The Sunday News
ANOTHER uneventful day. I was tired. I yawned as my hands searched the foamy water for a utensil but there was none. I relished the prospect of going to sleep, because, truth be told, I hated being on duty at the dining hall’s kitchen. To add icing onto the cake of misery, the other soldiers I was supposed to tidy up with had called in sick. Sighing with relief, I pulled the sink plug and she walked in.
“Oh, it’s you. I saw the light . . .”
Nombulelo had been seized by a light-hearted fit of laughter. I had tried to salute her, forgetting that my hands were immersed in water; half my face was now covered in soapsuds and could I blame her? I stood nervously as the subject and object of many a daydream of mine inched towards me as her laughter subsided.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just . . .”
That was the second sentence she failed to complete that night and I was the cause, again; only this time, directly. Our lips had met, with mine quivering ever so slightly.
She could report me to her superiors, accusing me of misconduct, but that eluded my mind. Time, seemingly eternal, brought the kiss to an end. I opened my eyes to find a stare from dilated pupils, one which became a glare from teary eyes. Before I could speak, she swiftly turned and, as surprisingly as she had arrived, she was gone. Invisible minions of confusion gripped my entire being and I failed to pursue her. What if she tells the major? Is the feeling mutual? And all else became a blur . . .
At dawn, the sun hovered above the horizon, seemingly protestant to its daily purpose of traversing the sky. My lovesickness worsened as I tried to imagine how the day would progress. Then all hell broke loose. The earth quaked to instantaneously shift me into another state; that of being a soldier. Koeisfontein Barrake was under aerial attack; flashing orange lights and wailing sirens signalling emergency drill protocol.
Everyone evacuated through the web of underground tunnels to safe-houses, except the gunners. We were the soldiers who operated the anti-aircraft machine guns and as fate would have it, she wasn’t. She was the major’s assistant, a post she obtained after failing the medical entrance examination because she was long sighted. Her spectacles simply didn’t allow her to be in the battlefield. So, in a world where battle scars were the medals of honour, her beautiful, unblemished skin rendered her somewhat inferior to the common soldier.
I reminded myself of the need to focus as I pulled the trigger to let loose a torrent of bullets into the air. We were being attacked by Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (UAVs); remote controlled aircrafts of terror. This particular fleet had ten units, so we soon found ourselves scurrying into the underground bunkers for cover. Minutes later, the bombing stopped and on resurfacing, we were greeted by smoke and rubble where buildings hadbeen standing.
Rebuilding the barracks was difficult because not knowing what had become of Nombulelo was a thorn in the flesh of my yearning heart. The months passed by and the base was slowly re-occupied, but there was no sign of her. When the major returned with a new assistant and was tight lipped about my “Lelo” it dawned on me; the earth had reclaimed its dust during the UAV attack.
I mourned my beloved’s death as rumours spread like wild fire that the base was going to be visited by members of a special operations division; the Aero-Rotary Motion Squad (ARMS). According to military grapevine, the ARMS could gun down fifteen UAVs in five minutes. I understood how astounding this was but in my silent weeping, I couldn’t care less about secret squads. Time proved the rumours true as a certain day, a full eight months after the attack, witnessed the arrival of the ARMS.
While everyone was welcoming the ARMS at the airfield, I was re-writing the book of Lamentations in the dining hall kitchen, thinking of the last time I had seen her. I imagined her walking into the kitchen but noticed she was different. Her hair was cropped short and she was not bespectacled anymore. Her tank-top and pair of shorts showed off how well toned her body was. I had made out a small scar on her chin before a tear ran down my cheek.
“Why did you die?”
Without uttering a word, the vivid spectre drew nearer and smiled.
“I miss . . .”
I failed to complete that sentence . . . When the hypnotic osculation ended, she was met with a stare from dilated pupils, one which became a glare from teary eyes.
“Why didn’t you communicate? You could’ve . . .”
Lelo was actually the sergeant of the ARMS. She relayed the whole story of how she found the Achilles’ heel of UAVs by reading the files kept by the major. Aviation electronics are jammed by microwave signals, explaining why UAVs first destroy antennas and satellite dishes when they attack (Nombulelo is responsible for the “flight mode” in smart-phones). She feared her superiors though, viewing them as intimidating individuals who were too proud to listen to an aide. She remained in her cocoon until the young man she secretly fancied acted boldly. My boldness metamorphosed her into one free of fear; when she left the kitchen, she was heading to the major to brief him on her findings. My butterfly proposed the formation of the ARMS and even asked to lead the squad. Spectacles? Contact lenses! By sunrise, she was Sergeant Dhliwayo but the attack couldn’t have occurred at a more inapt time. . .
I understood, then, why the sun had appeared motionless. It had been shocked to its helium core of how things could seemingly change overnight. Nombulelo was warringly in love, and because of that, she was lovingly in war.
