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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Halftitle
  3. By the same author
  4. Title
  5. Dedication
  6. Prologue
  7. Part I Cleave
  8. December 1979
  9. Spokes
  10. Saskia
  11. The Beige Bakkie
  12. Rutherford & Joseth
  13. The Villagers
  14. Spokes
  15. Kuki
  16. Spokes
  17. Saskia
  18. Joseth
  19. Spokes
  20. January 1980
  21. Tom
  22. Vida
  23. Tom
  24. Spokes
  25. Saskia
  26. Spokes
  27. Spokes
  28. February 1980
  29. Spokes
  30. Saskia
  31. Saskia
  32. Spokes
  33. Saskia
  34. Spokes
  35. Part II Cleave
  36. March 1980
  37. The Lovely Loveness
  38. Dikeledi
  39. Lukha
  40. Spokes
  41. Sitshengisiwe
  42. Philemon
  43. Rutherford & Spokes
  44. Spokes
  45. Spokes
  46. April 1980
  47. Spokes
  48. Silas
  49. Dr Gustav Mabuse
  50. Spokes
  51. Kuki
  52. The Red Aster
  53. Spokes
  54. Epilogue
  55. Acknowledgements
  56. Rate this book

Kuki looked at the Chief Inspector, and it occurred to her that the war was paradoxically the one thing that had united the country. She remembered all those situation reports, all those thousands of dead black bodies – the bodies that had given her so much confidence that her side was winning. It hit her with the force of a true revelation that all those black bodies had had people grieving them all the while. Before they had been bodies, they had been people. They had belonged to families: they had been wives, husbands, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins – even grandmothers and grandfathers. Kuki knew, from years of having to grant leave to servants whose relatives were ill, dying or dead, that African families were an intricate and vast network. The loss of a great-aunt was as deeply felt as the loss of a sister. There was no remove for them – just family. All those dead black bodies had been connected, part of an imbricated and intimate web. Where Kuki had simply seen a dead terrorist, another woman might have seen a dead son and wondered at the callous cruelty that allowed his body to be photographed and the image disseminated for the whole world to see. Kuki could not even imagine seeing the image of the blown-apart dead body of her beautiful, golden-haired boy on the television screen. Some things were meant to be sacred.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Kuki apologised, ‘I cannot seem to stop crying. Having a really bad time of it, I’m afraid.’

The Chief Inspector nodded his understanding.

‘It is sombre, isn’t it? The mood and atmosphere after the ceasefire,’ Kuki said. ‘You cannot even tell that today is Christmas Eve.’

The Chief Inspector nodded again.

Kuki stood up and went to retrieve something that she handed to the Chief Inspector. It was a photo album filled with the Coetzees’ holiday pictures – an archive of the family’s happy moments throughout the years. The Chief Inspector paged through the album and watched the boy, Everleigh, grow up and Emil and Kuki grow older on various different kinds of film stock.