South Africa

Troubled Times

It’s 1977, my name is Dambudzo Biko, I am fourteen. My brother is Stephen Biko, he works for the African National Congress. He is one of the protest leaders, but he’s in jail right now even though he uses nonviolent resistance.  I am scared.  There are many riots going on, and the police are beating and killing lots of students. My best friend, Gugu, was killed last month, and I fear that my brother will die too. In August this year, Stephen and his friend, Peter Jones, went to Cape Town to work with others from Stephen’s South African Students Organization, and similar student groups. On their way, some police stopped them and recognized Stephen. The police arrested them both and are holding them for questioning in Port Elizabeth.

Today is September 12,  my mother’s birthday, and we get to go visit Stephen. My dad  helped me bake a cake this morning before we went to Port Elizabeth. It smelled as sweet as a mango tree. Then I made bright decorations that looked like a patch of protea flowers.

We have just arrived at the security police headquarters in Port Elizabeth. Mother smiles bigger than I've ever seen her smile. Daddy holds my hand and squeezes tight. We have missed Stephen so much! The police tell us to go down a long hallway. I hear nothing but the noise of my shoes squeaking on the floor. The lights are dim and my stomach begins to churn when, “BANG!” a door a little ways down the hallway slams. The hallway is suddenly filled with the noise of footsteps dashing towards us. It’s Peter!

Thinking he is excited to see us I say, “Unjani*?”

“ Shh. Lalela*” he says. I listen and I hear terrible screaming. It sounds like a poor boerboel dog yipping for help. I run to the open door and my throat starts closing up, I can feel tears welling in my eyes. I see Stephen laying there. He’s bleeding badly. I hear his moans and I know exactly what's happened. The police. They've beat him. My parents and Peter dash up behind me. My father tries to pull me away so I won't see this horrible sight.

“No!” I yell. I break away from my father's firm grip and I run and kneel by Stephen. A puddle of blood flows around me like a river.  I hear him mumble something, so I get closer to listen.

“Sala Kahle” he says and then I see his chest freeze. He’s stopped breathing. He is dead.

We are sitting around the table at dinner. There is cake that smells like mango trees and decorations that look like protea flowers, but the sounds in the room tell me it’s not the same. Mother is whimpering to herself and father is muttering, “Hamba Kahle Stephen” to himself.  

I look around me and finally understand the true meaning of my name, “born during troubled times.”