“Friedrich! get the goats in the barn, son!”
The warm African afternoon air grazed his hardened face. Karl was a tall man. Life on the farm had tanned his skin for most of his life. He was a Boer, a descendant of the first German and Dutch settlers to arrive in South Africa. Also, part of the last generation to have lived during apartheid times.
“A goat has gone missing, Dad!”
Friedrich was his only son. He belonged to the so-called “Born Free Generation”: those born after 1991. The generation born free of apartheid, the citizens of the Rainbow Nation of Mandela.
“We’ll have to look for her near the well. It must be the same goat that we lost last week… It’s almost dark. Close the barn, get some firewood for your mother, and reach me there.”
Friedrich waved at his father and locked the last goat. Behind the barn, he took a rusty wheelbarrow and filled it with firewood. Then, he hurried to the house where Elna, his mother, had finished preparing dinner.
“Mom! I’m going to the well with dad. One of the goats has gone missing.”
“Again? Alright but don´t be late, dinner is almost ready.”
The well was a couple of kilometers from the house. The road stretched across the plantations of Proteas, the national flower of South Africa. Its blossoms looked like large artichokes with ruby tones and bright colors, while the sunset further highlighted its peculiar beauty.
Friedrich took a quick look at the horizon and sped up the four-wheeled motorcycle he was driving, as he saw his father’s truck parked in the distance.
“I found her grazing near the grapes. Same as last week.” Karl stroked the goat’s back as he spoke to his son.
“Let’s get her in the truck and go home.”
Friedrich lifted the goat holding it by the abdomen, while his father received it from the top of the truck. At that moment, the distant sound of a gunshot broke the stillness of the night.
“Elna!” Karl uttered in horror.
Father and son rushed to the truck and took the direct route through the plantations. Only the father had a vague idea of what was happening, as they saw the vehicle lights in the distance.
Karl gave his son a quick look and eased out of the truck, his hands up. His wife was on her knees, held from her shoulders by a pair of African men in military uniforms. A third man, armed with a machine gun, was leaving the house. He seemed to be the leader of the group.
“The president has decreed that this farm now belongs to the African people. Whites who resist will be offered a place underground.”
“My wife …” Karl grumbled, taking a step toward her.
The two men holding Elna on her knees lifted her abruptly.
“The farm is all we have!” Elna shouted, “you can’t… ”
Before she could finish, the African group leader smashed her right knee with the butt of his machine gun, and Elna fell to the ground screaming in pain.
“Mother!” Friedrich yelled, peeking out of the truck.
“Be quiet. Stay in the truck!” Karl gestured at his son.
His wife’s fingers gripped his pants, and he helped her up. He took her tenderly from one of his hands and put his other arm around her waist. The blow had dislocated Elna’s kneecap, who was now standing on her feet only thanks to her husband’s help.
“I come for my wife and nothing else,” Karl muttered almost to himself.
The group of men stared at him, without saying a word, as Karl walked back and helped his wife into the truck, aided by his son.
It was a dreary night.
“We have to get to Carolina before dawn. The road must be blocked. I’ll take the R38 to Bethal, and then…”
“What’s going on, dad! why do they take away our farm?” Friedrich asked, disturbed.
Karl swallowed hard. Without taking his eyes off the road, he took a deep breath. Then there was silence.
“We knew it would come to us eventually, Friedrich… The same thing happened in Zimbabwe in the nineties. The government seized land from white farmers, and there was no compensation. Innocent people died. Others had to flee. We… your mother and I… wanted to believe in this rainbow, son; this rainbow nation. We tried to raise you this way; to stay away from the past…”
“There is no such thing, Karl.” Elna interrupted, her gaze lost. “We live in a rainbow of two colors… A rainbow of two colors…”
“A rainbow of Two Colors” is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago, after hearing about South Africa’s white farmers’ fate. I don’t think it requires further explanation.
Feel free to share the story (give credit where credit is due) or link to this post. Thank you.
