When the boys from the bush arrived after the elections, they punished the villagers for having been so gullible as to vote for an obvious buffoon. They made all the men who had voted lower their trousers, lie on their bellies and place their hands above their heads. They made the rest of the villagers form a circle around the men. The boys from the bush then whipped the naked buttocks of the men as they lay there in front of their wives and children. They whipped them with sjamboks until their behinds were not only patterned with welts but also raw with broken skin and oozing with blood. The boys from the bush punished every man who had voted, including Chief Cele Mkhize. And they wanted to be the ones to inherit the earth, these boys who had no respect for authority … or their elders … or their traditions … or their own people? Afterwards, without a hint of irony, these very same boys who had beaten the men asked the women to show their support for the liberation struggle by cooking for them, which the women did. After eating, the boys from the bush built a huge fire and forced the hurt men, the harassed women, and the hungry children to dance around it and sing songs of liberation – songs of freedom.

The boys from the bush, of necessity, conducted most of their dealings with the villagers clandestinely, under the cover of darkness. When the day broke, the boys from the bush would be long gone, but the day would almost inevitably bring with it a visit from the security forces, who, through the bush telegraph, had heard that the villagers had entertained the boys from the bush. The villagers would be reminded, as though they could ever forget, that the boys from the bush were terrorists, and that to support them in any way was to break many of the many laws of the country. Those who broke the laws of the country had to be punished. The security forces’ punishments ranged from humiliating to deadly, and the villagers never knew what to expect from their government – humiliation or death.

So when the ceasefire was announced, and the future spoken of with such enthusiasm, the villagers, having long been treated as fools, could be excused for choosing to be angels instead.

And now, of all things, they had to figure out how best to deal with the intelligence boys. If we are not careful, they will lay whatever has happened to Emil Coetzee at our feet, the villagers said. Did you notice how they were surprised when we called Emil Coetzee by his name? Do they honestly think that we do not know what Emil Coetzee looks like? Everyone in the country knows exactly what Emil Coetzee looks like; he is like the Prime Minister – his picture is in the newspaper almost every day.