This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events (with some obvious exceptions) are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Harnam Shunkumar asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. Thank you for respecting the creative work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, print or electronic, or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
‘I dedicate this short-novel to my wife Serra. Thank you for your ongoing encouragement and support in all my endeavors. This book is also written in memory of my late mother, Mrs. Prabha Shunkumar. We love and miss you so much.’ - Harnam Shunkumar
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
About the Author
Forthcoming Releases
‘I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.’ – Nelson Mandela
The Journey - A Short Story
Prologue
The building loomed imposingly as the men in black get-up crept towards it in the darkness. They kept out of the lit up areas. There were four of them in total. Masks protected their identities. They had semi-automatic pistols tucked into their belts. One of the men made his way into the building through the roof and breached the ceiling of the control room without any visible damage to the structure. He skillfully disabled the building’s security system. This bought them three minutes of valuable time before the security company responded. He immediately signaled for the other three men to access the building. They swiftly and expertly planted the bombs from their black bags at strategic points within the building. Their leader was a tall muscular man. He scrutinized his watch. It was nearing dawn. The man signaled with his fingers what time to set the bombs to go off at. The bombs were of East European origin and similar bombs had already caused disaster and mayhem in other parts of the country. The men exited the building as quickly as they had entered.
A security vehicle drove up seconds after the men had exited the building. The hefty patrolman walked around the building lackadaisically with torch in hand, and radioed his control room that all was clear then drove off. A few feet away, the men re-emerged from the shrubbery. One of the men suddenly groaned in pain.
‘What’s up with you? Did you hurt yourself,’ snapped the leader harshly.
‘No. Nothing to worry about,’ responded the man who had cringed in pain. ‘It’s only a tummy ache that I’ve had for a few days now.’
The leader looked at the man with compassionate eyes. He was a strict disciplinarian but not a heartless man when it came to his team. ‘If it’s something you been suffering with for a few days already, you better get it checked out. It could be anything, but you’ll be better off checking it out.’
At 9.45 am that morning, the post office was a hub of activity. The building was situated in an upper class suburb. Mostly posh cars were parked alongside the street outside the post office.
An old lady approached the parcel counter with a slip of paper. ‘Good morning my dear, I’m expecting a parcel. Can you check if it’s arrived?’ she rasped, handing the slip to the pretty blond girl across the counter.
‘Good morning Mrs. Pieterse,’ responded the girl with a broad smile and with a sideward glance at a colleague to her left. She received the slip of paper from the old lady. ‘Let me have a quick look and I’ll be back in a moment, see?’ The girl trotted off to the backroom.
‘For sure my sweetheart!’ rasped the old lady in a grating voice as the girl disappeared. She glanced around pryingly at the goings-on on the post office floor. She glanced in disdain at the big black lady who came in. The black lady caught her look and smiled gaily, and then she followed the counter that read in bold letters ‘NON WHITES ONLY’. The old lady arrogantly looked away. She did not trust any of the blacks who tried to get friendly and they should only speak when spoken to. They need to know their place she mused. She longed for the good old days when everyone acted according to their standing in society. As she looked away she espied a young brown haired woman pushing a baby in a pram in the next queue. She smiled at the mother and cooed and clucked at the baby in her best impersonation of a mother hen.
‘Your parcel’s here Mrs. Pieterse,’ the clerk informed her, grimacing at the old lady’s antics. She carried a small package wrapped in brown paper. ‘You do have your identity book with you, don’t you?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Management is quite strict about these things nowadays you know.’
Mrs. Pieterse pursed her lips. ‘It’s not as if you people don’t know me! Anyhow let me run off to my car and fetch it quickly,’ she retorted brazenly. She hobbled off out the door of the post office. The slim brown haired woman peeked across at the blond girl and smiled impishly and with a knowing look on her face. The blond girl rolled her eyes and grinned.
The old lady reached her car which was parked about a block away from the post office. The street was a busy one. She was annoyed that she had to walk so far, then to have to make the trip back to the post office again. As she stretched into the car to fetch her identity book, she heard a quick succession of loud booms. She collapsed into the car in shock. All around her people rushed around in disbelief and astonishment. A thick cloud of dust filled the air. She finally mustered enough courage to get out of the car again. A roaring blaze raged from the mangled and blackened building where, minutes ago, the post office had stood strong and imposing. She coughed as she breathed in the dusty air. Some of the wreckage had landed a mere few feet from her car. Mutilated bodies lay strewn on the chaotic and messy street outside the blown-up post office. Her jaw dropped with incredulity. She quickly realized how close she had come to meeting her creator. Her lips quivered and tears flowed from her eyes as she thought of the young mother and her baby and the blond clerk. She thought of the big black woman too and all those other people. She pondered on what their families would go through when they eventually heard the news of their deaths. A wave of anger enveloped her.