Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  More than a week passed and Teacher did not come. Karabo didn’t know what she would have said to him if he’d come to visit anyway. She noticed how few visitors the women received. No husbands, boyfriends, parents or children. It was as though the women suffered two punishments, the first imposed by the courts and the second by a society that deliberately turned its back on them.

  But there were some visitors to the women’s prison. They came from the churches and swept down from hired buses, swaying in choreographed rapture and singing loud hymns. They came laden with bags of provisions and gave long speeches in the courtyard and urged the women not to lose hope.

  ‘Why not?’ Karabo asked one of the church leaders. She was a florid woman with an ill-fitting weave and a colourful starched print like the ones Ma’ama wore.

  The woman scowled at Karabo in irritation. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we lose hope?’

  A hush fell over the gathering because Karabo wasn’t supposed to interrupt. Then, in an eruption of hurried pleading, the women began offering excuses for Karabo, saying she wasn’t from Ghana and didn’t know any better. She’d just arrived and so was still upset. One of them dragged Karabo back down into her seat and hissed in her ear to shut her dirty mouth. It was clear that Karabo’s impudence was putting their blessings and the gifts of rice and vegetables in serious jeopardy.

  When Karabo was safely seated once more, the woman from the church began to sing. It was a tuneless composition in Twi accompanied by much raising of hands and Instagram-ready smiles. She went from inmate to inmate and touched each of them on the forehead while a cameraman trained his lens on her. But she skipped Karabo and moved on to the next inmate without missing a beat. Karabo grinned bitterly. So she’d been right after all. There was no point in clinging onto hope.

  A few of the women had their babies with them in the prison and Karabo made excuses to spend time with them whenever she could. The mothers were suspicious of Karabo at first and wouldn’t answer her questions or let her hold their children. But that soon changed when they realised Karabo meant them no harm.

  There were four babies in there, all boys – Kwesi, Kwame, Ibrahim and Kwesi. It was easy to tell the Kwesis apart because one was almost a year older than the other. Their mothers called them Kwesi Kakraba and Kwesi Panyin. Kwesi Panyin, the elder one, still sucked his mother’s breasts even though she could barely carry him and her breasts were little more than wrinkled flaps of skin. The other mothers explained to Karabo that when a baby was weaned, he wasn’t allowed to stay in the prison any longer. That was why Kwesi Panyin’s mother kept his mouth clamped to her nipples. It was a pathetic ruse and it was either out of kindness or carelessness that the officers let Kwesi Panyin stay. Karabo was glad for that because he really was a sweet little boy.

  One morning Karabo and Fatima were huddled over the charcoal braziers set up in a corner of the prison yard when Morocco came looking for Karabo.

  ‘Karabo,’ Morocco said, ‘there is someone here to see you.’

  Morocco was one of the few who called Karabo by her name. Most of the women called her Obroni. Karabo didn’t like that but it was marginally better than Yellowbone.

  ‘Who is it?’

  It had to be Teacher and Karabo didn’t think she was ready to see him.

  Morocco shrugged her broad shoulders and sucked air through the gap in her front teeth.

  ‘C’est un blanc.’

  Karabo dropped the wooden ladle in surprise. A white man? It couldn’t be Nigel, could it? She had the wild idea that it might be her professor from the Bartlett School but she couldn’t imagine Professor Whitehead getting on a plane and travelling all this way for her.

  She left Fatima to finish cooking and hurried to the visitors’ room. Karabo remembered what had happened to her the last time she’d been in there and, as she approached, her heart began to beat faster. Full of apprehension, she went in and saw a white man sitting on the other side of the metal partition. He looked vaguely familiar but the lattice cast a criss-cross shadow across his face and hid his features. He stood up when he saw Karabo.

  ‘Mr Potgieter?’

  ‘Hello, Karabo,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The guard behind Karabo barked a warning. ‘No standing allowed. Either you sit or I cut the visit short.’

  Karabo sat down slowly and rubbed her temples as an intense flash of light briefly obscured her vision. She’d been experiencing more of these recently but she’d rather die than ask to see the butcher man, the prison doctor. She stared at André Potgieter as if he were an apparition.

  He gave her a thin smile. ‘You weren’t expecting to see me here, were you?’

  ‘Mrs Summerscales sent you.’

  ‘Of course. She wants her violin back.’

  Karabo pressed her hands against the grille and tried to get her thoughts in order.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy, I must say. I’ve been looking for you ever since I got here.’

  ‘When was that?’

  André waved his hand carelessly in the air. ‘Almost a fortnight ago.’ He dragged his chair a little closer and peered at Karabo as if he were seeing her for the first time.

  ‘You don’t look particularly well.’

  Karabo pulled a lock of matted hair across her face. ‘Particularly well? That sounds like the sort of double-speak I’d expect from Mrs Summerscales.’

  ‘All right then. You look like kak.’

  In a strange way, André’s honesty was immediately refreshing. That and the blunt Afrikaans inflection in his voice.

  ‘I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?’ Karabo said.

  André looked around him at the bare walls and the ill-fitting wooden door he had just come through.

  ‘Yes, you have. Why did you take the Guadagnini, Karabo? I still don’t understand why you did it.’

  ‘I didn’t steal it.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did.’

  ‘I was upset and I wanted to get back at Mrs Summerscales. Then Nigel didn’t want anything to do with it and … and … I suppose I lost my head.’

  André nodded. He seemed less sure of himself than Karabo remembered but his diffidence made him appear oddly good-natured.

  ‘How is Nigel?’ she asked.

  André’s mouth turned down in a non-committal frown. ‘I’ve not spoken to him.’

  She hesitated a moment. ‘Did he come with you?’

  André shook his head. ‘His mother thought it was better if I were the one to come.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘I’m African, you see. I’ll be better at finding my way around.’

  He’d changed since the last time she’d seen him. He was a little wearier, a little more contemplative, a little less eager to score points. She decided she liked this version of André Potgieter much better.

  ‘I don’t know where they’ve taken the violin,’ she said. ‘All they’ll tell me is that I’ll get my things when I’m released and I’ve no idea when that will be.’

  ‘Oh, I know where it is, all right.’

  ‘You do?’

  André leaned back in his chair as if finding the Guadagnini had not been that difficult.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Larbi has it.’

  Karabo had heard the name before. ‘The prison boss?’

  ‘Actually, he’s the second-in-command. The one they call Conductor behind his back.’

  ‘Everyone has a nickname over here. If you stay in Ghana long enough, I’m sure you’ll get one too. That’s if you’ve not got one already.’ She paused and stared at him through the grille. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘You’ve just got to ask the right person,’ André said. ‘Of course a little money helps as well.’

  Karabo nodded quickly. ‘You haven’t seen him yet, have you? This Conductor person.’

  André grimaced as though she’d just reminded him of something. ‘I’ve been tr
ying to see him for a couple of days now. He’s a difficult man to get an appointment with.’

  ‘What will you say to him? He won’t let you walk out with the violin, you know. Not unless you give him something.’

  André frowned. ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘For a million-pound violin? He’ll want a lot, I’m afraid. A hell of a lot.’

  André’s face fell. The pallor he’d had in London had been replaced by a healthy tan and billboard stubble. He really looked quite handsome.

  ‘Or you could simply follow the rules,’ Karabo said. ‘They’ll send me to court eventually and hopefully I’ll get out.’

  André laughed harshly and rolled his eyes. ‘Eventually. Hopefully. I can’t … I mean, Mrs Summerscales can’t wait that long.’

  Then Karabo had a flash of inspiration and it was so simple that she laughed out loud. It was like stumbling on a particularly elegant solution to a convoluted maths problem. Teacher would have been proud. She clapped her hands as the guard put down the newspaper she’d been reading and rose ponderously to her feet.

  ‘No laughing,’ the guard said. ‘This is a prison. You are not in your backyard.’

  Karabo bent her head towards the grille and whispered fiercely at André.

  ‘If Mrs Summerscales were to say I’d never stolen the violin, then all this goes away. I get out and she gets her violin back.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind? Why would Mrs Summerscales agree to that?’

  ‘Because she wants the Guadagnini!’

  He didn’t look convinced and Karabo rattled the grille in frustration.

  ‘Some prisoners have been on remand for more than five years, André. And some even longer than that. Their cases get adjourned over and over again without making any progress. It could be years before the court resolves my case. Anything could happen to the Guadagnini in that time.’

  ‘But you’d be asking Mrs Summerscales to lie …’

  ‘So what? There’s no law against a woman changing her mind. There’s nothing easier than to write an affidavit and have it stamped by a solicitor. There are hundreds of solicitors in London. Surely she knows a few?’

  André’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils twitched unpleasantly. Karabo held her breath.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Summerscales. She won’t like it, I can tell you that already. But I suppose it can’t hurt to try.’

  Karabo clenched her fists in delight. It was the first chink of light she’d seen in a very long tunnel.

  ‘Tell her to slap a ribbon and a wax seal on the affidavit to make it look all official,’ she said. ‘They like that sort of thing over here.’

  CHAPTER 46

  Precious was in the backyard hanging up her clothes when Teacher called. At first she couldn’t understand what he was talking about. He kept repeating Karabo’s name, but wasn’t Karabo in London? Precious had spoken to her a few days ago. And then he said Karabo was in Ghana and Precious’s mouth grew dry all of a sudden. In Ghana? What was she doing there? In addition to all that Teacher had taken away from her, now was he taking her daughter too?

  And then he said Karabo was in prison and Precious felt a band constrict around her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed on the ground next to Saddam. The stupid dog thumped his tail happily on the ground. He thought she was about to play with him the way Karabo did.

  ‘What are you saying, Teacher? Where is Karabo?’

  His voice was strangely thin and it shook a little. ‘She has been arrested.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Precious asked again. Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘What have you done with my daughter?’

  Teacher didn’t reply for a moment and when he did, Precious had to strain to hear him.

  ‘She is in the women’s prison outside Accra.’

  Precious was very confused. ‘Is she on a school project?’

  ‘It’s not a school project,’ Teacher replied. ‘She stole a violin in London and was arrested.’

  Saddam dragged himself forward on his belly and began to lick at Precious’s fingers. Normally she would have pushed him away but she was too disturbed by the outlandish things coming out of Teacher’s mouth.

  ‘But you said she’s in Ghana. When did Karabo get to Ghana?’

  ‘Last Saturday.’

  Precious counted the days on her hand. ‘Hawu, Teacher! Four days ago? And you are only telling me now?’

  ‘I only found out yesterday. I wanted to be sure.’

  Precious’s voice climbed to a screech and Saddam lifted his head in surprise.

  ‘You wanted to be sure? Why is that, Teacher? Is our daughter a rumour that you must first be sure?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he said and Precious howled into the phone.

  ‘When have you not worried me, Teacher? This is why I was always against Karabo going to your country. Now you Ghananians have put my daughter in prison!’

  Teacher’s voice hardened. He never liked it when she called him a Ghananian.

  ‘Look, I’m doing everything I can to get her out.’

  They both fell silent. It was as if he were back in Mthatha and they were glaring at each other across the kitchen table again.

  ‘What is this about Karabo stealing a violin? She has her violin here, the one Mrs Harrison gave her.’

  Guilt pricked at Precious because it hadn’t been long since she’d tried to sell Karabo’s violin. She’d put it in the backroom along with the other things Karabo had left behind.

  The bewilderment in Teacher’s voice mirrored her own. ‘I don’t know what Karabo was thinking. If she’d told me she was so interested in violins, I would have found her a teacher.’

  ‘But she’s never stolen anything in her life! Why would she steal something now?’

  ‘She must have fallen into bad company in London. There is this boy she told me about. His name is Nigel.’

  ‘It’s your fault that she met this Nigel. After all, you were the one who encouraged her to go. I kept saying there were perfectly good universities in South Africa but because I didn’t go to university myself, you refused to listen to me.’

  ‘It’s not about that, Precious.’

  She pounded her fist on the ground with such force that she jarred the bones in her hand.

  ‘Then what is it about, Teacher?’ she screamed. ‘It’s because of you that Karabo speaks Setswana and isiXhosa like she learned them from an English book. Tell me, did she meet the Queen when she was in London? Did they write her name on the side of one of those red buses? Did they ring bells or throw fireworks on her birthday? You never wanted our daughter to be South African. We were never good enough for you. It’s your fault Karabo is in prison. Why did she travel to Ghana and not come here to her home?’

  He was quiet because they both knew the answer. Karabo had gone to Ghana to be with him. If Karabo could have divorced her parents and married Teacher, she would have done it in a heartbeat, Precious thought. A loud sob tore through her chest and Saddam dragged himself forward on his forelegs and licked her hand again.

  ‘Teacher, I’m coming for my daughter.’

  ‘Don’t be hasty,’ Teacher said quickly. ‘I’m taking care of things here. I’ll get her out, I promise.’

  ‘When, Teacher? When?’ Precious cried. ‘How will you get her out when you didn’t even know she was in Ghana?’

  ‘That was not my doing. She didn’t tell anyone she was coming. Not even you.’

  That hurt Precious because it was true. She always seemed to get the remnants of Karabo’s affection. Karabo could have come back home to South Africa but she’d chosen Ghana instead. It wasn’t the first time Karabo had chosen Teacher over her.

  ‘You know the flight costs a lot of money,’ Teacher said and that’s when Precious lost her temper.

  ‘Did I ask you to send me anything?’ she shouted. ‘I will find the money myself.’

  ‘It’s more than ten thousand rand. Where will yo
u find that sort of money?’

  Precious was about to retort that she’d ask Karabo’s father but she held her tongue.

  ‘Karabo is my daughter,’ she said. ‘I’ll find the money for the airfare to Ghana somehow.’

  Precious cut the call and sat looking up at the sky. Night was falling and the birds were flying home. They looked like bats but flew with more purpose than those wretched creatures. She remembered how she and Karabo used to watch the birds in the evenings. Karabo would make up the most elaborate stories about where the birds had been and where they were going.

  ‘They’ve come from over the mountain and are going to Nqadu Great Place to see the king,’ she would say. Karabo had been only five or six then. But as soon as she heard Teacher’s car approaching, she’d cut her story short and scamper excitedly to the gate. It wounded Precious every time Karabo did this because it was further evidence, if any was needed, that she loved Teacher much more than she loved her own mother.

  Saddam whimpered and snuggled closer to Precious. She stroked his back and let him rest his head on her lap. If his arthritis had not made his hind legs so useless, he would have sat up and licked the tears from her face. But Teacher was right, Precious couldn’t afford the ticket. Her job at the municipality didn’t pay her much. And she had so little money in the bank, her heart always leapt into her mouth whenever her phone pinged to tell her her balance.

  She could ask Joseph Mbazima, her supervisor, for an advance. But he’d want to have sex with her before he gave her any money. Apparently, he’d fucked all the women in the municipal office anyway, all of them except her. It drove Joseph mad because Precious was yellowbone and that made her twice as desirable as the others. But the thought of seeing Joseph Mbazima naked made Precious ill. When he stood next to her at work, his gut folded itself over the edge of her desk like a piece of dough. She knew she was comparing him to Teacher but she couldn’t help herself. What was more, she sang in the church choir with Joseph Mbazima’s wife, Babalwa. She couldn’t do that to her.

  Precious got up and went into the house. Saddam thumped his tail on the ground again and made as if to follow her inside. The dog’s arthritis was a daily reminder of how everything had changed since Teacher and Karabo had left. Saddam and Precious were both dragging themselves around on their elbows. One day they’d get too exhausted to go on and would simply lie down and die.