Mary unpacks their things and begins to make them some dinner as a storm moves in. Beatrice looks out the window and is surprised to see the girl, the one who was hiding behind the tree with the clay pot, sitting under the overhang of the house that Mary lives in. Does she live here too? Perhaps that was why Beatrice felt a connection to her, nothing more.
The girl is watching the rain fall. She tracks the last outlines of the clouds in the dying light, Beatrice suspects, like her, attempting to catch a lightning bolt. And there it is, a magnificent flash that lights the girl’s excited face.
The girl doesn’t flinch when the thunder booms through the wet air. She sits calmly, her hands in her lap, like a person watching a performance of some sort. She’s likely a few years younger than Beatrice, perhaps sixteen or so. She’s tall and thin, her face serene, her eyes cautious. What is she to Mary – daughter, perhaps? Why do they live here, so isolated from the village?
Beatrice closes her eyes and tries to find the opening in her mind. She’s not sure she has because she sees Kamogelo. Is it her mind window that has opened or her wishful thoughts? Who is Kamogelo walking with? The girl turns and Beatrice sees it is this very one, this brave storm watcher. Her shock shuts the window, but it’s fine. She’s happy to have seen her Kamogelo. Now it is to see what lies between that time, somewhere in the future, and this day.
Chapter Sixteen
Nthebolang sweeps the mission yard with the broom made of hard thick grass. She likes the swirling patterns it makes in the wet ground, and she turns it this way and that to make interlocking circles. The village after a big rain is a lovely thing, fresh and sparkling. The air breathed in cleans the lungs with each breath. The boubou sings in the nearby mmupudu tree praising the rain and Nthebolang listens, lost in its clear song and her patterns in the soil, not hearing Motsumi’s footsteps until he is next to her.
‘Come! I want to show you something,’ he says.
He smiles the way she likes, a mischievous boyish smile. Motsumi is tall and strong, a full man already at nineteen, at least physically. Nthebolang thinks he should act more like the way he looks. That he should be more serious, less playful. Even so, she can’t help liking his playful side. It reminds her of those days long ago when they first became friends.
‘So you’re back?’ she says.
She’s happy to see him; he was away for three weeks at the cattlepost. She won’t let him know that she missed him, though. She needs always to keep that distance between them.
‘Yes, I came straight here. I missed you. Come, I want to show you something.’
‘I’m working. The missionaries arrived yesterday. I have a lot to do. I can’t be spending my time talking to you. I need to make a good impression.’
‘We’ll come back soon and you’ll finish your work then. They won’t even miss you.’
Motsumi, the son of a chief, always gets what he wants. Everything is easy for him. His life is everything that Nthebolang’s is not. Though he pretends to understand hers, he never can. It’s like a bull trying to understand the life of a chicken. Impossible.
‘I can’t,’ Nthebolang says firmly. ‘I don’t want the new missionaries to think I’m like that. It’s important – I’ve told you. Besides, I heard your uncles paid bogadi. What do you want with me now?’
Motsumi takes her hand and tries to pull her out of the gate. ‘Only stupid girls listen to village gossip. I thought you were not a stupid girl, but maybe I was wrong.’
Nthebolang yanks her hand free and goes back to her work, sweeping faster than before. He expects to have her and the girl his family has organised to be his wife, the girl his family approves of. Nthebolang will not be some rich man’s concubine. Her circumstances might look like that’s her only option, but the surface is not always the truth. She will have more than that, or she’ll stay alone, away from this hateful village where everyone wants to see her fall, where they speak about her and her mother in corners, and warn others to keep their distance. Where their sadness and loss fuel the people’s happiness – even now, after all this time.
She and her mother try to pretend Ntsweng saved them, but they know only just, just enough to live, never to thrive. Nthebolang wonders where they could go where that would no longer be the case, where finally they could break free from their past. She’s beginning to think that place does not exist.
Motsumi relents and sits down near the fence made of thick branches standing straight like soldiers, shoulder-to-shoulder, that forms the border of the compound. He watches her sweeping and changes the subject.
‘They say Taolo is dead.’
Nthebolang stops sweeping, shocked. ‘Taolo? The kgosi’s friend? Dead? From what?’
‘They are there to find out. Someone said lightning killed him – there was a big storm the other night. He was very close to Kgosi Sechele and that relationship made people jealous. Jealousy is a powerful thing; it makes enemies. They’ll find out who sent the lightning to him, find out who wanted him dead.’
‘Enemies had nothing to do with it,’ says Nthebolang. ‘If he was struck by lightning, he was struck by lightning. Lightning is powerful all on its own. It kills people every day. No one sends lightning to kill someone. When will you change your backward way of thinking?’
Why was she annoyed by his heathen ways? Was it about his engagement? Or was it that talk of witchcraft always left her vulnerable? She couldn’t say.
Motsumi laughs. ‘You … you like to pretend you’re a Christian, but I know you. You believe in our ways too. You know witchcraft is powerful, more powerful than your Jesus.’ He attempts to tease her out of her mood but he’s chosen the wrong topic on the wrong day.
Nthebolang clicks her tongue. She sweeps, keeping her thoughts to herself.
‘The lightning was sent by his enemies,’ Motsumi continues. ‘But Taolo is Kgosi Sechele’s friend. The person who did it is a fool. You should know all about this.’ His cheeky voice rises. ‘Isn’t there witchcraft in your family? You must take care – Kgosi Sechele might come for you just now. The people will think you sent the lightning to kill his friend.’
Motsumi smiles; he thinks he’s made a clever joke. Once again Nthebolang is reminded of how he can never understand her situation. He speaks of deadly painful things as if they were nothing. If the people have mentioned her name or her mother’s name, it’s a serious thing, enough to begin everything again.
She drops her broom and comes closer, lowering her voice. ‘Why? What are they saying?’
‘I don’t know what they’re saying and I don’t care,’ Motsumi says. ‘I don’t listen to village gossip, unlike some people I know.’ And then he notices the seriousness in her eyes. ‘Nothing … they’re saying nothing. I’m sorry. I was just teasing – they’re not saying anything.’ He grabs her hand again now that she is nearer. Witches and men dead by lightning are forgotten for him, but not for her. Never for her. He pulls her out through the gate. ‘Please. Come with me, I want to talk to you.’
Then someone calls from the house: ‘Nthebolang!’
She looks back and sees Beatrice walking towards them. Motsumi drops her hand.
‘When you’re finished with your friend, could you help me with something?’ Beatrice asks.
‘Ee, Mma.’ Nthebolang turns back to Motsumi. ‘I need to go.’
She runs towards the house without looking back. Beatrice is waiting for her on the front veranda. Nthebolang tries to calm her mind. Motsumi’s talk of witchcraft has upset her.
‘I’m sorry I disturbed you with your friend. I wondered if you could help me. Can you read to Elizabeth?’ Beatrice asks. ‘She won’t sleep until she’s read to and I can’t bear to do it. I find all of those books so boring that I nearly fall asleep too.’
Nthebolang follows Beatrice into the house and finds Elizabeth already lying on her bed for her afternoon nap. Nthebolang is a good reader and likes to read out loud to show her proficiency.
Beatrice hands Nthebolang a bo
ok of Bible stories. ‘You don’t mind if I go off, do you?’ she says. ‘I want to walk to the river. I want to do some sketches.’ She puts on a too-big straw hat and collects a sketch pad and a pencil.
‘No, I don’t mind,’ Nthebolang says. ‘I can watch Elizabeth. But watch out for snakes. The hills bring a lot of snakes. Take a stick and beat the grass in front of you. Stay on the paths where you can – there are well-worn paths to the river. As long as you’re on the path, you’ll be fine.’
Beatrice laughs a bit. ‘I don’t mind snakes, we’re friends. I’m a bush girl. I know these things.’
Nthebolang and Elizabeth watch her leave.
‘Where is my mother going?’ Elizabeth asks, now standing next to Nthebolang.
‘For a walk. We have a story to read. Come.’ Nthebolang picks up the tiny girl and takes her back to her bed in the corner.
Already Nthebolang is discovering that Beatrice is a different sort of woman. She seems to care little about the running of the house. She’s not told Mma Nthebolang anything about how she wants things done. Mothering doesn’t seem to be where her interests lie either. Instead she likes to be outside. Moving around the compound, investigating the village. She seems to want to be anywhere except in the mission house. And now she is off to the river.
Nthebolang pages through the book looking for a story. ‘Which one should we have then, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth looks at her with her big wide eyes. ‘Whichever one you want. I like all of them,’ she says.
Nthebolang chooses the story about Noah and the flood, and begins to read.
‘Oh,’ Elizabeth says when Nthebolang starts, ‘I like this one.’ She smiles up at her, her eyes already heavy with sleep, and places her small hand on Nthebolang’s arm.
Six paragraphs later the girl is asleep. Nthebolang sets the book down, pulls the blanket over her, and goes back outside to her sweeping. The mission house is quiet. Thomas Milner is away to the kgotla to speak to Kgosi Sechele, and her mother has gone to the nearby lands to collect some bean leaves to cook for dinner.
Motsumi must have been watching the house because as soon as Nthebolang is back by the gate he’s there. He pulls her to the nearby hedge where no one can see them. He’s strong and she fights him as she knows she should, but only the amount that’s required. Not too much, not so that she will win. She can never stop herself from being flattered by the attention he pays her even in her angered, hurt state. No matter what her words say, she can’t help what her heart feels for him.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he says when they’re alone in the space between the hedge and the boundary wall of thick tree branches. He holds her around the waist so that their faces are very close. ‘Why do you fight me so? You know you missed me.’
He leans forward and kisses her gently. She wants to not like it. It’s not right to let him kiss her – church taught her that, especially now that he’s promised to someone else. Bogadi has been paid; the marriage is nearly finalised. These things that she and Motsumi do together are things for after marriage only, between a husband and wife. He kisses her again and she leans closer into him hoping he’ll do it some more, while at the same time hoping he will not. Her mind says no; her heart says yes. The Bible she reads each day says no; her body says yes.
‘You know I’ll never marry that ugly girl. How could I?’ he says. ‘My uncles are wasting their time.’
Motsumi’s face is so near to hers, his words can be felt on her skin. For Nthebolang, that gives them more weight, more truth.
‘I love you – I told you that. You must have trust in what I tell you. Don’t be angry with me. Yes, they paid bogadi. I was going to tell you. It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’m going to sort it all out. I have a plan. I love you, I want to marry you. Don’t be silly about all of this. You know that.’
Despite what he says, the payment of bogadi is not a small thing; it has linked the families. It means many discussions have taken place prior to that, and negotiations were concluded. It’s difficult to turn back from it. In her head she knows that, but in her heart she swallows Motsumi’s words as the truth. It’s so much nicer that way and she wants what’s nice today. She often does that with him – denies the truth and accepts the lies.
He puts his hand on her small breast. She pushes it away. He puts it there again and she does nothing. She looks at him. She wants to close her eyes and let him do anything he wants to. It feels good and she’s missed him so much. She suspects it’s the devil operating inside her, but she can do nothing to stop it. She wonders why something that feels so heavenly could be something Jesus would deny her. She wonders if someone had got it wrong, that maybe the disciples heard Jesus’s words but wrote them down incorrectly. How could love be wrong? How could what Motsumi is doing to her be wrong? Sometimes those are the things that make her think maybe all of it is wrong. Maybe the Christians and their missionaries don’t know the truth after all. But does that mean the old beliefs are correct? Nthebolang will not accept that either. It is the old beliefs that destroyed her family; they cannot be right.
Motsumi pulls her tightly to him.
‘I need to go,’ she says. ‘I think someone has come. I hear someone in the house.’
‘I’m coming to you tonight. Be ready. Go to our place. I’ll die if I don’t find you there.’
He’s often overly dramatic like that. Nthebolang suspects it comes from having a mother who coddled him too much. She suppresses a laugh that threatens to come to the surface. He thinks it shows his sincerity; she thinks he sounds silly.
‘Don’t go there. You won’t find me,’ she says, though she knows it’s likely she’ll be waiting for him. Her only hope is that he will not show up because she can’t be counted on to keep her resolve. ‘I need to go.’ She can hear someone calling her.
She grabs the broom and hurries to the house. Thomas Milner is waiting there.
‘Where is Mrs Milner?’ he asks, his face distorted with anger.
‘She went for a walk, to the river, she said.’
‘To the river? Alone? Has she lost her mind? She can’t be walking among these people alone. Does she know nothing? And who’s watching the child?’
‘She’s sleeping. I came out to sweep, but I’ve been checking on her. She’s fine.’
Thomas Milner turns and enters the house, banging his heels into the soft earth and leaving a trail of angry dents behind him.
Nthebolang finishes what she’s doing. She sweeps and thinks about Motsumi. He’s a silly spoiled boy, really. No one will let him marry her – he knows that and so does she. Yet they continue to lie to each other. Still, she’s excited about meeting him later.
Beatrice arrives soon afterwards. Her hair, which had been in a tidy bun at the nape of her neck when she left, is loose now, falling around her face, and full of leaves and tiny sticks. The bottom of her dress is wet. She carries her sketch pad in one hand and a wild flower in the other. Her face is open and calm, her mouth loose and free. She smiles at Nthebolang.
‘Are you all right?’ Nthebolang asks.
She’s never met a woman like Beatrice. Beatrice seems not to care about anything that women are meant to care about. She seems to have chosen her own way – a way she had to cut through thick bush to find, Nthebolang thinks, for surely it is hidden from all other women.
‘Yes, why?’ Beatrice asks. ‘It’s lovely by the river. We must go there together. We can take Elizabeth. I’ll show you my drawings later. I’m becoming quite good, I think. I saw a turtle. I might sleep there one night. How lovely to sleep and hear the water flowing next to your head. I miss such things.’
She looks so happy, but from what the reverend has just said, Nthebolang doubts her husband will allow her to sleep at the river. Even so, she keeps her thoughts to herself, not wanting to ruin Beatrice’s happiness.
From the house, Thomas Milner shouts, ‘Is that you, Beatrice?’
Beatrice’s smile vanishes and her body stiffens. ‘Has he been ho
me long?’
‘Not too long.’ Nthebolang wonders how much she should say but feels compelled to warn Beatrice. ‘He was angry that you were gone.’
Nthebolang reaches forward and pulls Beatrice’s hair together, hurriedly clipping it back into place as best she can. She takes the flower from her hand, brushes off the front of her dress. It’s all that can be done with so little time.
‘Thank you.’ Beatrice stands tall, as if fortifying herself for what’s to come. ‘It’s fine, Nthebolang, don’t worry yourself. Thomas likes to remind himself of his own false dreams. Likes to think he’s the boss of things. Pay him no heed – I never do.’
She heads to the house.
After a few moments, Nthebolang hears the shouts. Then the shouts are accompanied by slaps and the sound of furniture scraping against the floor. Through it all, there’s not a word from Beatrice, not a sound. Only Thomas Milner’s voice can be heard, fierce and bitter and loud. It’s as if Beatrice were not even there.
Dinner is eaten and the moon rises, big and orange, but when it shrinks and turns white, Nthebolang knows it’s time. Her mother snores lightly from her mat. Nthebolang stands carefully and opens the door, minding the squeak, and slips out. It’s cool outside and the village sits in a blue glow. She cuts straight from the mission house through Senyeima kgotla, following the narrow, winding paths, past the main kgotla leading to the edge of the compounds.
Ntsweng is arranged in a circular pattern outwards from the main kgotla where Kgosi Sechele lives in his palatial rectangular house filled with European furniture, furniture much nicer than that in the mission house. From there, the various kgotlas are scattered, arranged in smaller circles around the central dikgosi’s houses. Nthebolang and her mother are not part of that system. They’re outsiders – no family to be attached to, no kgotla where they might find a home. Even the physical arrangement of the village announces that they are outsiders and always will be.
But Deliver Us from Evil Page 9