An Angel's Demise

Sue Nyathi

Description

An Angel’s Demise is an epic saga that explores a contested legacy and the heartrending destiny of a family. The year is 1977 and the story begins on a farm in Somabhula with the birth of Angel.

The farm is run by Paul Williams, an outwardly harsh and bigoted man who holds the livelihoods of many in his hands. When Angel’s parents join the liberation struggle, she is left in the care of her grandmothers, who have been in service to the Williams family for generations.

Angel grows up on the farm over three momentous decades that see a convoluted past and inheritance unfold into an equally complicated present. Through her, we see a woman’s quest to unearth her identity and assert her independence. In the process of self-discovery, Angel realises that sometimes you need to be uprooted before you can grow.

An Angel’s Demise, Sue Nyathi’s fourth novel, is a gripping tale infused with spirituality. It recounts an explosive story of love, war, bloody massacre and betrayal that encompasses a harrowing history, the cruel caprice of politics, gender-based violence and what happens when ordinary people get caught up in lies.

Sujets

• historical
• Zimbabue
• Sistema heredado
• Uprooted
• Betrayal
• General officer
• Historical fiction
• Spirituality
• Politics
• General
• Legacy
• Independence
• Lies
• War
• Love
• Massacre
• Fiction
• Zimbabwe

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 17 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781770108097
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

An Angel’s Demise


A lso by Sue Nyathi
A Family Affair (2020)
‘A contemporary African saga that serves up all the ingredients: rags and riches, hero women, sex, the megachurch. And romance – so much romance!’ – KARABO K. KGOLENG, writer, broadcaster, public speaker
‘Sue Nyathi is a powerful literary force. A Family Affair exquisitely captures the complexities of family, culture and the societal constructs that surround women. Eloquent, evocative and utterly engrossing.’ – DESIREE-ANNE MARTIN, author of We Don ’ t Talk About It. Ever.
‘This story had me wrapped around its finger. What a warm reading experience. The authenticity of the characters is what endeared me the most to this tale. A gem!’ – PHEMELO MOTENE, broadcaster
T he GoldDiggers (2018)
This book is a page-turning tale of struggle and triumph.’ – Sunday World
‘Nyathi’s book is rich in detail and never dull. There is inspiration from her characters for South Africans hoping to rise from humble beginnings to success against all odds.’ – Business Day
‘Nyathi has woven a work of fiction which is vividly authentic … in a lyrical and beautiful way.’ – Destiny magazine
‘If there was ever an author who could do a book like The GoldDiggers justice, it would be none other than Sue Nyathi.’ – Drum magazine
An Angel’s Demise
A Novel
Sue Nyathi
MACMILLAN


F irst published in 2022
b y Pan Macmillan South Africa
P rivate Bag X19
N orthlands
2 116
J ohannesburg
S outh Africa
w ww.panmacmillan.co.za
I SBN 978-1-77010-808-0
e -ISBN 978-1-77010-809-7
© Sukoluhle Nyathi 2022
A ll 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 written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A lthough the story is based on recognisable historical facts and places, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
E diting by Jane Bowman and Sean Fraser
P roofreading by Sally Hines
D esign and typesetting by Nyx Design
C over design by Ayanda Phasha
Author photograph by Shaun Gregory


To my granny, Selina the centenarian, in celebration of your life.
To my aunt Jane, you are a heroine in my eyes, applauding you and all those women who joined the struggle.
To my uncle Johannes, who was swallowed by the struggle.
In memory of you and all those we lost along the way.


Prologue
High Court, Harare, May 2008
Robbed of light, she was unable to discern the transition from day into night, or one day to the next. The hours blended into each other seamlessly. There was no beginning or end. No sense of the passage of time. In solitary confinement she was in complete isolation, with no access to the other prisoners. By virtue of her crimes, which were classed as serious offences, she was assigned to a private cell – an advantage if one considered the overcrowding in prison cells, but it also meant she was isolated, her own thoughts tormenting her. She knew he had deliberately engineered it so that she would go insane. She could no longer vouch for her own sanity because she had now reached a stage of talking to herself. Conversing with people she had conjured up, some from her past, a few from the present. When she could no longer invoke them, she spoke to the cockroaches or spiders that crawled into her cell. At first she had been fearful of a furry spider with long legs that had crept furtively across her face and had screamed before flicking it away and squashing it to death. An action she later regretted as she reflected that it probably meant her no harm. So when another spider made its way into her cell, she had been more welcoming. Even letting it rest on the palm of her hand. The legs tickling her, reminding her of her sensibilities and that she was not completely dead. Now she knew better: those arachnids were harmless. It was people she needed to be wary of – and they were outside, living their lives with careless abandon while she merely existed inside this purgatory.
She heard the footfall of steps. The police were her only conduit to the outside world but even then they only responded to bribes. They brought her food on occasion, lumpy porridge or sadza with a few strands of watery cabbage, but she never partook in any of the meals. She did not drink the water either. Her paranoia would not allow her to. She was fully reliant on her lawyer to bring her dry goods and mineral water on their consultations. Not that she was ever hungry. Oftentimes her lawyer would try to coax her to eat, insisting that she would need her strength to stand trial.
The jangling keys turning in the door made her jump, snapping her back to the dreadful reality of her prison sojourn.
‘Missus Ngozi. You have your court appearance today.’
She felt apprehensive about leaving the prison cell, uninhabitable as it was. She was no longer as conscious of the foul odours saturating the air as she had been when she first arrived. The filth had caused her to retch until she was hollow inside. Now she had become acclimatised to it and the smells permeated the pores of her skin. She was as filthy as the uncleaned toilet in her cell. Yet still she found refuge in these unsanitary surroundings. The walls shielded her from the judgement and scathing condemnation. There was no sympathy in the world, only wrath.
She emerged on the outside, welcomed by the blinding light of the day. Instinctively, she shielded her eyes with her hands. She hated that the radiant sun was shining a spotlight on her. The prisoners were piled unceremoniously into the prison van with other inmates. The wire mesh over the windows allowed some shafts of light that illuminated their faces. It also gave prisoners a glimpse of the freedom they yearned for. She was inconspicuous now – you could not set her apart from the rest. As they were transported from the Harare Remand Prison to the city centre, the other inmates chatted among themselves. She remained buried in her own thoughts, jostled in discomfort as the van sped over gaping potholes in the roads.
She was assisted out of the van in leg irons. As a Class-D prisoner they said she was a flight risk. The nerve. The minute she emerged from the van there was a barrage of cameras on her. Foreign media correspondents from Al Jazeera, the BBC and the SABC. They clicked furiously, trying to capture her humiliation and showcase it all over the world.
‘We are outside the High Court today where the General’s wife appears to be facing charges. Mrs Ngozi is set to take the stand in the most anticipated trial of the year!’ spoke another journalist from the state media.
She avoided the cameras, looking ahead as she shuffled towards the court. In the days when she wore long Brazilian hair and Gucci sunglasses she had been able to hide behind them but there was no more hiding; she was exposed to the world. She felt very vulnerable and afraid. Once upon a time she had been fearless. She recalled an incident during the campaign trail when she had lost her cool after being harassed by some journalist. She had slapped him across the head with her Louis Vuitton clutch bag. Her security personnel had to intervene, but the incident had caused a skirmish. In those days she had power, or at least a proximity to it. Today she was powerless, like Samson, her hair shorn like a frightened sheep. Looking away gave no respite from the steely glares so she looked down instead, at her feet. Walking was a struggle and it wasn’t the leg irons that made it difficult; it was the beatings she had received. In the middle of the night, she was often woken up to face the assault of police. She knew they had been sent by him. They inflicted the scars where they were not visible. Under her feet, on her back.
‘Confess!’ they said. ‘Confess.’
She had no idea what she was supposed to be confessing to. Even the priest who had been assigned to her urged her to confess her sins.
‘Kill me,’ she replied, ‘just fucking kill me!’
With no confession forthcoming, they beat her till she blacked out. She was comfortable in that space, veering between sanity and insanity.
The reporters accosted her, bombarding her with questions. She responded to none. That had always been her default response. Aloofness. It had not endeared her to the masses then and it further alienated her from them now. She did not want to meet their eyes, those contemptible stares. The disparaging remarks about what she had become. She could hear the gasps of horror her appearance elicited. When her husband was on the campaign trail, it wasn’t his speeches that had excited reporters; it was her sense of style that had been fodder for the tabloids. She had always looked fashionably elegant in Chanel and Dior. Now she looked jaded in her green prison frock that hung on her like a hospital gown. On her feet she wore black plastic flip-flops. The ones you found at Bata. Pata Pata they called them. She knew of them because her domestic workers wore them. She had always worn Havaianas, her brand of choice even as a young girl. Her lawyer had offered to buy her a pair. She had declined, of course; it’s not like she needed to turn up in prison or for her court appear-ances in branded flip-flops. She was long past the point of caring about those material comforts that were once the hallmark of her former life. She had fully embraced prison life and its rigours.
As she advanced towards the courtroom, she wondered if this was how Jesus must have felt as he carried his cross with