“Baba!” Nomvula cries.
The bees in Nomvula’s stomach stop playing nice and start stinging, so painful that she no longer feels her broken rib, the ache in her heart. The buzzing rings in her ears, fills her vision up with a blinding white light. Her chest is about to explode. Anger. Beyond anger. Ire, Mr. Tau had called it. Something so ravenous that it seems all the wrong in the world is clawing its way into her bones with promises to never ever leave. And when she’s shivering and shaking so hard that she can barely keep hold of a single thought, she makes a wish, a simple wish that all these people—everyone who’d laughed, everyone who hadn’t done a thing to help her, and everyone else too caught up in their lives to pay attention to the rantings of a madwoman or hear the shrill pleading of a ten-year-old girl—she wishes everyone would vanish into dust.
And with that, the bees ignite, burning up and out of her with a force that tosses her into the air, and for a moment she hangs limp, eyes barely slits, but able to see all the tin rooftops of the township she calls home, all the people below, all the solar panels atop the solar wells, all those pieces of man that used to be Mr. Tau.
Nomvula extends her wings and catches herself before she falls. She looks up to see those bees raining back down, now twelve fireballs each the size of a hut, and getting bigger as they near. The people, they see them too, and begin running and screaming in every direction.
Nomvula swoops down, lapping it up, laughing as she flies over the heads of her tormentors. She sees silly Sofora running with that stick in her hand. She shrieks, raises the stick in defense. But Nomvula flexes the threads of her wings, golden tips now faded away. She zooms past, slicing Sofora in half, oh all that blood over her beautiful skirt!
As Nomvula exhales, she feels the wickedness swelling within her—all those things her mother had called her are true now, for sure. She’s strong, stronger than she’s ever felt. The fireballs fill the entire sky with their blue and yellow flames. She has the strength to stop them, though her will is weak. Thousands of her people are gone in the blink of an eye. The fireballs hit, gouging out the ground and melting everything in their path. Her mother, her Mama Zafu, her life.
It’s the price of her baba’s blood, of her broken bones and shattered spirit. The price is steep, but Nomvula is not even sure it will be enough.
And then there is only emptiness inside her, so she flutters to the scorched earth and weeps.
Part III
Chapter 17
Stoker
He’s late. Incredibly late. Suspiciously late. But it’s taken Stoker half the morning to get to the point where he doesn’t feel like retching at the thought of Gregory’s body being found in a ravine, or a Dumpster, or picked apart by a pack of stray dogs. Stoker needs to get through this day, and he’ll be free. Well, as free as anyone can be after killing a man. Had he killed Gregory? Should have taken his pulse, not that it’d matter after Stoker’s mother had made the problem disappear.
He’s got Valium in his system, just enough to take the edge off, but too much to trust himself behind the wheel. He takes a bot taxi to work, spending this valuable time practicing the face he’ll make when he walks into the office and is told the bad news. Shock, disbelief, sorrow, and in that order, but not too emotional. Don’t want to draw attention.
As they turn the corner onto Independence Avenue, Stoker’s heart sinks at the sight of yellow police cars crowding the main plaza of the Executive Council Building. Blue lights flicker over stern faces, SAPS officers in their navy blue uniforms. Strangely, a handful of Recces are among them, both human and bots, clad in army camo with high-caliber rifles tucked under their arms—not drawn, but clearly visible. Stoker’s fought for justice for so long, he’d never imagined he’d find himself on the other side of it. No, he won’t let anyone, not even his mother, obstruct the decency he’s worked so hard to achieve. This has to end now, before corruption seeds itself into his soul, before he gains more power and his mother can use him as a weapon.
Stoker knows what he has to do.
He steps out of the taxi, marches around the barricades, and gets right up into the face of the first officer he comes to.
“Halt!” comes an order, punctuated by the black barrel of a gun.
“I did it. I take full responsibility,” Stoker says. He throws his arms behind his back. “I’m the murderer.”
The officer lurches forward, and in one fluid motion, sweeps Stoker’s feet from underneath him and plants his face into the ground. “Suspect apprehended,” the officer says into his earpiece, pistol muzzle cold against Stoker’s cheek. “White male, early to midforties. Confessed to murdering all those people.”
“All what people?” Stoker asks, but the officer’s got his knee wedged in Stoker’s back. He can’t see much besides worn pavement, but above him he hears the buzz of media bots hovering, their video cameras capturing this for posterity.
“All right, you piece of scum. To your feet.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Gregory Mbende says, pushing his way through the mass of officers and Recces converging on Stoker. Stoker nearly pisses himself.
“We’ve apprehended the terrorist,” the officer yells over the rhythmical thwack of an Airwing chopper. Wind gusts tug at Stoker’s clothes, the tail of his jacket flapping wildly behind him. Stoker can barely stand as it is, and he braces himself against the officer’s firm grip.
“That’s no terrorist! He’s my boss. Councilman Wallace Stoker.”
“He confessed to the bombing of the township, sir. Now please, you’re obstructing justice.”
“Gregory! I didn’t do it,” Stoker says, voice cracking eight different ways. His arms tremble behind him and his legs give out. He falls back down to his knees.
“Officer, I’m sure he did confess, not because he’s a terrorist, but because Councilman Stoker wears his heart on his sleeve. He takes personal responsibility for all the injustices that go on in the Eastern Cape. That’s why he’ll make an excellent premier one day, and I’ll make sure that he won’t forget your name when he is.” Gregory points at the nameplate above the officer’s badge. “Officer Davis, is it?”
“I’m sorry, sir, for the confusion,” Officer Davis says. He releases Stoker from his handcuffs. “But you really shouldn’t go around confessing to crimes during a national emergency.”
Gregory nods at the patrolman, then plants a firm arm around Stoker’s waist, helping him into the building. Stoker loses it as soon as they’re inside, retching on the limestone floor of the foyer, bits of vomit spackled on his loafers.