NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

The America Diaspora is a sequel to The Chinese Century.

They were coming. We were doomed.

That was how I felt as the march began from the township of Soweto towards the Johannesburg CBD, where Virgin Maverick’s offices lay.

How did it all come to this, I asked myself, knowing the answer because I’d been there.

And knowing that maybe I had been the cause of it all.

After failing to intimidate Mma Ramosawa (although only I knew how he’d frightened her) Cyril Ramphosa had demanded a meeting with top management.

It looked to me like an ordinary business meeting. Ramphosa and his cronies, doing business as Johnnic Ltd., sat on one side of the long table at the top of the Carlton Center. On the other side sat managers from Virgin Maverick. All those on our side were white save for Willie Williams, whose lighter skin and accent gave him away. (Funny, I’d never considered him particularly light-skinned when I’d seen him on TV in America, but everything is relative.)

Debbie Wyatt chaired the meeting for Virgin Maverick. She was unfailingly polite, but equally adamant. If Johnnic wanted a piece of Virgin Maverick, or any of its investments, it would pay the market price for them. If Virgin Maverick wished to do business with any Johnnic subsidiary they would call. If Johnnic wanted to invest substantial sums in any Virgin Maverick investment fund, she was certain that would merit them a seat on that fund’s board. We were anxious to do business with Johnnic’s real estate or development units, in order to increase the group’s holdings in the central city.

Ramphosa was equally polite but equally firm. Every major group in South Africa understood its responsibilities to the majority. One of those responsibilities was to sell to companies like Johnnic, and accept its representation on their boards. It was a cost of doing business.

As soon as Ramphosa finished his speech, the door near the head of the table swung open, “Blackmail is no longer good business” came the voice of Richard Branson, at his most god-like. He was followed quickly by Moeletsi Mbeki, brother of South Africa’s President, and then, a few moments later, by me. I closed the door quietly and took a seat in a corner, away from the table.

Ramphosa’s eyes found me immediately. “I see you have your white dog with you,” he said lightly. “The one who bites.”

Sir Richard ignored the jibe. “You came here to address our principals. You will address them,” he said. “Mr. Blankenhorn is not a principal of Virgin Maverick. We employ him part-time as a journalist and spokesman.”

“Then let him speak,” said Ramphosa kindly. For once in my life I kept my mouth shut.

“Why?” asked Branson mildly. A mistake.

“Because,” said Ramphosa. “Mr. Blankenhorn has met me before. As a principal. And he can testify to just how reasonable we are to do business with. We are, after all, in the process of acquiring 20% of a company he helped found, Always On Technologies. A very promising holding.”

“Not true,” I suddenly blurted out. “Mma refused to do business with you. She told me that herself.. And I was only in that room a few minutes.” Another mistake.

Cyril Ramphosa smiled, the smile of a predator. “If you were only there a few minutes, how do you know what did or did not happen?” he asked.

“I spoke with Mma after you left. She called you some vile names. There’s no way she would do business with you.”

“And there is less reason for us to do business with you,” added Branson. “Our group is entirely independent of the government, as I am certain you are aware. We post-date the ANC control of this country’s government. My charter comes directly from this man’s brother,” he added, nodding toward Mr. Mbeki.

“Baby brother? He knows nothing and means less,” said Ramphosa contemptuously. “My strength also comes from outside the government, Mr. Branson. It comes from the people. I am their tribune. And the people shall have their tribute, or you will leave this country.”

With that he rose and walked out on Sir Richard. His men (and one woman, Christine Ramon) went with him.

Now it was several days later. The day had dawned bright and (to me) surprisingly cool. May in Johannesburg is like November in Atlanta, only drier. It’s perfect football weather, I think.

But we were not playing football. Instead we were here playing power politics, not in a Congress, or before a court, or in the sterile online world I’ve lived in much of my life. When politics comes to the street then you know you’re playing for keeps.

A long line of men and women were coming from the Southwest, from Soweto, a dozen wide and stretching back further than I could see. The men wore sport shirts and dark pants, the women print dresses and wooden jewelry, the girls simple shift while their brothers were mostly shirtless, their faces wild with excitement and expectation. There was a celebratory air to the march. As it came closer I saw drums, and tambourines.

Beside me Mma Ramasawa shivered, but not from the weather. “You were wrong the other day,” she said quietly, almost under her breath, her eyes on the approaching crowd.

“About what?”

“I did do business with Rra Ramphosa. I offered him options that will give him 20% of our company, and a seat on our board once exercised. It would come from our capital stock. And from you and I.”

“Why?”

“To prevent this. But I failed, Rra.”

Then I turned toward her, held her by the shoulders, and looked down into her eyes. “No, Mma. I failed. I didn’t know, and I failed.” I felt tears come into my eyes, tears I reserve for movies and some books, tears I withheld even from my father’s death, tears I even keep from my wife. I felt them, but could do nothing but let them come.

As the people came.

As they approached I saw Cyril Ramphosa at their head, this time clad in a plain Mandela shirt, but surrounded by men in dark suits, white shirts, and thin ties, wearing dark glasses. To his side I saw men and women carrying packing crates, and some holding suitcases.

Around me, at the edge of the Central Business District, another crowd had gathered. It was much smaller than the one Ramphosa led, and in no mood for celebration. Black men and women were at the head of this crowd as well. But they were better dressed than those they faced, better dressed even than Cyril Ramphosa. Some wore suits of various colors, others more casual business attire. And some of them, like me, were white.

When Ramphosa and the people he headed came within 100 feet of me he stopped, made a motion with his hand, and a platform of crates was hastily erected in front of him. A microphone rose from the center of the platform, so the speaker could address either side, and wires ran from it to speakers, now being brought out of suitcases and placed on poles, to either side of the makeshift stage.

He began. “Friends, fellow South Africans, Xhosa and Zulu, Bantu and Boer, neighbors and citizens.

“We come here to demand our rightful share, of the bounty our land and our country produce. We come here to demand it, on behalf of the poor, that we might better feed and clothe and educate our children. We come here to demand it, as a matter of right, from the rich, the powerful, and the foreign invaders. We come here to demand it, we expect it, and if it is not given we hereby resolve to seize it, in the name of ourselves, and our forefathers who suffered, and our future posterity.”

The language seemed stilted, the threat hidden inside, like a ceremonial knife that is unsheathed and expects to be honored without being used.

A great roar came from the crowd before us, from the crowd Ramphosa addressed. I saw him turn, then, and looked into the predator eyes I had first glimpsed in Mma’s office.

The tears died, replaced by the cold knot of fear in my gut. At Ramphosa’s word these people might charge, tearing me, Mma Ramosawa, and anyone else in their way to shreds.

The cheers died then, and a man came out from the crowd around me. It wasn’t the man I expected, Richard Branson, although I saw the sociologist Richard Florida walk beside him. It was Moeletsi Mbeki, smaller and thinner and grayer than Ramphosa, wearing a similar Mandela shirt and, it seemed to me, a surprisingly large smile.

Florida slowed, walking behind Mbeki and to his right. Gradually a flow of people began walking after Florida, Mma Ramosawa among them.

Moeletsi Mbeki stepped directly onto Ramphosa’s stage, our own people behind him. The two men stood together, smiling at one another like lions circling in a cage, waiting for the strike. Mbeki motioned with his hand toward the microphone and, after a few moments, Ramphosa bowed slightly, inclining his head and allowing him use of it.

“Friends, neighbors, COSATU and ANC members, supporters of my brother,” Mbeki began. The crowd from Soweto hushed.

“I stand before you to offer justice, the justice that comes from stability, from democracy, and from mutual respect.

“We are not Zimbabwe. We are men and women of laws, men and women of the market. We are, all of us, the great hope and future of Africa.

“We have a system here, by which each of you has the chance to become an Mbeki, or a Ramphosa, by which your children may rise and know their rights are protected forever. We have laws, we have rules, and because of them we have growth.”

A cheer rose from our side, smaller and paler and weak compared to those of our foes, and as it rose Mbeki looked behind him, found the face he sought, and reached his hand toward Mma Ramosawa. Once she took it, he pulled her, those behind her pushed her, and she stood on the stage beside him, a Motswana woman of traditional shape, wearing a flower print dress, looking far more like the Soweto women than like any of us.

“I introduce you to Mma Ramosawa,” Mbeki said. “She is a Motswana, a woman of our town. She is just like each of you, and until the great Mandela came to power that is what she would have remained.

“But she has not remained that. She has gone to school. She has her degrees. She has learned how to do business. And she has created a business, here, in JoBurg, that employs hundreds of people, your neighbors.

“To do this she took risks, as you took risks in the great struggle. She risked loss, she risked hunger, she risked ridicule and ruin. But she had good ideas, she found she was able to lead, and now her turnover comes to Millions of Rand each and every month. Thousands now owe their homes, the education of their children, and the food in their mouths to the work she has started, the work they are doing together with her, the products they are making with her to turn this into a better world.

“Look at her closely, my friends. You might become her. Your children might become her. This was the promise of our revolution, the hope that we might be judged on our work and ideas, the hope we all could succeed.

“Would you now destroy all this, destroy Mma Ramosawa and her work, in order to have one big meal tonight? Or would you rather work with her, work with us, and build this city into the equal of any in the world, equal in wealth, equal in spirit, equal in hope?

“Is this South Africa, the hope of the continent? Or is this just Zimbabwe, where the strong take from the weak and leave nothing behind? Or is this Somalia, where the war of all against all leaves none with hope for a better future?”

To my left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a line of trucks approaching the informal line separating the main body of the two sides from one another. They were moving at right angle to the stage, and there was a second line of trucks on my right. A shudder of fear ran through the crowd, expecting that soldiers or police might leap from those trucks at any moment.

Moeletsi Mbeki let one hand come to his lips, and let the ripple swell through the crowd. Then he held up his hands and all was quiet.

“In Zimbabwe a feast tonight insures a hungry belly tomorrow. In Somalia a feast tonight may just be the dinner of jackals.

“But here in South Africa a feast today may be a feast tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. Because we have the ability to grow, to harvest, to learn, to work, to be free, together, in a nation of laws.

“I ask you all to celebrate with us today, to celebrate with us tonight. I welcome you, on behalf of Virgin Maverick, as friends and neighbors to our very first block party!”

With that the back doors of the trucks rose up with a rush. Ramps came down from them. Waiters in suits carried huge bowls of food from some, women in red and yellow and green came dancing out of others. From the truck nearest Mbeki another sound system suddenly emerged, huge speakers with a familiar sound coming from them, now drowning out both Mbeki and the cheers from all sides, making Ramphosa irrelevant.

And when Joseph Shabalala followed the speakers from the truck, singing live to the people, a cheer rose from the Sowetans the likes of which I had never heard before from anyone.

The dancing began. The feasting began, the two crowds on either side of the stage merging into one, polos and suits, black and white, dancing and singing and reaching for one another, arms open in joy.

I could barely see them through my tears, or hear them through my laughter. I ran toward Mma, and when I reached the stage I turned, looking for my family and the city. Looking back toward my home.