THE ZEBRA AFFAIRE: An Apartheid Love Story

Mark Fine

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He needed to make it right. Elsa had misunderstood him. She believed he’d rejected their child and made a mockery of their love. It upset Stanwell that she wouldn’t accept his explanation that he was preoccupied by a cruel government stalking them. And that his immediate concern was for her safety, leaving him little room to truly grasp her good tidings. So he returned to the way of his people, and prepared for Elsa a love letter—made from primitive colored beads.

Stanwell carefully harvested the beads from a family heirloom, a ceremonial loincloth of his mother’s that she in turn had inherited from her mayi. His mother had thrust the rolled leather apron into his grasp as he set to leave Malawi for the City of Gold, and, with tears in her eyes, had wished him the blessings of his ancestors. His message to Elsa would not be in words, but in colors. Stanwell patiently threaded tiny antique beads into a delicate necklace of such intricate design it belied his rugged, workman-like hands.

The beaded chain was predominantly yellow—the color of corn touched by the sun—and signified fertility and wealth. Hanging from the center was the rectangular “love letter”—a chevron of black and white beads trimmed with red and pink. The charcoal-black beads pledged marriage, the ivory white beads promised spiritual love, and the red beads—juicy-red like pomegranate seeds—vowed strong, physical love. But the single tier of pink beads, the color of Elsa’s lips, was the most significant; these shiny little beads declared Stanwell’s commitment to the birth of their child.

⧑⧒

Elsa accepted the uniquely crafted peace offering. She was touched by his handiwork, and the effort and thought he’d put into its creation. Happy tears rolled down her cheeks as Stanwell gently described the significance of each colored bead. At the moment he placed the necklace around her neck, Elsa’s hand reached up for his, and then she turned to face him. Stanwell cupped her face in his hands—a bas-relief in ebony and alabaster—and held her close. No longer doubting his intent, Elsa raised her lips to his. Tenderly they kissed their sorrows away.

Impetuously Stanwell knelt at Elsa’s feet. He placed his lips on her belly and kissed it. Then on his knees he began an earnest conversation with her tummy, whispering away in his mother tongue. Elsa had never heard him speak the language of his people before. “What were you saying to our child?” she asked.

Stanwell first touched his fingers to his lips and then to hers. “Hush, I was speaking to our son,” he said.

“A son! How do you know it’s a boy?”

“I know,” he said quietly.

Elsa saw the conviction in Stanwell’s face; there was no doubt. She then knew it to be true. A trill of excitement coursed through her body. For the first time it was real; in her belly, created by their love, was their son. A boy destined to become a unique individual, a manifestation of the union of two great heritages, with skin a beautiful coffee hue. Such a child would be incapable of bigotry and tribalism.

“How could the white half of him hate his black half, or vice versa?” Elsa said softly to Stanwell. “He will be our wonderful gift to Africa.”  As they gently affirmed their belief in each other, all was still except for music that filtered into the room from somewhere in the backyard. It was mesmerizing. The melody and rhythm remained steadfast, yet as the minutes passed, evocative layers of complexity were added. Both Elsa and Stanwell were fond of the recording, and knew it by the name “Mannenburg.”

But the anguished cry of the saxophone soaring over the hypnotic strains of the keyboard meant something else, something hopeful for Elsa and Stanwell. This plaintive masterpiece by Dollar Brand was the birth of a wonderful new sound called Cape Jazz—a fusion of American jazz and local Marabi music from the District Six township—another unconventional, yet fruitful meld of two musical forms and cultural traditions.

⧑⧒

It was dark—probably after midnight. Stanwell was already in motion. Something had alerted him, something rustling by the window. Then the barking started.

Elsa woke. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s Leo. He’s barking outside our window.”

“Ridgebacks don’t really bark. Something must be wrong.”

Stanwell, about to lunge through the door, stopped in his tracks. A fusillade of snarls and growls had replaced the barking; then a volley of frantic curses, “Jy’s ‘n dood hond ! Jy is ‘n duiwel !” [You’re a dead dog! You are the devil!], filled the night, followed by pounding footsteps and a thud as a body made hard contact with the fence, then he heard the desperate night caller scramble to safety.

Stanwell opened the door. A proud Leo—panting, salivating—stood with a trophy in his jaw. It was the ripped back pocket from a now tattered pair of jeans. At daybreak, among the churn of muddied footprints they discovered an overstuffed man’s wallet. Inside was the firearm license and driver’s license of a certain Ulrich van Zyl. Elsa and Stanwell recognized the face; it was “Thick,” one of the monsters who’d attempted to rape Elsa in the elevator.

Crass reality had forever invaded their discreet oasis. It was a chilling development. Stanwell hugged Elsa to his chest. Mal Zander’s stooges were closing in. Yet still Stanwell couldn’t bring himself to tell Elsa about his clash with the Security Branch operative. And he hoped he would never have to do so.

⧑⧒

Their spirits lifted with the monkey’s wedding, the morning's sunshower, when nature indulged all creatures with the charming anomaly of simultaneous rain and bright sunshine. A shimmering rainbow bridged the Highveld sky from north to south in a prismatic display of colors. In this instance the rainbow did not belie leprechaun lore, as ample pots of gold undoubtedly filled the mine fields below. But for the workers underground, the sunshine was illusory, and the rain hampered their labors.

Elsa already missed Stanwell, and she hadn’t even left yet. At the guesthouse door she lingered. They had grown accustomed to being a pair under the security of the Duncans’ roof and Leo’s watchful protection. Now separation promised to be painful. Stanwell said he’d drive up to meet her on Saturday, at the end of his work week. And, with great certainty, pointing to the beaded necklace around Elsa’s neck, he had reassured her he was always near. Then instinctively Elsa touched the “love letter” charm in warm response. They both stepped outside, into the rain.

⧑⧒

Elsa paused for a moment, her attention caught by widening, then overlapping ripples from raindrops pitting the liquid surface of the swimming pool. Yes, change was constant, and she best put on a brave face. After all, it was her job tugging them apart. She was off on a safari shoot—no, not hunting game with big-bore rifles. This time she was the target. And photographer cameras were the weapon of choice.

Whipped up from one of Lydia’s brainstorming sessions, it was decided a photo shoot at an exclusive safari lodge would emphasize both the uniqueness and authenticity of the Safari Èlan brand. With ready access to South Africa’s stunning, exotic wildlife, Elsa aside, the crew figured the animals would in effect become “celebrities.” As an added bonus, wild animals never demanded appearance fees, royalties, or insisted on freshly cut arum lilies in their dressing rooms. Nor did these creatures need the pampering of makeup or require their hair blow-dried.

However, this didn’t mean the animals behaved. It wouldn’t do to have a glamorous model perfectly primped in picture frame, to only later discover two bristled, lump-faced warthogs rutting in the photograph’s background. They were wild, after all. Yet Lydia and her team decided to accept the risk, and set their sights on Indlovu Pan Lodge (Elephant Waterhole Lodge) in the Timbavati region on the western edge of the famous Kruger National Park. There were many splendid game reserves available to them, but only Timbavati offered something truly exceptional—the recently discovered white lions of Timbavati.

And the Safari Èlan creative team was on a quest to get a picture of a pair of these adorable white cubs nuzzling with Elsa. These beautiful creatures were not albino, for though their pelts were white, their eyes were naturally pigmented like their tawny cousins. It would be a stunning cover for a major international woman’s magazine. To get that shot, and anticipating all other exigencies, Lydia had budgeted a full week for the shoot.

⧑⧒

Stanwell watched her go. He enjoyed watching her from behind. Her butt had a different strut from the familiar big-bottomed sway of local tribeswomen. Elsa glanced back at him fleetingly, swung her black duffel bag stuffed with pretty paraphernalia and intimates into the red Mini, then with a light toot of adieu on the horn, roared away.

With a sigh Stanwell climbed into his new company car, a silver Ford Cortina, waiting for him on the Duncans’ driveway. It made little sense having the car when he lived in Soweto. It would’ve ended up a stripped skeleton. Since the riots, he’d never returned to his little corrugated shack. There had been no need. Whatever meager possessions he owned would’ve been looted in the aftermath of the insurrection. No matter. He had a personal tribal schism to resolve at the warehouse and distribution center.

Stanwell had called a meeting of his black staff. If it was a neutral they wanted, well, he was their man, because he was a true outsider from Malawi with no allegiance to any local tribe—just like their former colonial masters and his predecessor, the Afrikaner in the corner office. If the color of his skin was the problem, Stanwell had one last gambit to play—humor. He intended to paint himself in whiteface and then insist his staff call him Meneer van der Merwe—all the while parodying the white man’s stiff mannerisms—until his black colleagues realized their foolishness.

Stanwell hoped his plan would work. If he proved successful by solving the problem with logic and laughter, it would be a nice farewell gift for his departing mentor. Only then, with success at his back, would he make that solitary drive up to the Timbavati bush to meet Elsa. It would be a wonderful reward for both of them.

THE ZEBRA AFFAIRE: An Apartheid Love Story Description:

IT’S THE SPRING OF ‘76. For Elsa, her affair with Stanwell may well prove lethal, as she’s white and he’s black, and they dared to fall in love in apartheid South Africa–a criminal felony. The terrified lovers are the prey in a deadly manhunt from the golden city of Johannesburg to the exotic but dangerous wilds of the African bushveld.

The Zebra Affaire is a thrilling fusion of romance and suspense—laced with rich South African history. The tension is palpable as the persecuted couple race against time and bigotry. Through the authors’s unrelenting narrative — the guilt, cruelty, subterfuge, and hypocrisy in all layers of apartheid society are exposed in a way only possible by a native born South African. Reviewers rave about this intimate, yet audacious love story; that’s set against a canvas that is both vividly authentic and powerfully provocative.

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