember? It had to be just right. Smashing the TV will not bring him back to you. All you will have is a smashed TV and that’s all!"

I stood up and wiped the coffee I had spilt from the mug off the bed and off my dressing gown with some facial tissue.

"Thanks, Mpho. It’s just that you did not hear what the Gauteng commissioner of police has just said on the news! On National Television! I will repeat it word for word for you because I will never forget it. He had the guts to say, ‘I have no knowledge of, neither have we received any reports, of a syndicate, or gang, operating hijackings from the airport. Such rumors and reports are a fabrication of lies!’ I said, imitating his slow annoying voice.

Can you believe that? Our national police have no official record of the hijackings from the airport? I am livid! How dare he stand there and lie, to the whole nation that there is no organized crime from the airport? It is hurtful to me and a disgrace to the country for him to be in such denial. I was now tearful.

That there is what happens when passive aggressive people are put in charge! I said pointing repeatedly at the screen. He is being rude, and all the while, pretending to be informative!

Do not worry about him! My faithful housekeeper answered. She opened the wooden blinds and windows to let light and fresh air into the room.

It is a fashionable trend for our political leaders to deny anything they cannot change. She paused in her tracks and looked at me up and down to assess how I was doing this morning. You, my dear, need to stop listening to the news. She took the remote control and just like that, the boxed source of my troubles was shut down.

A cool breeze floated into the room. I heard the hadadas with their loud obnoxious ‘haa-haa-de-dah’ call as they flew off, startled by some random noise or creature outside. Most mornings, birds would have started warming up their vocal cords with their dawn chorus in the woodland behind the house. By 5:15am the woodland choir was at its peak performance calling back and forth, trying to see exactly where their mates were in the garden. It had always been so musical but lately it had become a disturbing racket.

Those hadadas are a pain! They keep me awake on most mornings. They should be poisoned and killed. I complained to Mpho.

Mpho sighed, she had a candid and pragmatic way of looking at life. I, on the other hand, had an extreme, rash and stupid temper. I tried to relax.

Looking around my bedroom, I knew it would have been chaos if I had smashed the television. This was a beautiful room. My favorite room in the house. The walls were a grayish, black color. Two meters from the king-sized bed was a fire place. The television was mounted on the wall above it. On either side of the fireplace were two huge teak railway sleeper chests of drawers with two white lamps on top of each chest. The lamps each had a classic silver stand adorned with ivory-white lampshades. Light streamed in from the windows behind each chest, giving everything a twinkle.

On both chests were an assortment of family photos. Next to the one set of drawers was a reclining futon bed. Occupying the full length of the wall to my right was a painting on black canvas exhibiting bright red tulips. The contrast of the black canvas and the dark grey wall made the tulips look like they were floating on the wall, or even painted directly onto it. Both the bedside tables on either side of the bed had on them candles in glass jars.

Palesa, come, Mpho whispered. Come and look out of the window. Your seasonal turquoise Egyptian goose is back. Look by the pool. What did you and the children name him last year?

I looked at the huge bird. We could not tell if different geese magically flew into our yard but this particular one always seemed to be alone, so we assumed it was the same bird. Birds of all types, African hoopoes, doves and, sparrows, had free reign in the yard. My favorite was this large bird because it never disturbed anyone.

I knew Mpho had tricked me to get to the window and move on from the news report. Granted, she was not mistaken about our politicians, selective reality and denial were strong traits in African politics.

They are ruining our lives and the lives of our families, I grumbled, when I got to the window.

Who is? The geese? she poked fun at me.

No! The politicians and the criminals are! I retorted, irritably.

"Maybe, I should wear a sign on my chest that says, ‘I am the only one left for my children. My husband has already been shot and killed by you criminals who the police have no record of, so please don’t mug, rape or hijack me but