Page 47 of Royal Pain
“Belinda knows. Speak freely.”
Kwai rests a forearm on the hood of the car and speaks candidly. “I wouldn’t cancel. The people have been waiting for your visit for months. But I’d cut the next day’s activities out and come home when you’ve finished your visit. Dad would be pissed if you cancelled everything.”
“How bad is it, brother? In your opinion.”
“I think the hourglass is almost empty. It’s not going to be today, but it’s coming faster than we were told it would. Just my take on things.”
Zan thinks things through for a few moments, then meets Kwai’s gaze.
“Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. We’re going to be returning tonight. Call me if there’s any change.”
Kwai nods and leans down to speak to me.
“Trial by fire, heh?”
There’s no right answer for that, so I simply acknowledge the truth with a nod.
I know this day means a lot to Zan. Going back to the Transkei where he was raised and where he was abducted holds so many mixed memories. The charity was established five years ago, but this will be the first time he’s visited. He had been the private benefactor for all those years. But when the news of who it was leaked six months ago, the people wanted to acknowledge and honor the man. He’d made such a difference in their children’s lives. You can’t blame them.
* * *
All the way to Port Saint Johns in the Transkei, we traveled lush roads. Even at this time of year some green lingers on bush and tree. I’ve seen so many unfamiliar plants and insects and birds. Zan has taught me many new names. The sapphire sea was beside us from Mozia to our destination, whipped up waves pounding a rocky shoreline.
Turning from the dirt road onto a wide swath of pavement, the clinic comes into view. When I look at Zan, he’s smiling.
“It looks good, don’t you think?” he says.
“It’s so much bigger than I thought it would be. Look at the people!”
Up ahead on either side of the front double wide entry, stands the welcoming crowd. At least two hundred children of all ages clap and wave. It looks like their parents are standing behind them in a solid block. Some throw kisses.
I don’t know why I’m the one getting choked up. I had nothing to do with anything. But it’s touching my heart to think Zan is responsible for helping these people. When we pull up in front of the crowd, Chudda gets out first. He comes around and stands beside the car, just by Zan’s door.
“I’ll be getting out first. It’s protocol. I’ll reach back for your hand.”
Now my mouth goes dry. Dry as the Sahara Desert. “Okay. Got it.”
Driver gets out and opens Zan’s door. As he steps out, the singing starts. The children’s voices fill the air and rise to the clouds. What a beautiful melody. I don’t know if it’s a Zulu or Xhosa song. The language is foreign so its meaning is hidden to me. But the feeling is clear. They sing it with a spirit that tells me everything I need to know. It’s a message of gratitude.
Zan reaches back for me and I take his outstretched hand. Stepping out into the dappled sunlight I’m surrounded by the warmth of the happy children. It’s as if the sun had never shone brighter. As the song ends Zan is walking toward them. I wait by the car, just smiling and waving at the friendly faces. It feels like something spiritual is happening.
I watch Zan with the people his charity has benefited. Children who have. For the first time in their lives, reliable access to health care. Zulu children, Xhosa children, together. He hadn’t told me he spoke
Xhosa, but the clicking sounds coming from his mouth have made a group of children laugh. How charming is this scene. I reach back in for my cell and take a few or ten pictures.
A tall thin middle-aged woman reaches for Zan’s hand. They shake, and the woman touches her heart and says something I can’t hear. He turns and gestures for me to join him.
“This is my guest, Belinda Banks,” he says, putting an arm around my waist. “Belinda, this is Dr. Roberta Wushka, the director of the Hope Clinic.”
We exchange pleasantries and she leads us through the perfectly maintained grounds to the entry. A tour of the clinic results in a clearer view for me of what kind of charity work Zan is involved in. No child is turned away for medical care, and those who can pay are given reasonable time to do so. A circle of donors, both corporate and private, fund the charity with yearly donations.
Once we walk through the back doors, the afternoon’s plan is clear. Long white tables under crisp white tents fill the patio. Beautiful African beadwork runners run the length of the tables.
“Miss Banks, I hope you enjoy our lunch. Are you familiar with our traditional dishes?” the doctor says.
It’s a friendly question with a short answer. “Not yet. I’m looking forward though.”
Zan takes the center seat of honor at the one table facing all others. I sit on his right and the Director on his left. Eight other seats are occupied by doctors and donors. On my right sits one of the corporate donors.
