Category Archives: Free Online Fiction

Five Color Blind Mice

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom

within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,

yeah, but hey, we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

Color Blind books 1-5 are now live on Amazon!

0.99 cents for a limited time!

Avail on Kindle Unlimited

Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the images below to get your copies before the price increase.

Amazon U.S. links in the Color Blind Series (click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)


 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)

 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)

 

 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.S.)

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Amazon U.K. links (click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

 

 

(click on image below to take you to Amazon U.K.)

 

 

Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense book Release (book 3)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah,  but we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

Color Blind book 3, is now live on Amazon!

0.99 cents for a limited time!

Avail on Kindle Unlimited

Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!

 

 

 

Color Blind – Heartbreaking Romantic Suspense romance, book Release

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Color Blind book 2, is now live on Amazon!

0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the image below to get your copy!

Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better, you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what will happen next!’

$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!

 

 

 

Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense, now live on Amazon!

The law declared their love a crime and imprisoned them both.

Now, one of them must risk all to save the other.

Happy to announce that the wait is over!
Color Blind is now live on Amazon! 

0. 99 cents
for a limited time,
so click on the image below to get your copy!

ColorBlind – A heartbreaking romantic suspense book by Eve Rabi – Excerpt 6

COMING SOON!

Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. 

Decades before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa, the country was rigorously governed by various pro-apartheid acts, including the Immorality Act, where sex between white and other ethnic groups was a criminal offence. Both parties contravening the Immorality Act would be imprisoned for up to ten years.
Under that law, Shabba and Sarie’s love was declared a crime and both of them were imprisoned. Now, one of them must risk all to save the other. A heartwarming tale of love, loss, redemption and … revenge!

EXCERPT 6

If you haven’t read the first FIVE excerpts in this series, please click on the link below:
https://everabi.wordpress.com/2019/04/18/colorblind-a-romantic-suspense-book-by-everabi/

(NB: This is a raw excerpt, not yet professionally edited, so please overlook any errors in this piece)

The story continues …

Cape Town
1972

SARIE 

The puppies were just gorgeous, and they thrived with the love and attention everyone on my parent’s property gave them. Well, by that, I mean they thrived on the love the servants gave them. My mother and father ignored the puppies. Why? Well, think about it – if they ignored their own daughter, their own flesh and blood, how can we expect them to love dogs? To love animals? It was too much to ask of them.

Anyway, they grew up to be great watchdogs, growling menacingly at any stranger or car approaching our property, snarling at anyone they didn’t know. The slightest sound, and they were on their feet, ears pricked, ready to charge. They were so alert, so scary, so good at guarding our property, we no longer needed to lock our doors.

There was intense love between Shabba and the dogs. When he walked, they walked, when he sat, they sat. They woke him up in the morning, by entering his room and literally pulling the blanket off him, then followed him everywhere, until the sun set and he went back to bed. Whenever he climbed into the treehouse, they would sit at the bottom of the tree for hours patiently waiting for him to come down. When he climbed down, they would once again shadow him.
Baba loved the dogs and spent hours cooking them special food on an open fire for their growing bones, which the dogs devoured in seconds, then looked at him with eyes that said, This is it? Seriously?
Life was good for me, I had no complaints. I mean, I had a lot going for me – I had Shabba, who was my best friend, Baba, Mama, Katrina, Fendi and all the servants who loved me. I had a real-life doll called Poppie, who could now dance and clap and blink her eyes and give me smiles that lit up my day. I had four puppies who could fetch sticks, roll over and play dead, and make me laugh with delight. So, with so much love around me, so much joy I received from everyone and everything around me, I didn’t miss the love of my mother and father. Well, only when I saw other children being openly adored by their mothers and fathers in public, would I miss their love. Then, I would grow quiet and wishful – if only my parents loved me that much.  If only …

One day, my mother appeared excited – a TV show had decided to film a documentary titled, At Home with the Vorsters. “The place must look sharp, ay?” my mother said, as she brought out her tiara and lovingly wiped it down for the filming.
So, every servant on the property was put to work, to make the house sparkle for the photoshoot. They started off by hiding the cases and cases of vodka my mother purchased in bulk – had to keep the pastor’s wife’s secret safe.
My mother’s entire family was over for the shoot – my grandma or Ouma Jan, my mother’s sisters, Hestrie and Elzette, together with their husbands and children, my mother’s two brothers Willie and Nieman, their wives Sourcie and Peggy, and their children.
It was no secret that my mother hated her sisters-in-law Sourcie and Peggy and constantly complained about them – “They just jealous ‘cause I marry bucks, and they got bugger all!” I had an inkling the feeling was mutual, so, I wondered why they had been invited.
It was no secret that my mother hated her sisters Hestrie and Elzette too, and constantly complained about them – “They just jealous because I got a rich man and they got fok all! Good, let them come see how wonderful my life is, and let them cut and burn!” she said, as she brought out her beauty queen sash from almost nine years ago, and handed it to Katrina for ironing.
All of my father’s children from his previous marriage were also invited, and they all showed up in their finery, sparkling like my mother’s crystal glasses. Also invited was Torit, my father’s ex-wife, the wife of my father’s youth, the woman my mother stole him from. Of course, my mother and Torit hated each other, but I do believe that my father, the pastor, had Torit over to subtly show the world that he continued to have a harmonious life with his ex-wife and children. It was a case of – If my wife forgives me for cheating on her and dumping her for a woman thirty years my junior, then you should too.
The cameras followed my mother around inside the house, clicking away in different locations to show off the house. It was a pleasant summer’s day, so lunch was served on our oversized patio. Katrina, Mama Tsela and another servant named Margaret served lunch to our guests, while Baba served drinks. On a blanket on the grass nearby, Poppie played with some of my toys, while Fendi and Shabba watched over her.
Eenie, Meenie, Miney and Mo were at hand, looking magnificent, because Baba and Shabba had bathe them earlier that morning, and brushed their coats till they shone.
That day, my mother, for some reason, did not have any migraine medicine. She just drank water with lemon and ice. Around twenty-five by then, she looked really lovely in a flowing peach caftan and her signature accessory – a crown of miniature flowers on her head, lest we forget that she was once Miss Boksburg. I assumed that my father ordered her not to wear her tiara and sash, so she rebelled with a crown of flowers on her hair.
My parents put on quite a show for the cameras. They sat at the lunch table, holding hands and even kissing lovingly at times. I rarely saw them this close, this affectionate, so I stared at them with a confused look on my face. In fact, everyone at the lunch table stared at the happy couple.
“Schoeman, he say he want us to renew our wedding vows,” my mother boasted. “I tell him ‘Ja, but only if we do it on the beach.’” She looked up at my father for confirmation.
“Okay, my darling,” my father said with a smile.
“A beach wedding with all the trimmings and watnot.”
“Okay, sweetie!”
“With Ge’ Korsten singing for us?”
“Of course, lovie,” my father said, before he leaned in and kissed her coral lips.
While they kissed, there was a lot of eye rolling that went on between not just my mother’s sisters-in-laws, but also between her own sisters, Torit and her six children. I felt left out because I also wanted to roll my eyes, but I wasn’t sure at what point to do so.
“My rock must be bigger than this one, ay?”
“Liefie, of course! Anything for my poppie.”
At the mention of her name, Poppie, who had been crawling on a blanket on the grass, looking as sweet as ever, with Fendi and Shabba hovering nearby to stop her from wandering too far off the blanket, let out a loud gurgle.
“You’ve got to see this baby,” I said to my cousins. “She’s so cute. She’s got hair the color of Ouma’s furniture.”
“Hai, my furniture is noggal Imbuia!” Ouma snapped, before she craned her neck to look at Poppie’s hair.
Soon, everyone was straining to see Poppie, who had hair the color of Ouma’s furniture.
So, together with my cousins Jessie and Alettie, I ran over to Poppie.
“Watch this,” I said. “Clap for me, Poppie.”
Poppie clapped and we hollered with delight.
“Hey, that’s my name!” my mother yelled from the patio.
The adults on the patio smiled at Poppie cuteness.
“Gosh, Sarie,” my mother said, “I can’t believe you used to be so small. You were so cute then. Time flies, ay?”
I was cute then. I wanted to be cute now.
“Ja, Ma,” I said, “but how come I didn’t get pa’s birthmark and Poppie did? It’s not fair, Ma. I want to be blessed with the stamp of my country on my face too!” I began to trace the birthmark on Poppie’s face. “The shape of Africa …”
“Lemme see, lemmee see,” Alettie said, as she peered at it. “Ja, it’s the same shape as your Pa’s, ay?”
“She’s got the same color eyes as your Pa, too,” Jessie remarked.
“Let me see.” I said, holding onto Poppie’s squirming head. “Ja, she has!” I looked at my father, “Pa, did you …”
I stopped when I saw the look on the adult’s faces.  All of them sat rigid with their eyes the size of saucers. The cameras continued rolling and clicking capturing everything.
I looked at my mother. She sat with her lips pressed together, her nostrils flaring, her eyes narrow. I looked at my father. He had sunk low in his seat, his face the color of the beetroot salad on the table.
“What?” I said to my mother.
She didn’t answer.
I looked at Ouma. She was staring at Poppie, her hands on her chest, her false teeth out of alignment and hanging as loose as her jaw.
“What?” I asked.
No answer from her either.
I looked at Katrina who had been serving food. She stood frozen, a look of abject terror on her face.
“What?” I asked again, suddenly very fearful.
“I got me one too,” Katrina piped up in a shrill voice. “Look! Poppie got it from me. Look!” She moved aside her scarf to reveal a birthmark – the shape of South Africa above her left eyebrow, the one Agnes made her cover with the scarf. The one Agnes insisted Katrina painted clay over each time she left the servants quarters.
That gesture of Katrina’s, intended to add salve to the situation, only served to worsen the  situation. My Ouma started to breathe loudly, causing my aunts to jump to their feet and fan her. My mother’s brothers sat with dazed expressions on their faces. My mother’s sisters-in-law, they handled the situation differently – they clicked champagne glasses with each other, then drank up.
Torit and her children – how did they handle the situation? Well, how do you think they did? I mean, considering that Magda had stolen their husband and father, destroyed their home and lived happily ever after with a golden-haired child? They were unmistakably smug. All of them.
My mother kicked back her chair, got up and storm off into the house. My father, the esteemed Pastor Schoeman Vorster, now flaming red in the face from being busted for rape and incest, stammered and stuttered under the glares and stares of disapproval.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of breaking glass inside the house. I was ready to run into the house, when my father said, “Stay here!” and rushed into the house, ditching his shocked guests and equally shocked cameramen.
Ignoring the sniggers and high-fives between my half-siblings and their mother, I hovered around the entrance to the house, dying to see what was taking place inside.
Unable to stand Torit and her happy children, Ouma stood up and in a terse voice, instructed her family to leave, muttering something about giving the young couple some privacy. My mother’s family rose from their seats and left, but not before each adult family member helped themselves to bottles of alcohol, and almost all the remaining food on the table. By the time they left, their bags were bulging with food and alcohol. The servants did not have much to clear that day, because my mother’s family took care of that.
Torit and her brood also left, seeming in unusually high spirits.
Of course, too curious to listen to my father to stay where I was, I crept over to their bedroom and found my mother glaring at my father, the empty vodka bottle in her hand suspended in mid-air, ready to strike. Nearby, shards of broken glass from the mirror on her dressing table lay on the floor.
“Magda …” My father uttered just one word, however it was enough to hear the terror in his voice.
I watched him rush to shut the door, after which, I heard the sounds of muffled voices, the sound of furniture being moved around, yelps,
then silence.
The next morning, my mother emerged from her room in a black silk gown, black slippers and a black eye. Sensing she was in a foul mood, I said nothing.
When my father emerged from the room, he sported terrible scratch marks on his face, neck and arms. Of course, I pretended not to notice, even though I missed nothing. Has to do with Poppie, I thought.
Days later, I awoke to the sound of anguished wails. I hurried to the kitchen to find Katrina on her knees before my mother. “Please Mevrou, please don’t send her ’way!” Katrina begged. “Please!”
“No, Katrina! She makes too much nose. I need her gone, or you will have to go too.” My mother began to walk away.
Katrina ran after her, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Mevrou, please!”
“She’s a very nice woman okay? They can’t have a baby, so she will treat Poppie like her own. She is happy to take Poppie because she has a little bit straight hair, so be grateful, okay?”
Katrina dropped to the floor and grabbed my mother’s knees. “Please, mevrou! I beg you. I will do anything! Please!”
My mother shrugged her off and walked away with her bottle of migraine medicine. Horrified at what I was hearing, I ran after my mother. “What are you doing, Ma? Why are you sending Poppie away?”
“Shut your mouth, Sarie! Don’t stick your nose into big people’s affairs. How many times must I tell –
“But Ma –”
My mother’s hand lashed out and connected sharply with my cheek. “Shut up, Sarie!”
Despite being hit, I continued to fight for Katrina. “You can’t do that to Poppie! To Katrina! You can’t! you can’t! You CAN’T!”
This time I got the back of my mother’s hand which sent me staggering.
With a determined look on her face, my mother walked to her room. Katrina ran after her, begging her to change her mind. My mother, deaf to my pleas, entered her room and shut the door behind her. Katrina fell to her knees and sobbed outside my mother’s bedroom door, begging my mother to open the door, to let her keep Poppie, begging her to reconsider. My mother’s door remained locked.
Margaret and Mama Tsela picked up a limp Katrina and almost carried her to the servant’s quarters.
The next day, a white couple from a neighboring farm turned up at my mother’s house with an envelope for my mother. After which, they began to pull Poppie out of Katrina’s arms.
I became terribly upset and started to cry. “Where are they taking her?” I wailed to Mama Tsela.
“To their home,” she whispered, before she wiped tears from her eyes with her apron.
“Why do they want our baby?” I demanded. “We can take care of Poppie. Tell them to go. Tell them to go now!”
Mama Tsela put her finger on her lip, a helpless look on her face. I looked at Katrina, who was sobbing hysterically.
“Tikki and I gonna to take good care of her,” the woman whispered to Katrina. “We gonna love her like our own baby, ay?”
“You said I could s … see her over weekends, right?” Katrina asked through her tears.
“Ja, ja,” Tikki said, then looked at his wife, “Charne?”
“Ja, ja, ja!” Charne said.
While Katrina sobbed, the woman removed all Poppie’s clothes, and dressed her in the new clothes they had brought along.
Mama Tsela brought out a bag for Poppies old clothes. She placed the items of clothing into the bag and handed it to the man. He reached to accept it, when Charne screeched, “Nee, Tikki!” She looked at Mama Tsela. “Keep that for the other poor children.”
Mama Tsela nodded and hugged the bag to her chest. Katrina took the bag of Poppie’s clothing from Mama Tsela and held onto it.
I looked at Baba lurking in the background. Everything about him sagged – his shoulders, his jowls, his mouth … I looked around me – everyone was crying. Except my mother. She stood in the background with a mug in her hand, her eyes fixed on Katrina. In hindsight, I do believe that she had enjoyed seeing Katrina lose Poppie. She had been humiliated in front of our family by the discovery that Poppie had been sired by her straying husband, and for that, someone had to pay – Katrina.
A strange feeling flitted over me. Hatred. I felt hatred for my mother. As a child you are not born with hating; it is instilled in you by people, painful circumstances experiences and hurt. I was hurt, angry and terribly ashamed that my mother could be so cruel and heartless. She had a child; she should have known better. I began to despise my mother for sending Poppie away.
As Tikki and Charne drove off with our Poppie, Katrina ran after the car sobbing. She ran until the taillights of the car disappeared from view, then fell to the ground and sobbed. Baba tried to pick her up, but it was as if all the bones in her body had liquified, she kept flopping onto the ground. He eventually stepped back. It broke my little heart to see her so broken. I lay with her on the floor, my arms around her, weeping with her. Mama Tsela, Margaret and Fendi joined us. Together, we all lay on the floor weeping with Katrina over the loss of our beloved Poppie, the bones in all our bodies equally liquid. The day Poppie was stolen from us, I learned how about hate, how to despise, and what the meaning of helpless was.

End of Excerpt from ColorBlind – Coming Soon!

More excerpts coming soon, so make sure you’re following this blog.

#FreeBook

When Arena’s car is stolen with her toddler in it, she points at Tom, her abusive ex-husband. The police point at Bear, her cop boyfriend, who adores both her, and her children. Trouble is, Bear cannot be found. In fact, according to the police, Bear’s comrades, he does not exist!
Arena’s whole world begins to tilt. Who does she believe? Who does she trust?

If you enjoy emotional tales of love and hate, peppered with suspense, you will be hooked on this gripping romantic crime and suspense thriller. It’s about revenge and the kind of love that can make you kill.
Read the #Free #book that has been downloaded more than 300 000 times. Free for a limited time. #Free #books #Romantic #Suspense  #EveRabi  #Free on #Kindle #Unlimited #Crime #Thrillers

Photocredits:
Photo credit: DepositPhotos, Image by oskar viver montero from Pixabay

ColorBlind – A heartbreaking romantic suspense book by Eve Rabi – Excerpt 5

 

Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. 

Decades before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa, the country was rigorously governed by various pro-apartheid acts, including the Immorality Act, where sex between white and other ethnic groups was a criminal offence. Both parties contravening the Immorality Act would be imprisoned for up to ten years.
Under that law, Shabba and Sarie’s love was declared a crime and both of them were imprisoned. Now, one of them must risk all to save the other. A heartwarming tale of love, loss, redemption and … revenge!

EXCERPT 5

If you haven’t read the first FOUR excerpts in this series, please click on the link below:
https://everabi.wordpress.com/2019/04/18/colorblind-a-romantic-suspense-book-by-everabi/

(NB: This is a raw excerpt, not yet professionally edited, so please overlook any errors in this piece)

The story continues …

Cape Town
1969

 SARIE

“Boo!” I said, barging in on Katrina and Fendi.
“Hai, Sarie, why you spying on me?” Katrina demanded, rushing to the door, pulling me in and shutting it.

“I’m not. I’m –”

“You tell no one about this, you hear?” She shook her finger in my face as she threatened me.

“About what?” I asked, as I took in the rags in Fendi’s hands.  “Why?”
“Because why, I say so, Sarie!” Katrina said in an impatient voice.

“Because why is not the correct way to speak. School says –”

“Hai, Sarie! Don’t tell me, school says this, school says that … elsewise, I will klup you if you blerry rude to me, okay?”

I backed off and silently watched Fendi tie the rags around Katrina’s stomach, tighten them, then pull her top over them.

“Sarie just wants a flat stomach,” Fendi said in a gentle voice, when she saw the confusion in my eyes.

“Oh.”

“Can you tie my stomach too?” I asked.

Fendi jerked back in surprise, then smiled and said, “Sure, Sarie. Come closer.”

So, Fendi tied rags about my middle, making it really flat. Then, she gave me a hug and sent me off. Fendi was very sweet and kind, and second to Katrina, I liked her a lot.

“Where were you?” Shabba asked when I got to him.

“Flattening my stomach,” I said.

“What?”

I lifted up my top and showed him my stomach.

“That’s just silly,” he said.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is!”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Yes, it is!”
“Sarie! Shabba! Stop it you two,” Fendi called from the other room. “You two are always arguing. Just stop it!”
I glared at Shabba. He stuck his tongue out at me. I stuck mine at him. He made ugly faces.

“Your face is going to look like forever!” I said. “You wait and see!”

He quickly stopped his ugly faces, then said, “Hey, you wanna see the tadpoles?”

“Okay, but we have to walk slowly, because these bandages around my stomach is making it hard for me to breathe.”
“Want me to take ‘em off?”
“Ja, but … don’t tell Fendi and Katrina.”

“Okay,” Shabba said, removing the bandages from around my stomach. “Oh, man, you’ve got red tyre tracks around your stomach!”

I looked at my tyre tracks and frowned.

“Here, let me …” He gently rubbed the marks away. “My dad used to do this for my mum when she had a stomach ache,” Shabba explained. “Then he would do this.” Shabba gently kissed my stomach. “Better?”

I nodded.

Then, he bent down, put his lips to my stomach and blew bubbles on it, tickling it and causing me to scream with laughter. He grinned, then blew more bubbles on my stomach, more vigorously, causing me to shriek and squirm with laughter again.

“My mum used to do that to me all the time,” he said. “Didn’t your ma ever do that to you?”

I shook my head. I didn’t remember my mother or father being that kind and affectionate and playful toward me. Katrina, Mama Tsela and Agnes cuddled me from time to time, but not my parents.
Perhaps my disappointment at my parents showed, because Shabba’s grin was replaced by a look of sympathy. He pulled down my top, planted a tender kiss on my forehead, took my hand in his, and together, we skipped over to the tadpoles.

Months later, Mama Tsela rounded up all the children, and in an excited voice said, “Come see Katrina’s baby girl. She’s soooo beautiful!”

“What? A baby? Katrina’s baby?” I was totally stunned. I had no idea Katrina was going to have a baby. I knew that she was getting fat, I knew she was cranky, I knew that she was always eating soured figs marinated in vinegar, which Mama Tsela made for her, but her stomach, it just didn’t look big like the other servants did when they were pregnant. Then I remembered the bandages she tied around her stomach. Could she have been trying to hide the baby? I wondered. My mind, as little as it was, worked overtime to figure out why she would hide such a thing.

I ran ahead of the other children, all the way up to Katrina’s room and barged inside. There was Katrina in bed, a little bundle of pink and white in her arms.
I gasped at the sight of the real-life porcelain doll with eyes as blue as mine and masses of curls the color of lit-up copper. “Ooh, she’s so beautiful, Katrina! What’s her name?”

“Agnes,” Katrina said.

I looked up at Katrina. “Agnes? Your ma’s name?”
Tears welled in Katrina’s eyes as she nodded. Not knowing what to say, I stared at her, and watched a big fat tear roll down her cheek and plopped over Agnes.

Fendi, who was in the room folding clothes, walked over, gave Katrina a hug, then wiped away the tear from the baby’s face.

I scratched my head, affected by Katrina’s tears, but when I looked at the baby, I forgot about all about Katrina’s tears and smiled. “You are my l’il poppie (doll),” I said, falling instantly in love with little Agnes. From that moment on, Agnes was called ‘Poppie’ by everyone around, because she was as beautiful as a porcelain doll.

After Poppie was born, Katrina was a changed girl. She stopped running and jumping and hanging upside down on trees. She dressed like Agnes used to, wore a scarf around her head all the time and an apron. She also took her mother’s place and began working inside our house. (The only thing that didn’t change was the threat to klup us all at the drop of a hat. That continued regardless of age or maturity.) With Poppie slung around her back and secured with a blanket, African style, Katrina carried out her chores, humming songs to Poppie as she did. She was a wonderful mother even though she was so young. The way she looked at Poppie – it was the same way Agnes had looked at her. It was the way Mama Tsela looked at Fendi and Shabba. It was the same way pa had looked at popsicle-loving Laurika. It was the way Shabba looked at Baba. It was the way Baba looked at Shabba. As I watched Katrina hug and kiss her baby over and over again, pangs of envy engulfed me; everyone had someone to look at that way, and someone who looked at them that way, but me. I was the outsider, the afterthought, the superfluous little girl.
As I watched them all, I said a prayer – Dear God, please send me someone to look at. You know, the way Katrina looks at Poppie. And make sure they look at me like that too, with teeny tiny eyes. Oh, but make them like, older or my age or younger, I’m not fussy. I just want to be able to also play with them. And please make them white, so that they will be allowed to live with me in the Garden of Eden. That’s all, thank you God.

God answered my prayers right away, because within seconds, Katrina pulled me in for a hug and kissed the top of my head several times. “You are still my number one kind,” she said, planting kisses all over my face “Don’t ever forget that.” I hugged her back, and clung to her, relieved that I was number one and Poppie was number two. Well, I assumed that Poppie was number two.
Then, Poppie began to cry. Katrina hastily released me to pick up the baby, and began to use a voice reserved strictly for Poppie. I got mad with the doll for interrupting my cuddle. Not too mad, though. It was Poppie, how could I possibly be mad at her?

God was obviously on the job, because moments later, Fendi reached for me, pulling me in for a hug. “Come here, Sarie,” she said, “You are our baby sister and you will always be our baby sister. Don’t ever forget that, okay?” I hugged Fendi back, and stayed in her arms for a while, basking in the love of my big sister.

All the servants fell in love with Poppie, and she soon became the local mascot. She was so loved, the servants fought to babysit the little doll.

“Blerry dronkies,” my mother said at the dinner table, when she heard about the baby. “She don’t know who the father is. I betchu she doesn’t. I betchu. Blerry barbarians, that’s what they are. Pregnant at the age of thirteen. ’Magine that.” Shaking her head, she took a big sip of her vodka.
As young as I was, I didn’t appreciate her talking that way about Katrina and Poppie, so I spoke up. “Eh, ma, you said you were fifteen when you met Pa.”

“Ja, but that’s different. I knew who the father of my baby was, okay? And we got married quickly, okay?” She pointed her vodka glass at me as she defended herself. “I was a beauty queen, too, so it was different, okay? I was mature and responsible, ay? So hou jou bek, ‘kay?” She shook her glass so hard, some of her vodka spilled out of her glass and ran down her hand. She hastened to lick the vodka off her hand. Maybe losing her vodka angered her more, because she said, “Big people’s business, Sarie, big people’s business. Didn’t your father say not to get involved in big people’s business? Ay?”

I snuck a look at my father. As usual, he simply swirled his red wine in his goblet, his eyes focused solely on it.

Even though she had called Katrina a dronkie (which didn’t make sense, because I had never seen Katrina drink alcohol), my mother didn’t care that a baby was around – she was just relieved that Katrina could replace missing Agnes in the kitchen and take care of me, so that she could enjoy her ‘me’ time. Enjoy her champagne breakfasts, and afternoon cocktails pre siestas and sunset drinks and pre-dinner drinks, and dinner drinks and after dinner drinks and nightcaps. I was a distraction, asking umpteen questions and constantly meddling in big people’s business. Katrina’s reappearance left her free to handle those recurrent migraines with the potent medicine that she had drank in crystal glasses, and sometimes from the bottle itself. As for my father, the man of God, he said nothing – whenever he saw the baby, he just stared, sometimes turning to look at the child. Luckily, he had no problem with the child being around.

 

SHABBA

I think it’s fair to say that the highlight of my childhood, was the treehouse Baba built for us. It was just awesome! You must remember that during apartheid times, for children of color living on a white man’s property, there were no recreational amenities available to them. No parks, swings, public swimming pools, skateboard areas, libraries, basketball courts, nothing!

Why? Well, during apartheid times, the South African government didn’t think it was necessary for children of color to have such amenities. Now, don’t get me wrong, there were parks and swings, and public swimming pols and basketball parks, and skateboard parks and libraries etc., but they all had a sign that said, ‘Slegs Blankes,’ which meant ‘White’s Only,’ or ‘Blanke Gebied’ which meant ‘White Area.’

If a child of color used those facilities, he would be breaking the law, so the police would be called. How often did that happen? It rarely did. Why? Because, before the police were called, the whites in the facilities would probably band together like some kind of neighborhood watch and kick the shit out of the poor child of color for ‘daring’ to use that facility. The police would not be needed. If that child was accompanied by a parent, that parent would also be beaten up for not restraining their child, for not knowing their place. They would be considered arrogant, cheeky and in need of a lesson. So, rarely did a child of color break that law. They would simply stand and watch white children from afar, enjoying amenities that they weren’t allowed to use. Unfair? Unjust? Morally reprehensible? Yeah, well, that my friend was the apartheid government for you.
The beach? Oh, yeah, there was a beach about twenty minutes away. Unfortunately, that too had a sign saying ‘Sleg’s Blanke,’ or ‘Blanke Gebied.’ There was another beach that black people or people of color could frequent. However, a child of color would have to take three modes of transport to the venue and three modes back. That was a lot of bus and train fare for servants who didn’t really get paid – they just got board and lodge from their bosses, and they were allowed to keep their children with them while they worked for the white man. So, going to the beach was out of the question for us. As a little boy in South Africa, I visited the beach twice in my life. That was it. Swimming lessons? First of all, they would cost money. Second, why take lessons when you aren’t going to use them? What’s the purpose? So, yes, I couldn’t swim and I still can’t.
Yet, as a child, I loved the beach. Loved splashing in the water, running toward a wave, then running away from it, changing my mind and running into it, laughing with delight. Fendi told me a story once about me and the beach. Apparently, my late mother and father had promised to take us to the beach. Something happened, and we couldn’t go. I demanded to know why. Someone told me that the beach got burnt. As young as I was, I threw a tantrum, and told them that the beach couldn’t burn. They argued with me, tongue in cheek, that the beach could. I disappeared for a while, only to reappear struggling to carry half a bucket of water. I put down the bucket of water and looked at my father. “Go on, dad, light it up. It won’t burn. Go on.”

“It’s not beach water, Shabba,” my father said.

“It’s the same thing, daddy!” I protested. “Water can’t burn.”

“Beach water is different, it does burn, Shabba!”

I got so frustrated with everyone, I kicked the bucket of water and started to cry.

According to Fendi, that is the story. I cannot remember any of it.
As you may know, apartheid laws governed where people could live. They restricted people of color, corralled them in inaccessible areas, while white people got to live in prime land. It was the law, and if you ever lived in a white man’s area, you would be imprisoned, because you were breaking the law.

Now those people of color who worked for companies and big businesses, they would live in their designated areas, usually an hour’s drive away from work. For their children, there would be one public swimming pool for about fifty thousand or more residents. It would jam packed, so you had to visit the pool either in the mornings, or in the afternoons. Once it was full, children were turned away. Also, children of color had to pay to enter the pool too.

Now, in white areas, there would be one public swimming pool for every fifteen thousand residents. Even better, entry to those swimming pools were free to white children. How about that?
Look, if the white government didn’t think it necessary to provide people of color with indoor plumbing and running water, or a stipulated minimum wage, do you really expect them to provide you with plumbing for a multiple swimming pools? Do you really think they would provide you access to public libraries like they did in white areas? Oh, and by the way, the apartheid government frowned upon public libraries. Why? Well, think about it now; libraries mean education, and an educated person of color was the oppressors biggest fear. Nelson Mandela was an educated man, an attorney, and look at the havoc he wreaked on the white oppressor when he demanded equality for all? When he declared that no person should be treated unfairly because of the color of their skin? Mandela was such a troublemaker to the apartheid government, they jailed him for twenty-seven years. Blame education, they did.
So, since we children of color had no amenities to entertain our young minds, the tree house that Baba built was the most exciting project I have ever worked on in my life. We kids scoured the land and neighbouring lands for logs and sticks and large leaves and stones and discarded rope and anything that we could possibly use to build our beloved tree house. It took us hours and it was a complete labour of love. It would be our park, swing, beach, library, swimming pool, all rolled into one, and we couldn’t wait for it to be completed.
For three weeks we toiled on it, because Baba could only build it when he was not at work. We worked side by side with Baba, passing him tools, helping him lift, helping him tighten stuff, helping him with every single thing. As he worked, Baba explained why he did what he did, why he added double the number of nails to one section, why he cut the wood the way he did. With great patience he taught and explained and gave us a lesson in woodwork and building. So, in essence Baba was my first teacher. My first woodwork and construction lecturer.

When the project was completed, we children were thrilled. The treehouse had two rooms, a balcony, (because we ran out of wood to add more roofing to one side of the tree house, we called it a balcony) a rope ladder, a tyre on another rope so that we could swing on it, some vines so we could move through the air like Tarzan, some discarded books from Sarie’s house and a make-shift swimming pool made out of a discarded bathtub we found on someone’s property.

“Baba, I had no idea you could build a house,” I said, looking at our beloved tree house in awe.

He said, “You know Shabba Baba, I had no idea I could build a house too. Do you like it?”

“I love it!” I said putting my arm around my grandfather’s waist and hugging him toward me.

Baba looked at Sarie.

“Ooh, Baba, I love it too!” Sarie said in a breathless voice.
Sarie had every toy you could think of, but she loved the treehouse the most. She actually helped build it too, so it was special to her!

Problem was, we had no furniture to decorate the tree house.
“Go ask your mother for furniture,” I said to Sarie. “Tell her … um … tell you don’t like your bedroom furniture and you want new … no, no, no – tell her someone said your furniture is old or broken. Or … “
“She won’t like that Shabba.”
“Ja, that’s why you say it. Say something like that. Then we can get your old furniture, Sarie.”
What a silly thing to say to a child. What a silly thing for a child to tell her mother. Dumb me.

Well, it was the best we could do. That night just before dinner, Sarie said, “Ma, what’s old fashioned furniture?”

Since I had a lot riding on how Sarie handles our furniture situation, I hid outside the window and eavesdropped, a favorite pastime of mine.

My drinking buddy Mazda, paused with her fuel injection and frowned at Sarie. “Who … who said that? Who got old-fashion furniture, ay? We? Who told you that? Ay? WHOOOO?” Her voice had a thread of panic to it.

Sarie lifted and dropped her shoulders. “Can’t remember, ma? I think I heard Tante Estrie or Tante Elzette say that our furniture is arme (Poor). Or maybe it was Oom Gar–”

Vroom! Vroom! Mad Mazda slammed her glass onto the table and exploded into high gear. “Blerry bitches! Blerry goffles!” The Mazda jumped to her feet and revved with fury, flames shooting out from her exhaust. “They are foking dying with jealousy because I married money and they don’t got what I got. I am rich! Rich! You hear? I married a rich man and their husband must  work in a tyre factory and meat packaging plant, packing boerewors, morning to night. Blerry goggles! Blerry …”

That’s all it took – a silly, dumb comment from a servant’s child caused my happy hour buddy to make an announcement at the dinner table that night. “I am throwing out all the old furniture in Sarie’s room and buying new ones. I am also throwing out our sitting room and our dining room and our … everything!” (She meant she was throwing out the sitting room and dining room furniture).

“Why do you need to do that, Magda when we just redecorated the whole blerry place two years ago?” Schoeman, who had two families to feed from the Garden of Eden’s funds, grouched.
‘BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE TALKING, SCHOEMAN!”

“Calm down, Magda!” Schoeman said. “I’m just asking a question.”

Mazda slowly took her foot off the accelerator.

“People are saying that I married a poor man, Schoeman. They say I poor. That we poor. Ay? This is so embarrassing, Schoeman. I was a beauty queen and now I poor?” Mazda burst into tears.

“Magda, please,” the older man who married a striking beauty queen, a trophy wife, pleaded.
Mazda responded by throwing herself over the dining table, over the mashed potatoes and Porterhouse steak and mushroom and pepper sauce and sobbed like the way a heroine in a black and white movie would.

“Okay, okay, okay!” the pastor placated in a panicked voice. “You can do it, okay?”

Mazda stopped crying, sat down in her seat, poured herself a large glass of vodka, took a sip and said, “I want to change the bathroom tiles too.”
Two weeks later, a group of servants’ children carted Sarie’s old bedroom suite to the tree house. Along with the bedroom suit came chairs, a table and some cupboards – all the things we needed. It was awesome! Our tree house looked treemendous!

Oh, and we also received a box of used bathroom tiles, which we couldn’t use in the tree house, so we used them as brick pavers in muddy areas of the servant’s quarters.

From then on, whatever we needed for the tree house, Sarie and I would steal it from her house. It was like a real house, minus the bathroom. And electricity. And flooring. And plumbing for water.
Sadly, we children fought about who gets to play in the tree house, forcing Baba to assign us shifts. It worked, but it was pure agony waiting for your turn to play in the tree house.

Baba warned us in no unspecific turns that the tree house was out of bounds at night. He was stern about that and everyone listened to him. Except me. Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would creep into the tree house, lie on the balcony and watch the stars in the dark sky. Once I was lonely, so I thought about my partner in crime. Are you awake, Sarie?

I decided to see if I could reach her. Since the tree house faced her bedroom, I stole Baba’s work torch, took it to the tree house and shone it into her bedroom, using the light from the torch to write my name on her bedroom wall. Please see this and come to me, Sarie.
Within minutes, to my delight, I saw a figure in white hurtling toward the tree house.

“What are you doing, Shabba?” Sarie asked in a breathless voice as she climbed the rope ladder to the tree house.

“Signalling to you,” I replied, shining the torch in her face.  “When I shine my torch, you must know that I am looking for you, and you must come, okay? I will write my name in lights. Like the way I did.”

“Sure!” she said in an excited voice.

“Pinkie promise? I put out my little finger.

“Pinkie promise,” she said, looping her pinkie with mine.

After that, whenever I was in the tree house at night, I would shine my torch into the wall of her bedroom, and she would come over with snacks and drinks. We would spend hours in our precious treehouse gazing at the stars and talking about everything. Sometimes, we’d snuggle up and fall asleep, only to wake up with the sun and the birds. Sarie would then creep back into her house before her absence was discovered.

One day she said, “I don’t wanna go home. I want to stay with you.”
“All the time?” I asked.

She nodded. “Forever.”
“Oh, well, okay,” I replied after thinking about it for a few seconds. “But maybe we should get married, then we can always be together?”
She shrugged. “Okay.” She looked around. “We will need more rooms if we want to have children.”
I followed her eyes around the treehouse.  She may have a point, I thought. “How many children are we going to have?”
She held up five fingers.

“Sarie, you are mad? Five? That’s too many!”
“Well, then how many, Shabba?” she snapped.

I shrugged. “Three? Four?”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Okay, fine, Sarie. We’ll have five children, then!”

And that’s how I first proposed to Sarie.

“And a puppy.”
“Now, that’s a good idea,” I said. “Hey, you should ask for a puppy now.”
“A tiny little one? A girl puppy?”
“No! You need a puppy that grows up into an attack dog.”
“Mm.”

“This is what you do – tell your mother, Tante Esterie got a Rotweiller puppy for your cousin.”

“Okay.”
Woof! Woof! A week later, the Vorsters got four Rotweiller pups. We helped name them – Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo.

We had no idea which was which, but it didn’t matter, because when we called Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo! all four pups hurtled toward us.

End of Excerpt
More excerpts coming next week, so make sure you’re following this blog.

#FreeBook

When Arena’s car is stolen with her toddler in it, she points at Tom, her abusive ex-husband. The police point at Bear, her cop boyfriend, who adores both her, and her children. Trouble is, Bear cannot be found. In fact, according to the police, Bear’s comrades, he does not exist!
Arena’s whole world begins to tilt. Who does she believe? Who does she trust?

If you enjoy emotional tales of love and hate, peppered with suspense, you will be hooked on this gripping romantic crime and suspense thriller. It’s about revenge and the kind of love that can make you kill.
Read the #Free #book that has been downloaded more than 300 000 times. Free for a limited time. #Free #books #Romantic #Suspense  #EveRabi  #Free on #Kindle #Unlimited #Crime #Thrillers

Photocredits:
Photo credit: DepositPhotos, Images by Free-Photos, Zeracool, Greyerbaby

ColorBlind – A romantic suspense book by Eve Rabi – Excerpt 2

As promised, while you are waiting for the release of ColorBlind, a heartbreaking romantic suspense tale, I’m sharing a second excerpt from the book with you. Hope you enjoy it. Please note, it hasn’t professionally been edited and proofread as yet, so please try to overlook the spelling errors etc. If you enjoy it, please post a comment. Love to read your thoughts.

If you haven’t read the first two excerpts in this series, please click on the link below:
https://everabi.wordpress.com/2019/04/18/colorblind-a-romantic-suspense-book-by-everabi/

EXCERPT 2 – Sex Education

SOUTH AFRICA

Cape Town

1968

(26 years before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa)

Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation or
discrimination on grounds of race.

SHABBA

My first sex education lesson?
I was seven years-old, and it was at Die Goed Afrikaaner Kerk, or The Good Afrikaaner Church in Cape Town, South Africa.
No, no, no! It’s not what you think. I wasn’t starring in the lesson and there wasn’t a priest involved.
Let me back it up a bit, so that you get the full picture. It all started with Baba, my grandfather.

“You never listen, Shabba!”
If I had a dime for every time someone said that to me, as a child or an adult, I would have been a stinkin’ rich man. So, when my grandfather told me I couldn’t go with him that day, of course, I didn’t listen to him. I planned to badger him until he gave in. Like I usually did.
I started to jump around him. “But, Baba, I wanna ride in the Jaguar with you! Why can’t I come with you in the Jaguar? I wanna –”

“Shabba, you –”

“— go to work with you! Please, please, please, Baba! Please, please, please!”
“Shabba, you cannot go with me. I’ve told you this before. Okay?”

“Why? Why can’t I come with you?”
“Because, Shabba, first of all, I’m driving Pastor Schoeman and his family to church today, so I can’t take you. Second of all, I’m not allowed to take anyone else in the car. Third, it –”

“I will lie in the boot, Baba. No one will see.”
“Shabba, that is … no! That is dangerous. You could get seriously hurt, Shabba. When I come back from church, I will let you help me wash the Jaguar, okay?”

“Baba, listen to me: first of all, I am a big boy, so I won’t get hurt and … second … eh … I forget – let me come with you, baba! Please, please, pleeeeease!”

With a chuckle, my grandfather pulled me in for a hug. “Shabba, I can’t. Not today. But how ‘bout this; I give you a boxing lesson when I get back?”

He had me there. I liked to fight, wrestle, box – anything physical, anything I could win at, because I liked winning, period.

“But only if I can win.”
“Shabba, I am not gonna let you win. You have to win. You have to fight harder than me to win. That’s how it’s done.”
“Okay, fine!” I said with a pout.

“Good. Now, I want you to play with Fendi and the other children while I go to work, okay?”

With my arms folded and my bottom lip dragging, I nodded.

After he ruffled my head, Baba put on his hat, straightened his tie, and hurried off, while I stayed at home.
Home, which was once a group of stables on Pastor Schoeman Vorster’s large property, was converted into basic living quarters for fifteen or more African and Colored servants and their children. When I say basic, I mean cement floors, raw walls with no paint or covering, and no windows. That basic enough for you? No? How ‘bout this – no kitchen, no indoor plumbing, no indoor toilet, no electricity, lights, heating, no place for furniture. Sounds like camping, right? Right.
Sure, it was freezing during the harsh Cape winters, but because of the number of servants crammed into each room, we managed to survive the cold. Oh, and no one was lucky enough to get a room for themselves. They got a space in a room and that was it. In the yard, a fire pit burned almost all the time, which helped keep the place warm and doubled as a sort of kitchen. My grandmother cooked for all the servants on an open fire at least once a day, using tree stumps as tables.
Baba, who was a big man, strong too, worked seven days a week as chauffeur to pastor Schoeman’s wife and daughter, and was on call twenty-four hours a day.
I stood with my little arms folded and watched baba walk up the hill to the house, pausing only to wipe sweat off his brow. After a glance over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I crept behind him and followed at a distance, the tall grass that separated the Vorster’s home from the servant’s quarters, shielding me from sight. I watched baba open the door of the Jaguar for pastor Schoeman, his wife and a little blonde girl around my age.

The moment Baba’s back was turned, I snuck over to the car, opened the boot, got inside and quietly shut the door.

It was roomy in the boot of the Jaguar, but it was dark. Really dark. I wasn’t afraid, though, for I knew that Baba was near, and as long as Baba was around, I was afraid of nothing. I wished I had something to hold onto, because at seven years of age and being an underdeveloped child due to poor nutrition, I was skinny as a baseball bat, and rolled around in the boot of the car like one.

Baba drove for a while, before he stopped and switched off the engine. When I heard the doors open and close, I knew I was alone. That is when I called out for Baba.

When he opened the boot, Baba’s jaw dropped at the sight of me, grinning up at him. It was a while before he could speak. “Shabba! I told you to stay at home. What are you doing here? In the boot? That’s … Shabba, that’s dangerous!”

“I came to help you, Baba. I can help with your work. I’m strong. See?” I flexed my bicep at him.

He glanced around, a nervous look on his face, before he took my arm and hurriedly led me to the back of Die Good Afrikaner Kerk. We climbed up a flight of stairs to a loft that spanned the entire church and gave me a bird’s eye view of the congregation below.

“I have to go serve drinks now, so you stay here,” Baba whispered. “Do not move, Shabba!”

I nodded, then turned my attention to Pastor Schoeman on the pulpit.

“Noah had three sons,” he said. “Shem, Ham and Japheth. Ham was black, so Noah, what did he do? He shunned him. That’s right, my brothers and sisters, he shunned his own son. Ja, his own flesh and blood. Why? Because Ham was inferior to his brothers. That is why. He was black, so he was inferior. It’s says here in the Bible.” Pastor Schoeman stabbed at his gilded Bible with his index finger. “Right here, in black and white. No pun intended.”

Laughter rippled through the pure white congregation.

“It tells us, clearly at that, we whites are a superior race.” He gave a gigantic nod to the crowd of worshippers hanging onto his every word. “Superior, in every way. Every. Single. Way.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the members of the congregation, followed by applause.
I glanced at my hands; they were black. What does inferior mean? I wondered. Even though I was little – seven-years-old, whatever Pastor Schoeman said, seemed downright ugly to me.

At six-foot-three, blue-eyed Pastor Schoeman was a charismatic man with a full head of hair, despite him being old. Well, to a mite like me, fiftyish was ancient. Anyway, he had a way of delivering the sermon – almost lyrical and uplifting, tugging at the heart strings of the racist South African. When people were not nodding at his words, they were clapping their approval. How could they not, when Schoeman kept saying, “It says here in the Bible.”?

“This is why we must keep the races separate in this country,” the pastor continued. “This is why white and blacks must never lie with one another. This is why black and white should live in separate areas. This is why the white man must protect his race, guard it with his life. This is why our country is blessed with apartheid.” He thumped his chest with his fist as he spoke, his lips twisting with defiance and determination. “Blessed is the word, my dear brothers and sisters. We are a nation blessed by God with apartheid, and we have to cherish the blessing with our lives. The World and his wife can frown at our laws, they can impose sanctions against South Africa, but we do not care. We are following Bible principals and we will continue to do so.”

It was a hot Summer’s Sunday, and while he brainwashed his congregation, servants, black and colored, all dressed in crisp white uniforms, moved stealthily between the aisles proffering iced drinks and snacks. Die Good Afrikaner Kerk obviously believed that its members should worship in comfort. All refreshments appeared to be free of charge.

A short while later, Baba appeared at my side. To my delight, he handed me a bottle of iced cold Coke. I was thrilled. I had never had a bottle of Coke before. I had tasted it in a cup, about three-fingers full once, but a whole bottle? It was bliss to a poor kid like me.

“We people of South Africa, we are decent, Godfearing people, and that is why, together, we will build our very own state, Die Goed Afrikaner Stad. This will be ours, a safe haven for our children, our very own Garden of Eden. This land will be deemed a sacred city, and not a single black person will soil that land with his footsteps.”
The congregation applauded, oblivious to the black and colored servants quietly working the aisles. Or not giving a damn that they were listening, not giving a damn that they had feelings.

“Black and white must exercise separate domain. Why? Because the Bible says so. Each man to their own. If we do not exercise separatism, there will be anarchy, there will be strife, and we will be putting our children and our loved ones in danger. Brothers and sisters, we will build our Garden of Eden together, lovingly at that, a land that we can raise our children without fear of savages infiltrating our land.”

Okay! I said to myself. Sounded reasonable to me, even though I had some trouble understanding the big words he used like separatism and anarchy. Main things was, I too didn’t want savages infiltrating our land. I just didn’t like the idea of savages, period. I wanted them to build the Garden of Heaven as soon as possible so that I could move into it. Or was it the Garden of … Eden? Nah, it was the Garden of Heaven for sure.

Baba reappeared to give me a stick of ice cream. He ruffled my head, then disappeared again. Coke and an ice cream on the same day? The bumpy ride in the boot of the Jaguar was worth it. Me rolling around like a PVC pipe in the boot of a car, was so worth it! I was in the Garden of Heaven already! Coming to church sure payed dividends, I thought as I ate my ice cream.

“It will be our paradise on Earth, and we will share it with no one.”

When the congregation were on their feet, the applause thundering, that’s when Schoeman delivered the crunch – “This dream of a safe refuge, a safe haven, we can only fulfil this dream if we build it together, my brothers and sisters. Therefore, I urge you to dig deep into your pockets and give your last cent if you have to.”
The crunch caused people to shift about in their Sunday shoes, and the applause fell to a smattering.
Pastor Schoeman didn’t miss a beat and the hard sell began. “Look at your children, and ask yourself, Can I afford not to give my last penny for this child of mine? Turn and look into the eyes of your precious babies. Go on do it now, look at your babies, look into those beautiful, trusting eyes, and then do what you must – surrender all that you can for the sake of your children! Dig deep into your pockets, brothers and sisters. God will bless you for it. He is watching, so give generously now, for He is watching!’
Heads turned to look at their children. Slowly, the applause resumed, electing a somewhat relieved smile from the salesman at the podium. “You should see the blueprints to our Garden of Eden, brothers and sisters – they are amazing, glorious, a paradise to die for! When you see them, you will fall on your hands and knees and give thanks to our lord, that’s how beautiful our Garden of Eden is going to be. We are busy working on them. All the time we work on them, and soon those blueprints of our Garden of Eden will be yours to view. So, give your last penny, brothers and sisters; donate what you can. Money, jewellery, cars, stocks and bonds – anything you can. Every little bit, every cent, takes us one step closer to our Garden of Eden.”
When the applause abated, Pastor Schoeman held out his hand. The music played, and on cue, his wife, Magda, a pretty blonde with long hair, dressed in a flowing white dress and with flowers fashioned into a large crown on her head, rose from her seat and glided over to him. Pastor Schoeman watched his beautiful young wife approach with a proud smile.
“Isn’t she just beautiful?” he said. “As the day I met her.” Taking her hand, he twirled her around, then dipped her, before he a light planted a kiss on her lips.

The congregation applauded.

Pastor Schoeman brought his wife up again and said, “To my brothers in the congregation, this is how you must treat your women. This is how a real man treats a woman.”
The applause was deafening.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, my wife Magda and I are extremely proud to present our beautiful and talented daughter, Sarie, who will lead us with a song she has composed herself. Her thirteenth song, mind you.”

I had only just moved in with my grandparents, and because the Vorster family had been away on holiday, I had not yet met any of them as yet, including their song-writer daughter.

A blonde girl, around my age walked onto the stage. She was dressed similar to her mother – long, white dress and a crown of tiny flowers on her head. Her smile reached her blue eyes as she curtsied to her parents, before she took the mike and belted out a song.

“Save the white man,
Oh please, dear father, save the white man

Tra la la la!

Keep us ready and armed to defend ourselves our land

For we live in danger of losing our beloved country

to the likes of Nelson Mandela and his disciples.

They are evil, oh, Father, savages, oh Father, so save the white man

Oh, please dear father, save the white man, save the white man

Tra la la la la!

I was confused. The lyrics were alien to me, however, the melody, now that confused me. Why? Well, because I had heard that tune before. Later on, I would realize that it was a tune by Diana Ross and the Supremes. My mother, who died while in police custody after a political protest, used to sing all the Supremes’ songs to my sister and me. She loved music, singing and dancing, and I inherited that bit from her – I had an ear for music. Though, I couldn’t dance for shit. (That didn’t stop me from dancing though.) The irony of it all – a song encouraging racial segregation, racial discrimination, was being sung to the tune of a black pop group.

Sarie finished her song and was rewarded with an applause shook the foundations of the church. She beamed and curtsied to her audience before she was joined on stage by her mother and father. For a while, she and her mother sat on stage behind her father. As the minutes dragged by, I noticed her become fidgety.

Then, she looked up and spotted me on the top floor. I quickly ducked to avoid being seen. I was so caught up in all that I was seeing, and my ice cream, I forgot to stay out of sight. When I raised my head again, Sarie was still looking at me with bulging eyes. I pressed a finger to my lips. She nodded. Then, I began to make faces and clown around. She rewarded me with a the most beautiful smile, one that I remember till this day. I clowned around even more, causing her body to shake with mirth. When Magda Vorster looked at her daughter, then followed her eyes to where I was, I quickly ducked. When I looked up again, both Sarie and her mother had left the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a copy of this song will soon be available on cassette, LP and forty-five,” Pastor Schoeman said. “Make sure you pick up your copy before they all sell out. They’re free, but a donation to build our Garden of Eden, is always welcome and encouraged. It for a good cause, so please, give generously.”

At seven-years of age, I had no idea what copyright infringement was. At Pastor Schoeman’s age, neither did he, it seemed.

When the choir took over and sung slow, boring songs, Pastor Schoeman ducked into another room and shut the door, leaving the congregation to the choir. From where I was, I could see him pacing in the room. Then, the door opened and in stepped a woman. She had big hair and red lipstick.

She smiled at Pastor Schoeman as she walked slowly toward him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but I saw them kiss like they did on TV for a few minutes, during which time, I saw Pastor Schoeman’s hand travel under the pretty lady’s dress. The lady suddenly dropped to her knees and unbuckled the pastor’s pants. I can confirm that she wasn’t changing his diaper, because he wasn’t wearing one. Her head disappeared for a while, and I couldn’t see what she was doing, but judging by the way the Pastor’s head was fell back and the way his body became wobbly, I suspected the pastor wasn’t unhappy with whatever she was doing. It didn’t last long, because Pastor Schoeman left the room and returned to the pulpit for more hard-selling. I watched the pretty lady apply more red lipstick, pull down her dress, fix her hair, then leave the room through the back door. Man, Pastor Schoeman is one lucky man, I thought. He has two wives! Two beautiful wives and he loves them both.
So, yeah, my first sex education was at Die Goed Afrikaaner Kerk at the tender age of seven, over ice cream and a bottle of coke. Oh, and a pastor was involved in the lesson in more ways than one.

End of Excerpt
More excerpts coming next week, so make sure you’re following this blog.

#FreeBook

When Arena’s car is stolen with her toddler in it, she points at Tom, her abusive ex-husband. The police point at Bear, her cop boyfriend, who adores both her, and her children. Trouble is, Bear cannot be found. In fact, according to the police, Bear’s comrades, he does not exist!
Arena’s whole world begins to tilt. Who does she believe? Who does she trust?

If you enjoy emotional tales of love and hate, peppered with suspense, you will be hooked on this gripping romantic crime and suspense thriller. It’s about revenge and the kind of love that can make you kill.
Read the #Free #book that has been downloaded more than 300 000 times. Free for a limited time. #Free #books #Romantic #Suspense  #EveRabi  #Free on #Kindle #Unlimited #Crime #Thrillers

Photocredits:
Photo credit: DepositPhotos, Image by Сергей Горбачев from Pixabay, Jill Wellington, Vdavasad

COLORBLIND – A #romantic #suspense #book by #EveRabi Excerpt 1

Small Cover Color Blind 13 April 19

Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation
or discrimination on grounds of race.

A prison in Cape Town
South Africa
1982
Twelve years before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa, the country was governed by various pro-apartheid acts, including the Immorality Act, where sex between white and other ethnic groups was a criminal offence. Both parties contravening the Immorality Act would be imprisoned for up to ten years.

Excerpt 1 from ColorBlind:
I was scared, but not for the obvious reasons. It wasn’t because I had violated South Africa’s Immorality Act, which had landed me in jail.
It wasn’t the fact that, despite being in love for years, and secretly living together for six months prior to my arrest, my boyfriend, my black boyfriend, and I faced imprisonment – five years for me, ten for him (he would be dealt a harsher sentence because of the color of his skin). No, that was not it.
It wasn’t the fact that our that the police, a task force in full SWAT gear, created solely to handle anyone breaking the law, and daring to be color blind, had kicked down the door of our apartment at 3 a.m., dragged us out of bed in our nightwear, and threw us into waiting police vans. No, that was not it.
The above would scare anyone, right? Yet, none of the above terrified me as much as facing my father, Schoeman Vorster. That’s Pastor Schoeman Vorster. He was a charismatic preacher, respected and revered throughout South Africa by pro-apartheid whites, lauded by many of them. He ruled and recruited with fearmongering– The blacks are the enemy of the white people in South Africa. They are savages, they are dangerous, they should be greatly feared. We whites must stick together so that we can be stronger and fight them off when they attack, which will be any day now.
Yes, Pastor Schoeman Vorster publicly preached hate for people of color, demanded segregation among races, and believed wholeheartedly in discrimination based on a person’s color. It was legal, the law said he could do that, so he took advantage of that and held mass rallies where he recruited white followers throughout the country. In the U.S. you had the Klu Klux Klan, in South Africa we had Die Goed Afrikaaner Kerk (The Good Afrikaaner Church). The Klu Klux Klan had the Grand Wizard, in South Africa, we had Pastor Schoeman Vorster.
Pa was about to see me for the first time since my arrest. My secret love that I had kept hidden for so long, was now out in the open and I was in deep trouble. I had committed the worst possible crime a white woman could commit in South Africa – I had slept with a black man. Pastor Schoeman’s daughter had slept with a black man.
My greatest fear was answering to my father, now that I had been caught out. At the thought of facing him, my stomach churned, my throat felt like I had swallowed polystyrene, my palms grew clammy, and for the first time in my life, I actually heard my heartbeat. That’s how terrified I was of my father, the pastor.
Whenever I’m nervous or anxious, I bite my nails. That day, in the jail interview room, I steadily chewed on whatever little of my nails were left. When I remember just how disgustingly dirty they were – I had spent the last two nights in a filthy jail cell – I quickly jerked my fingers out of my mouth and tucked them under my thighs. And waited.
As the minutes dragged by, my fear was such, that my nails found their way back into my mouth and I chewed on them, regardless of how disgusting they smelled.   
Then, he arrived. I felt my father’s presence before he even entered the interview room. I jerked to attention – back ramrod-straight, eyes alert and darting around, white knuckles gripping the plastic chair.
The door to the prison interview room was flung open, and my father strode in, eyes hooded, nostrils twitching, lips a white line. Dressed in a suit, he looked commanding and reverential as usual, taller than he usually did, larger too.
Sauntering behind him were my half-brothers, Jacob and Isaiah, young pastors in training, both suited and somber.
Behind them were two senior prison wardens, Jonas and Fourie. Behind them all, lugging an attaché case, was Abramowitz Cohen, one of my father’s trusted attorneys and fixer, who I’ve known since birth. Oom (uncle) Cohen, as we called him.
They greeted me with looks of contempt and revulsion, and under their collective disdain, I lost the ramrod in my back, and my shoulders rounded. With my head slightly bowed, I braced myself for the onslaught that was sure to follow.    
Warden Jonas hastened to pull out a plastic chair for my father. “Here you are, Pastor Schoeman,” he said in Afrikaans, dusting the chair with his hands, then bowing obsequiously to my father.  
My father shifted his glare to the chair. He was a stickler for cleanliness, because it was next to godliness, he always said, so I knew he would rather stand, than sit on a germ-infested prison chair. However, for whatever reason, he caved and, without thanking the warden, took a seat on the edge of the chair. With both hands on his lap, probably to avoid touching the grubby table, he glared at me, his eyes granite and icy. I quickly averted mine.  
My brothers remained standing, hands loosely folder in front, feet astride, like CIA agents behind the president. The other men stood too, despite the chairs in the room. I suspected it was to intimidate me. It worked, even if it wasn’t the plan. Six white, strapping men, all angry and humiliated by my actions, towering over me – how could an eighteen-year-old not be intimidated?
For a while, it was so silent in the room, I heard the hissing and groaning of the hundred-year-old prison pipes.
My father’s sharp voice eventually pierced the silence and temporarily muted the pipes. “That kaffir raped you.”
With great difficulty, I raised my eyes to look at my father. Don’t call him kaffir! That was my first thought.
Pa only spoke Afrikaans, which was the language of the white man in South Africa. We were encouraged to speak Afrikaans at all times, not English. “You hear? That black bastard, he raped you.”
I knew better than to talk back to my father, so I remained quiet. It wasn’t good enough – he crashed his fist onto the table, causing me to jump.
“Hear what I’m saying? Ja?”
Under duress, I responded in a mixture of English and Afrikaans. “Nee, nee, he didn’t rape me, Pa.  We –”
“He raped you!” he screamed, his race flaming, his eyes bulging, his lips dry and cracked from fury.  
“No, Pa, he did not,” I repeated. “I love him Shabba. I mean, Tshabalala – that’s his name.” My voice wasn’t defiant, for no one dares defy Pastor Schoeman. It was firm, but respectful.
My answer simply incensed my father even more. “You … you … you do NOT –” He was so angry, spittle flew out of his mouth as he snarled at me.
I was terrified, yes, but I needed to correct him about Shabba. Correct everyone around for that matter. “We … we are going to get married, Pa. We –”
I stopped talking when I saw him cracking his knuckles, because … when Pa cracks his knuckles, you are going to get disciplined. With his fists. In a big way. Old school. At six-foot-three and approximately two-hundred-and twenty pounds, Schoeman Vorster did not need a weapon – he was one.
Judging from the way Isaiah and Jacob flinched, it was fair to assume that they’ve experienced their fair share of knuckle-cracking. Pa spared no rod, because he said, the Bible warned us not to.
Knowing that I was in a jail with two prison wardens, and that there was little chance of pa getting physical with me, despite my terror, I summoned the courage to explain. “We have been living together on and off for about six months, and we plan to –”
My father, who was in his late fifties, moved with a swiftness I never thought possible – he hurled himself across the table he had avoided touching, and crashed into me like a rugby player, taking me to the ground with him.
“I will kill you, Sarie!” he screamed, striking me repeatedly across the face. Luckily, shock served as my bubble wrap – I only felt the first two blows before I started to black out.   
Meneer! Meneer!” Warden Jonas said in an amused voice, as he pulled my father off me. “She’s learnt her lesson, I tell you. Ja.”
“No child of mine will ever disrespect me like this,” my father said, as he straightened his tie and adjusted his coat. “A kaffir …” He paused to pat down his hair, “I will kill them. Ja, both of them, I will kill them and go to jail if I have to. It will be an honor killing. That’s what I will do. Ja.” He patted his hair again.
I lay on the floor, gurgling from the blood in my mouth.
Warden Fourie helped me up to my feet and sat me on a chair again. Bloodied and weak from the vicious beating, I flopped forward, forcing him to hold me up.
“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” my father said to no one in particular, wiping his hands along the sides of his pants.   
“I know, I know,” Jonas said, his head bobbing. “I got children too, Meneer.” He held up four fingers. “Yasis! Kids today, they never listen, ay? I fully get it, Meener.
Sitting with my head bowed, I watched blood drip from my split lip onto my lap. Since I had no tissues to wipe away the blood, I gingerly dabbed a sleeve across my mouth.
“You have embarrassed me and our family with your behavior,” my father continued as he paced. “With your … your ‘dealings’ with that … that kaffir!” He made a spitting motion, before he continued. “Speaking English to me! English? Such disrespect?”
Jacob reached to pat my father’s arm. “Pa, your blood pressure …”
My father shrugged him off. “You know what I stand for, what my principals are. What our core values as a family, a people, a nation are, and you still do this? What about the law? You have broken the law, and for that, you are heading for prison. Ay? My daughter, the criminal. How does that make me look?” He started to count on his fingers as he spoke. “I preach the word of God, I live by Bible principals, I conduct biblical tours throughout our land, spread God’s message, I … I … I recruit fighters for our church’s army to keep our race pure. Ay? I go beyond my call of duty to safeguard our race. Beyond! Seven days a week, I do all this. And this is how you show your appreciation? My own daughter, my own flesh … disrespecting me like that. For my own flesh to commit such a … a terrible crime? I feel shame. Terrible, terrible shame, man. I am humiliated that my daughter chose to disregard our values, our fight, our struggle. To betray me like this?” He shook his head in sorrow. “Laughing stock – that’s what will be.”
I said nothing, but listened out for the sounds of his knuckles cracking. “This behavior of yours, it is going to affect not only my standing in the church, my standing in the community, in this country; it will affect all our bloody lives. All our lives. Every one of us. You want that, Sarie? You want the church to fire me? Who will pay all our bills? Who will pay for privileged lifestyle you have enjoyed since birth? Where will the money come from?”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re an intelligent girl, you know all of this, and you still do this? Humiliate us like this by being caught in bed with a kaffir? The servant’s child? Eh? Someone who grew up in the stables?”
Don’t call him kaffir!
He looked at Jacob, his firstborn and right-hand man. “Where did I go wrong? Tell me? What did I do to deserve this? Tell me, Jacob. Tell me, tell me, TELL ME!”
“Pa …” Jacob gave a, you-did-nothing-wrong wave.
My father looked at Isaiah, my other brother. Isaiah shook his head at my father in sympathy, then flung a dirty look my way.  
For a few moments, my father paced, mumbled, and muttered to himself. Finally, he turned to look at me. “You will say that he kidnapped you, raped you. You will say that you had no choice but to go with him, because he threatened the lives of – no, no, no, he and his men threatened the lives of me and the rest of our family members. Your mother – he threatened to kill your mother because of our pro-apartheid stance, you hear?”
I didn’t answer – I kept my eyes lowered but kept the corners of my eyes on the lookout.
With his eyebrows elevated, my father looked at Jacob.
Jacob nodded in agreement. “And bring in the church, Pa. They should take some responsibility here.” He went on to elaborate, put his spin on things. “Because of our church’s beliefs, Sarie was targeted. Because of your support for the church, Pa. And … I can come up with a ransom note from the kaffir, his –”
“We can show proof of us paying him the ransom too,” Isaiah added. “Get footage of some kaffir picking up the money at night, release it to the papers …”
Them,” Jacob interrupted. “Proof of us paying them the ransom.”
Isaiah nodded. “Ja, ja, them!”
My father looked at Cohen for his input.
Cohen cleared his throat, pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses with his index finger and said, “That will all help greatly. Damage control – that is what we will be striving for.” He looked at me, and in a gentle voice said, “I’ve known you since you were a baby, Sarie, and I have to say, it pains me greatly to see you in this place. Physically, hurts me. This kaffir, he has taken advantage of you, of your family, your kindness, man. And look where it has got you? Ay?” He gestured to the room. “Look around you, Sarie; it is rather deplorable. Look, look, look!”
All necks in the room began to swivel around, and with mouths contorted in disgust, they took in the bare cement floor, the stained plastic chairs, the grubby wooden table that was anchored to the floor, and the flickering fluorescent lights on the flaky ceiling. The place reeked of urine and stale cigarette smoke.
“Every one of us has a place in society,” Cohen continued, shaking a finger in the air. “And clearly this kaffir has forgotten his place. By daring to do what he did to you, a white woman, he has displayed an inordinate degree of arrogance to us whites. Disregard and disrespect, Sarie, not just for you, your family and your church, but for the law! The law! Now, he has put you in this predicament? You’ve got to save yourself, Sarie. You can only be free of this terrible, terrible place if you co-operate with us, listen to Pa. You do that, and I will make sure we will send that kaffir away for a long, long time for what he did to you, I’m telling you.” He looked at my father, then my brothers. All their heads were bobbing in agreement.
My father stepped forward and pointed at me. “You will do everything Meneer Cohen asks you to do, sign everything he asks you to sign, throw that kaffir under the bus, you hear?”
I remained silent. The bleeding had stopped, but my mouth felt on fire, and my one eye was starting to close from the beating.
“I’ve got the statement already prepared, Sarie,” Cohen said, sliding a batch of papers across the table to me. “It’s basic, doesn’t include all that your father and brothers want us to say, but we can add more details. For now, just sign at the crosses, Sarie.”
I skimmed over the document, over the lies and fabrications, then looked up at Cohen.  
“Once you sign this document, we will arrange for your release within minutes,” Cohen promised, before he looked at warden Jonas with eyebrows elevated.
After glancing at his watch, Warden Jonas confirmed the promise with a nod.
Cohen slid his pen over to me.
As I pretended to consider the document, which was in Afrikaans, the men in the room brainstormed.   
“His father is on the run from the police for engaging in all sorts of criminal activities.”
“Oh, ja? What kind of crimes? Maybe we can use that?”
“Eh … mainly political, but … we can organize something.”
“Ja, okay, let’s do that. A family of criminals – that’s what they are.”
“Terrorists.”
“Terrorists, ja, ja!”
“Jacob, now look here – you must address the media at the press conference. Your father and mother should stand in the background looking grief-struck, ay?”
“Ja, Oom, I can do that.”
“Photograph Sarie’s face. Blame him for her injuries.”
“Blame them for her injuries.”
“Ja, blame them.”
“I’ll ask for twenty years, minimum.”
“Think you can get that?”
“I know a few judges. May need to grease a few palms …”
“Ja, okay, whatever you need; just fix it. Please, man!”
I turned my attention back to the document. Freedom sounded so great. I badly wanted to go home. I had barely slept, hardly eaten or taken a shower in jail. My face throbbed from the beating, my backed ached from the being battered against the cement floor, my left eye throbbed. Besides my injuries, I longed for my bed, my pillow, my hairbrush, a nailbrush, my own clothes that wasn’t abrasive to my skin, and to rid myself of the stench of jail. I longed to go back to my life and put this horrendous place, this absolute nightmare behind me.
Then, I thought of Shabba. Throw him under the bus … twenty years behind bars for my lies and falsified claims. All because he loved me. I thought of his smiling face, his warm hugs, his tender kisses, and my eyes began to burn. The thought of him rotting away behind bars for the rest of his adult life for no reason, made me want to sob.
I weighed my choices – cooperate and go home, or refuse, and spend the next five years in this godforsaken place.  
“What is it, Sarie?” Cohen asked. “Why are you crying?”
I didn’t answer.
“Sarie…” my father growled in a warning tone.
I kept my head bowed to hide my tears.  
“Sarie …” Jacob said, his voice also imbued with threat.
“Sarie, it’s Yom Kippur,” Cohen said, “the holiest day in our Jewish faith, yet, here I am trying to help you out. “My family will be waiting for me to return home for our evening prayer. We need to wrap this up. Please!” He held out the pen to me.
I looked at Oom Cohen – how does a person fabricate lies and throw an innocent young man in prison, then go home to his family and pray to God? How could God allow something like this to happen?
“Shabba did not do these things to me, Oom,” I said in a small voice. “He would never hurt me. I love him, he loves me, we’re going to get married some –”
“Sarie, PLEASE!” Cohen shrieked, stabling the pen into the table.
“— day. I’ve being his girlfriend for years, so I’m sorry, I can’t sign these lies, Oom. I’m sorry.” I pushed away the papers.
Cohen pushed back his glasses with his index finger and glared at me. I held his gaze.
My father took a step toward me, his face a mask of menace. I quickly shrunk back in fear. “Is that a fact?”
I did not answer, I just braced myself for another one of my father’s beatings – maybe if I sat facing the side, he wouldn’t get my face when he beat me.
“I need some time alone with my daughter,” my father said though clenched teeth, his eyes now slits.
Jonas quickly stepped in front of my father. “Wag, Meener, wag! Give me a chance to talk some sense into her.” His voice was reassuring, confident, as if to say, After my chat with her, she will acquiesce.
“Go, grab a cup of Rooibos tea at reception. I heard meneer likes Koeksisters, so I arranged for some for you. So, go have some, take a seat, leave it all to me.”
Jacob touched my father’s arm, then jerked his head toward the door. After flinging me you’d-better-behave look, my father got up and left the room. My brothers and Cohen followed him.  

Image by Ivanagood

Warden Fourie, a beefy, red-faced man with a belly that grazed his thighs, squeezed his bulk into a chair across me, then spent a good few moments trying to place one leg over the other.
He stared blankly at me as he did. Not glared, just stared, as if he was unsure what to make of me. I didn’t know what to make of him. So far, he’d been quiet and watchful, while Jonas did all the talking. I was used to glares, head-shaking  and tsking! from those around, so the poker face threw me.
Warden Jonas, who could easily pass for Fourie’s younger brother, pulled a chair, sat across me and smiled. “Sarie … what a lovely name!” With his hand on his heart, and in an operatic voice, he broke into an Afrikaans folk song.
“O bring my trug na die ou Transvaal,
Daar waar my Sarie woon,
Daar onder in die mielies by die groen doringboom,
Daar woon my Sarie Mariaaaaas!”

He stopped and smiled at me. “Love that song. I sing it whenever I have a few dops in me, know what I mean?” He made a quaffing gesture and followed it with a wink.
I rewarded his good-cop gesture with a feeble smile.
He turned and looked at Fourie, his eyebrows elevated. “What you think? Ay?”
“Eh … don’t give up your day job,” Fourie muttered in a sullen voice, still struggling to cross one leg over the other.
Jonas threw his head back and laughed, slapping his thigh as he did. Then, he pulled his chair closer to mine, adopted a serious look, and in a mixture of English and Afrikaans, said, “Listen, Sarie, we make mistakes, we are human, we all make mistakes. But now, we want it all to … to go away so that we can get out of this foking plek. Ay?”
We.
I nevertheless nodded, wanting to appearing like I was listening, like I was understanding and cooperating even, hoping Jonas would take pity on me and release me from jail without me having to throw Shabba under the bus first.
“Ja, because you’re a white girl, and what the hell do you know about prison life, huh? Niks! So we want this whole … this whole … mess to go away, right?
I nodded.
“So, sign the papers,” Jonas finally said, dragging the documents closer to me.
I shook my head. “Sorry, but I can’t, meneer.”
“Sign the papers, Sarie,” he repeated. “I don’t wanna have to go out there and tell them that I failed at my job. I must tell you, Sarie, God’s truth, I have never failed at my job before. I don’t like failure, ay? ‘Specially when someone else causes me to fail.” His voice was quietly threatening.   
I sat with my head bowed and slowly rubbed my aching arm.
“Sarie?”
“Sorry, meneer,” I said, “but he did not rape me. I can’t lie like that. Sorry.”
Jonas twisted a finger in his ear, removed it, viewed his finger made a face, then wiped it on the side of his pants. After which, he looked at me, at Fourie, and at me again. He reached forward and gently tugged at a tendril of mine. “Such a pretty girl,” he said in a husky voice. “Even though your pa messed up your pretty face, you are still such a looker.”
My instinct told me that it was not a compliment. It also made me cross my arms in front of my chest.
My instinct was right – Warden Jonas pulled my chair so that my knees were between his thighs.  It felt invasive, wrong, but what could I do about it? All I could do was try not to think about our thighs touching. “Sign the papers, Sarie.”
I didn’t react.
His thighs suddenly slammed shut against mine, his eyes fixed on mine.
I swallowed hard and tried not to feel, not to think.  
Suddenly, he shoved his knee between my thighs. A loud gasp escaped me at his move. With the wall behind me, and Jonas placed firmly in front of me, there was no place for me to go.
He tilted his head and said, “You remind me of this chick in school. She was a goffel (whore), but she was … fun. He pushed his tongue deep into his left cheek, then his right. “That’s why I like you, Sarie, you remind me so much of her.” When his knee wedged deeper between my thighs, I put both hands on his thigh and attempted to push his leg away. It didn’t work, he was a wall himself. With a sinister smile on his face, he watched and fed off my fear.
“We had so much fun in the back of my father’s bakkie, I tell you.” With every word he uttered, his knee inched closer and closer to my crotch.
I was eighteen, a prisoner at his mercy, while he was in his fifties, with one of the most dangerous kinds of power a despot can have – that of a prison warden. I had never felt so utterly powerless in my life.
Not knowing what to do, my eyes dropped to his shirt button and stayed there.
“Your tits are better than hers though.” 
I looked at Fourie, with pleading eyes – Do something please! Rescue me from his disgusting colleague. Fourie simply deadpanned.
For a few moments we sat in silence, Jonas’ knee wedging closer and closer to my crotch, my hand still on his thigh, still trying to stop him.
Jonas suddenly sat back, folded his arms and glared at me. Relived, I used that time to swivel my body away from his so that I could escape his knee should he try that again.
For a few moments, the two men silently watched me try to compose my rattled self.
Once again, probably believing that he had intimidated me enough, Jonas pushed the document toward me.
I shook my head.
“Sign the papers, Sarie,” Jonas said, his voice taut and threatening.
“Nee, meneer, I can’t. Sorry.”
“Sign. The. Papers. Sarie!”
I said nothing, did nothing.  
With his head tilted, he stared at me. “You like kaffirs that much?”
I didn’t think the question deserved the dignity of an answer.
“Black cock? That your fetish, eh? Black cock?”
My eyes lowered to the button on his chest and stayed there while he degraded me.
“What’s wrong with white cock?”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned in and said, “Which white man is going to want to marry a white woman, that has had a black cock inside of her? You are damaged goods now, girl. You are going to be shunned by everyone around because of your love for black cock. Your whole family will be shunned because of your disgusting fetish. You want that? You want to bring such shame to your poor mother and father?”
I said nothing.
“Sign the papers and save yourself, Sarie. Do it for your family. Do it! Say he raped you. Say he took you by force.”
I moved back in my chair, a clear indication that I was not going to lie about my relationship with Shabba.
Jonas suddenly crashed his fist into the table, causing the pen to fly into the air and almost hit me. “Sign the foking PAPERS SARIE!”
Although I jumped with fear, I did not reach for the papers.  He spent a moment peering at the fist he had crashed into the table, before he turned and looked at Fourie. The two of them seemed to communicate with their eyes.
With a nod, Jonas turned to look at me, a slight smile on his face. “Ja, well, no fine. Sarie Vorster, we must respect your wishes.”
Despite the smile, his words did nothing to comfort me. Jonas started the conversation with me by warning me how much he disliked failing, remember? From the onset, it was clear that he wanted to impress the great Pastor Schoeman Vorster with his koeksisters and Rooibos tea. Because of my obstinate attitude, not wanting to send an innocent man to prison, Jonas would have to declare that he had failed with me. How could he not be angry with me? What was in store for me now? I groaned inwardly at the thought of what punishment lay ahead, now that I had offended the warden, the one person who held all the power in this place.
Both men stood up, and without another word, sauntered out of the room.  Are they going to giving up on me? I wondered as they left the room and shut the door behind them. Do they plan to take me back to my cell? Feeling emotionally and physically drained, I longed for them to go away. All of them. Especially my furious father. Even the confines of my dirty and dingy cell would have been better than being near my father and his fists of fury.
Moments later, the door to the interview room opened, and in walked my father. Strangely, he was alone. Even stranger, he shut the door and turned to look at me.  The, to my absolute horror, he began to crack his knuckles.
END of Excerpt

ColourBlind – A heartbreaking, heart-soaring tale of love and loss that will make you laugh, make you cry and keep you turning pages.
Coming soon!

Every week until publication, I will be releasing a short followup excerpt from book 1 of ColorBlind. Since Facebook does not always show us each other’s feed, please subscribe to this blog to avoid missing out.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

#FREEbook

http:// http://www.amazon.com/Payback-Sometimes-yourself-romantic-thriller-ebook/dp/B00CPSGLEE

When Arena’s car is stolen with her toddler in it, she points at Tom, her abusive ex-husband. The police point at Bear, her cop boyfriend, who adores both her, and her children. Trouble is, Bear cannot be found. In fact, according to the police, Bear’s comrades, he does not exist!
Arena’s whole world begins to tilt. Who does she believe? Who does she trust?

If you enjoy emotional tales of love and hate, peppered with suspense, you will be hooked on this gripping romantic crime and suspense thriller. It’s about revenge and the kind of love that can make you kill.
Read the #Free #book that has been downloaded more than 300 000 times. Free for a limited time. #Free #books #Romantic #Suspense  #EveRabi  #Free on #Kindle #Unlimited #Crime #Thrillers #EveRabi #Romance #Novels

ASHES OF TEMPTATION – Now Live on Amazon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The final instalment in the explosive Temptation series (Girl on Fire Series) is now live on Amazon!

Will Karma deliver the fate Scarlett deserves, or will it be a case of Teflon Scarlett again?

“An emotional rollercoaster that had enough twists and turns to keep me totally enthralled.” Amazon reviewer

Excerpt:

“What if the tables were turned? What if she went to prison for him, to save him, to protect him,

only to return home and find that he had quietly moved on with someone else? With someone that had

sent her to prison? With someone she believed was the enemy? Worse, when she returned, she finds that

he has sired a child with that person? Would she be justified in wanting to hurt him? Would she be justified

of wanting to kill them both?”

…………………………………………………………

PS: Sadly, my Facebook account is still locked because of the phishing attack on my account, so please follow me on

this site for updates and news on my books.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ashes of Temptation – Book Teaser 2 – by Eve Rabi

Blog 2 Ashes of Temptation 3 Sept 18.jpg
People say it’s okay to fail in life sometimes. They say it can be a stepping stone to … blah! blah! blah! They’re right.
I’ll tell you one thing you should never fail at. Murder. Oh, no, it’s one of the worst things you can possibly fail at. Especially a carefully orchestrated one. Ask anyone behind bars for attempted murder and they will tell you, that kind of failure is not an option, and it’s a stepping stone to time in prison.
In my case, my husband had an affair. That was okay – it happens. What was not okay, was him and his mistress, luring unsuspecting me to my death, burying me alive, she assuming my identity, they living a charmed life.
You feeling sorry for me? You should. Can you think of anything worse than being buried alive? No? You’re right – there isn’t anything worse than that – it’s pure hell.
It’s okay though, because they failed at murder, so they would live to regret it, because … I’m alive and I’m coming after them! Shhhh!

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The second excerpt from Ashes of Temptation (Temptation Series):

The story continues …

Colin raises his hand to backhand her, when they are interrupted by the sound of a crying baby.

Colin, appearing startled and surprised, jerks his head to look at the baby bassinette lying next to Clover’s bed. It was covered in a sheet, so he’s somehow missed it.

With his brow furrowed, and dragging Clover with, he raises the sheet and stares at the baby, his eyes widening as he does. “We have a baby?” The question is bad enough, without the sudden excitement in his eyes.

The look on his face tells her that his mind is gauging and calculating – How can this baby be mine when I’ve been in prison for three years? His neck jerks to look at her. “Then … whose …” His eyes turn to slits.

Clover’s knees buckle with fear. He is already so angry, if she tells him the truth, what then? Will he hurt the baby?
Clover launches into survival mode. “Please, Colin,” she begs, wiping blood off her mouth. “Please, just … calm down and … and I’ll tell you. Please!”

He stares at her.

The baby continues to cry.

When Drover hears the baby cry, he slams his shoulder harder against the door. The sounds of the door slamming against the set of drawers, only serves to make the baby cry louder.

Inside the room, Clover’s begging and pleading continues. “Please, he’s so little, Colin, and he’s crying. Let me get to him. Please, I beg of you.”

He doesn’t move; he seems frozen.

“Please, he’s like Angel … like Eden, but little. Please, Colin.”
Bringing Angel and Eden’s names into the fray works – Colin’s hold on her hair relaxes. Clover darts out of his reach, quickly slips on a dressing gown, and with shaking hands, picks up her baby.

As Colin watches his wife soothe a baby that’s not his, his shoulders round. “You have a baby with him, Clover?”

She gives Colin an apologetic look.

Colin sits on the edge of the bed and mutters, “How could this be happening?”

“Colin, I’m so s … sorry. I am. I’m just so sorry.”

He stares at her in silence.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry, Colin.”

“I’m going to kill him, Clover.” His tone of voice is so matter-of-fact, Clover is suddenly covered in goose bumps. She looks at the door that threatening to burst open any moment. On one hand she wants Drover to enter the room, on the other, she is terrified of what might happened when he does.

“I promise, I am going to kill him.”
Stay calm! Stay calm! The most important thing to Clover right now, is to get the baby out of this room and to safety. Colin’s state of mind – he’s hit her and he’s threatened to kill Drover – is terrifying right now. Most of all, she is terrified he may harm the baby. She doesn’t care what he does to her; she just wants to keep the baby from harm.

“Please, Colin, the baby needs his bottle. “Please …”

Colin stares at the baby, ignoring the sound of the door being broken down, ignoring her pleas, a somewhat baffled look on his face.

“Open the fucking door, Callan!” Drover says, fear in his voice.
“Please, Colin, he’s just a little baby and he needs a feed. Please …”
After staring at her for a while, Colin gets to his feet and walks toward the door. He stands in front of the cupboard blocking the door and watches it move inch by inch with Drover’s shoving.

Clover holds her breath – will he allow her out, or won’t he?

Then, to her absolute relief, Colin pushes away the cupboard.

The door flies open and Clover rushes out with the baby in her arms, colliding with Drover in the passageway.

“Did he hurt you?” Drover demands, pushing her aside to stand in front of Colin.

With the baby in her arms, Clover tries to hold Drover back, wanting to prevent a physical confrontation between him and Colin. In her mind, Colin is not the villain here, he is the victim. She cheated on him.

“He didn’t hurt me, Drover. He didn’t!”

Drover points at her split lip. “You’re bleeding! Don’t lie to me, Love!”
“Drover, listen to me: I fell. I fell and hit the … the side of the chair when … when I got out of bed. In my haste. He didn’t hurt me.”
“That’s a lie!” Drover snarls, trying to push past her.

With her baby in her arms, she desperately tries to block his path. “Drover, stop!”

“Why were you screaming, then? Huh? He hurt you. I can tell. Step aside. NOW!”
“No!” Clover says, “I … I was just … just … I’m okay.” She thrusts the baby at Drover. “Give him a bottle of milk, please. Go!”

Drover doesn’t take the baby from Clover, and he doesn’t move.

For a few moments, they all stand in a row, Drover, Clover and Colin. Behind Drover is  Andrew, Daisy and Milton, all with shocked looks on their faces.

“Please, Drover, be part of the solution, not the problem. Please.”

Drover looks at Clover’s flushed face, at Colin’s angry one, and says, “Daisy, take the baby.”
Daisy steps forward and takes the baby off Clover.

Even though Clover is afraid right now – afraid that Colin might attack her again now that the baby is out of her arms, afraid of a physical confrontation between Colin and Drover, she  knows what she must do – calm Colin down.

She turns to him. “Colin, please … let’s go downstairs and talk.”

“Go put on some clothes!” Colin says.

That order from him, random as it is, is a startling reminder that she is still married to him. That he still believes that she is his wife.

She looks at Drover.

He has a sneer on his face.

Clover wants to put on some clothes, but she dares not leave Colin and Drover alone for a moment. Nor will she ask Colin to go into the room with her to put on some clothes.

Having no choice, Clover pulls her gown tightly around her, and in a firm voice says, “I’m okay, Colin. Let’s go downstairs.” She looks at Drover and motions for him to lead the way.

He does, and she follows him downstairs, with Colin behind her.

blog insert snake

*****

They stand in the living room in a triangle – Drover, Clover and Colin. A short distance away stands Milton with his arms folded. Lurking in the back of the room are Andrew and Daisy.

“Can you please give us some space?” Clover whispers to Drover.

Drover shakes his head from side to side.

“Drover, it’s okay.”
He remains where he is, a stubborn look on his face.

“Drover, please!” she begs.

“Don’t ask me that again, Love,” he snaps.

With a sigh, Clover turns to Colin. “Colin, look, I’m –”

“Whose house is this, Clover?” Colin demands. “I need the truth, you hear?”
With a nod, Clover says, “Drover’s house, I mean, Phillip. But, but … but … Colin, I live here. I rent it with our girls.”
“You rent it from him?”
“Y … yes …”

“You’re having an affair with this jerk?” Milton demands from a distance. “The one who put your husband behind bars? Huh?”
Clover glares at Milton. “You be quiet! This does not concern you. Please!”
Milton gives a mirthless chuckle. “Right.”

Clover turns back to Colin. “When did you get released, Colin? Like why? I mean, how did you get out?”

Colin doesn’t answer; he just stares at Clover, his jaw clenched, that look in his eye again that tells her that his brain is trying to process all that he’s hearing.
“Early release, four years’ probation,” Milton says in an impatient voice. “Nutshell. Your turn, Mrs. Callan.” He tilts his head at her.

Ignoring Milton, Clover looks at Colin. “Really, Colin? That’s … that’s wonder –”

“Wonderful?” Colin sneers. “Please!”

Clover looks away, her face red with embarrassment. She looks at Drover. He is glaring at Milton, a scowl on his face.

Colin looks around. “Where are my daughters?”
“Angel is at a sleepover at –”

“How convenient,” Milton says. “Get rid of the kids so you two can –”

“Mate, shut the fuck up!” Drover snarls. advancing toward Milton.

Milton quickly backs down.
“Colin, I will pick her up soon,” Clover says in a modulated voice. “They’ve had a birthday party for Arena’s daughter Savannah, yesterday. A sleepover. Slumber party. Eden is here. Asleep.” She points upstairs.

“Why do you call him Drover?” Colin demands.
Clover hesitates. Tell the truth and have Drover disbarred, or skirt the question? She chooses the latter. “Because … Colin, it’s a long story.”
Colin folds his arms and looks at Clover. “I’ve got time, and I want the truth. Everything. Every single thing!”

Clover covers her face with her hands. Every little thing. Where does she start?

Colin reaches and pulls away her hands.

“Hey!” Drover says.

Colin stands up straight and looks at Drover, a yeah?-what-you-gonna-do-about-it? look on his face.

Clover quickly flashes her palm at Drover, urging him to be quiet. She then looks pointedly at Milton.

Milton rolls his eyes, before backing out of the house, muttering something about how much his daughter is going to love this drama.
Clover turns to Colin. “O … kay.” She blows out a breath that sends her fringe fluttering. “Colin, I met Drover years ago and I had a … a relationship with him.”
“No, that can’t be.” Colin shakes his head vigorously from side to side. “You did not have a relationship with him, Clover. No!”
“I did.”
“Clover, he acted for the state, against me. He would have had to recuse himself from the case if there was something between the two of you. You would have told me about it.”
Clover chews on her lower lip, unsure what to say.

“Oh, I get it – he wanted to be involved so that he could send me away, pave the way for himself.” He nods. “It makes sense now.”
“Bullshit!” Drover says.

“I’m not talking to you!” Colin snaps, darting his finger at Colin.

“Colin, stop!” Clover cries.

“Mate …” Drover says, “don’t point your fucking finger at me!”

“Drover, please!” Clover says.
“I’m not your mate,” Colin says moving toward Drover. “So, don’t call me mate.”

Clover grabs hold of Colin’s t-shirt. “Colin, stop!”

“Or you’ll do what, mate?” Drover snarls, moving toward Colin.
“Drover, just stop!” Clover begs.

Andrew steps between the angry men and does his bit to help keep them apart.

“And don’t call her Love,” Colin says. “Her name is Clover. Clover Callan.”
With a defiant look on his face, Drover says, “Love – she’s Love to me.”
“I’ll smash your face in,” Colin says. “You wanna try me. I’ve been in prison, remember? You put me there so you could steal my family. Remember?”
“Fuck you! You put yourself there because you were a jerk to your wife. Don’t blame others. Take responsibility for your actions, man.”

The men glare at each other, both bristling with fury.

Clover is at a loss – what does she do next?

“I’m going to kill you,” Colin warns in a quiet voice.

Again, Colin’s tone of voice is matter-of-fact, an announcement, rather than a threat, brings another bout of goose bumps for Clover.

“Dad … dad … must I call the police?” Daisy asks from a distance.

Drover does not answer.
“No,” Clover mouths to Daisy. “Call Ritchie. Tell him to come quickly. Ask him to bring Bear with. Hurry!”

With a nod, a nervous Daisy makes the call.

Clover turns to Colin. “Colin, please calm down. I can explain everything. Just give me a chance to.”

Colin grabs her arm. “Explain? Explain how you visited me in prison while carrying his baby, and managed to keep it from me? Explain that, Clover?”

“Hey, take it easy,” Drover says. “Don’t manhandle her.”
“You shut your mouth!” Colin snarls. “You scum! You goddamn thief!”

“Oh, God!” Clover moans.

“Thief?” Drover’s chuckle is dry. “Who stole from their congregation, huh? Millions of dollars?”

“Drover, please!” Clover begs.

Colin moves toward Drover, his fists clenched. “Get the hell out of here! Now!”

“This is my house!” Drover says.

“Drover, please,” Clover begs, tears filling in her eyes. “I need your help here. Please?”

Drover takes in Love’s liquid eyes and simmers down. With a nod, he backs out of the room, muttering, “He better not touch you.”

As Drover turns to walk out of the living room, Colin does something Clover never thought he’d do. He lunges at Drover and punches him in the temple. Blindsided, Drover stumbles ahead and crashes into a table.

Clover screams.

Drover turns around and, boots Colin in the knee.

Colin falls to the ground.

“You threw the first punch mate,” Drover says, standing over Colin, his fists balled, his legs astride. “You start something, I’ll finish it, mate. Don’t fuck with me! Don’t FUCK with me! Especially not in my home.”

While still on the ground, Colin lashes out with his foot, slamming his boot into Drover’s ankle, sending him crashing to the ground.

Daisy and Clover’s screams fill up the quiet neighbourhood.

Just when Clover thinks it can’t get any worse, six policemen charge into the house.

“Colin’s on probation!” Clover shrieks. “Oh God!”

End of Excerpt.

Ashes of Temptation coming soon!

PS: My Facebook account is still locked because of the phishing attack on my account, so please follow me on this site for updates and news on my books.

Blog 2 image 3

 

%d bloggers like this: