by Fred Khumalo
‘They don’t know my size. I am a big man.’
‘It’s a one-size-fits-all outfit that they are bringing. Now, take your pants off.’
‘Can’t do that in front of you.’
‘Fine, I’m not looking.’ She faced the opposite direction while he quickly took off his veldskoene and pants.
She heard the splash as he dived into the water. She took his clothes, knelt on the flat rock and started washing them. Soap had become scarce since the war started, but a thorough washing with plain water still did wonders. Her hands were well seasoned and practised in washing coarse pieces of cloth. His trousers were tough, but not unmanageable. When the water had seeped deep into the fabric, she got up to pound them against the rock the way she’d been taught.
Months of dirt and grime were visible in the clear water as she bent to her knees again to continue with the last step of the washing process. Satisfied that she had done her best, she raised the shirt to her nose. It smelled of water. She smiled. She moved upstream where there were huge boulders on which the women of the village normally spread out their clothes to dry.
‘Tshili!’ a voice rang. She turned to see her brother. A mischievous glint in his eye, he said, ‘Here’s your husband’s new outfit.’
‘You little mouse, I’m going to get you! Who said he’s my husband?’ she said, addressing the wind. Her brother had disappeared into the bush nearby.
She sat down and watched De la Rey swimming in the distance. Finally, he started wading towards her. When the water was just above his waist, he shouted, ‘Move away from there so I can get out of the water and get dressed.’
‘What’s wrong with me sitting here?’
‘I am naked.’
‘So what?’
‘Stupid girl, I don’t want you to see me without my clothes.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am saying it one last time: please move away so I can get out of the water.’
‘Well, if it pleases you.’ She got up and started walking upstream. When she was far upstream, hidden from his view, he quickly got out of the water and rushed towards where she had left the promised outfit. When he reached the bundle on top of the flat rock, his eyes widened. ‘What is this?’ He picked up the bundle and saw that it was a sack. Many of the men in the village walked around wearing sackcloth: they would take a normal flour or maize sack, cut a hole for the head, and two more holes for arms. In many parts of the Free State, poorer black people were most comfortable in sackcloth. It was only those who had converted to Christianity, those who had some schooling, who wore western clothes. However, he, Cornelius de la Rey, wasn’t about to start wearing sackcloth. He was not one of them. Furious, he started shouting, ‘Matshiliso!’ before remembering he was still naked.
He heard Matshiliso’s voice. She was singing a traditional song. Although she was still hidden from view, she was clearly moving towards him. Panicking, he put the sackcloth on. It scratched his bare skin.
Matshiliso, he now saw, was walking towards him completely naked, dragging her cowhide skirt with her left hand.
She beamed. ‘That sackcloth was made for you. Isn’t it beautiful? I always wondered how a white person would look in sackcloth. You look like an angel that my grandfather reads about in the Bible.’
He looked away, his face reddening. ‘Girl, please hide your nakedness.’
‘Why? I love the afternoon breeze on my bare skin.’
Still looking away, he repeated, ‘Please get dressed. What are people going to say?’
‘Your clothes are over there,’ she said. ‘We’ll fetch them tomorrow when they are dry.’
He put on his veldskoene and started walking home up the hill. When she finally caught up with him, she had put her skirt back on.
‘Matshiliso, you’re a bit unwell in the head, that I can tell you. Anyway, what does that name of yours mean?’ he asked in Afrikaans.
She merely looked at him. He asked the question in his shaky Sesotho: ‘I know that in African society, every person’s name tells a story. What does your name, Matshiliso, mean?’
‘Condolences.’
He shook his head. She clearly had not understood him. He repeated, slowly, ‘I said, what does your name mean?’
‘It means condolences. You know when a person dies, we offer condolences to his family. Don’t you white people also condole?’
‘Yes, we do. But are you telling me your parents named you condolences?’
‘A wonderful name, don’t you think? Given to me by my grandmother.’
He tried the name in his own language: condolences – meegevoel. He chuckled at the thought of an Afrikaner mother calling out to her child to come and eat: ‘Meegevoel, kom eet! Meegevoel!’
As if reading his thoughts, she said, ‘You are most welcome to name your first child Matshiliso, so you can always remember me, this crazy Mosotho girl.’
He looked at her. They stopped walking and stared at each other for a long time. He looked away first. She took his hand in hers and they continued walking home.
‘Matshiliso?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s the name of this river?’
‘Oh, you want to know the name of the river so you can plan your escape?’
‘Nonsense. Tell me the name of the river.’
‘Mohokare.’
De la Rey was surprised it had taken him so long to find out where exactly he was. Mohokare was the Sesotho name for the Caledon River, which ran along the border between the Free State and Basutoland.
‘Mohokare,’ he said under his breath.
CHAPTER 6
Settling into the rhythm of village life took De la Rey a while. As a member of the Boer commando, he was used to waking up at four in the morning, at which time the camp commander would lead the men in prayer. They then would start their physical training, followed by quick ablutions. The senior soldiers would afterwards regale the men with stories – recalling the highlights of their careers or the achievements of brave soldiers of old – in order to keep everyone in high spirits. A simple breakfast, mostly bread with jam and coffee, would ease the men into the new day, as the sun began to climb. By the time the sun was nice and warm on the men’s skin, the scouts who had left the previous evening to seek out intelligence on British positions and movements would appear on the horizon.
Now, having transplanted himself to this village, De la Rey did not know what to do with himself. By the time the village cockerels made their clarion call for everyone to get up, he would have long woken up. But he had no reason to abandon the warmth of his sleeping mat. To do what? So he stayed put, tossing and turning, and listened to the sounds of the morning. But, increasingly, his first thoughts were with Matshiliso.
As he lay on his mat one morning, he recalled how, two weeks ago, he had stumbled upon her one night by accident. She was sitting on a rock down at the river, singing a sad song, her face turned to the sky. The song was almost a whisper, but there were occasions when her voice rose with sudden urgency before falling away mournfully. He had stood there, entranced, before he started feeling guilty, and walked away. The following evening, he had returned to the river. As fate would have it, she was there, on the exact same rock. It was as if she had been sitting there since the previous night. Again, she was singing. She abruptly stopped, and turned around. It was too late for him to hide.
‘Morena Rey, why are you intruding on my private moment? Have you no shame eavesdropping on other people’s conversations?’
‘I … I did not mean to … Eavesdropping? But … You were simply singing to the stars. Ah …’ He paused and looked up at the sky. ‘I can see why you’re so taken with the stars. They are beautiful.’
She stood up and started walking away. He followed at a safe distance, begging for forgiveness. She obliged, smiling privately to herself.
The following evening they found themselves back at the river. Except this time they were talking cordially. Matshiliso explained to him
that this was her private moment with the parents she had lost. ‘They are up there,’ she said, pointing. ‘Can you see them?’
‘Yes, I can. They are moving slowly towards one another.’
‘You can even tell they are moving?’
‘Yes, I can.’
In the days that followed, they would rendezvous at the same spot. They told each other stories. They laughed. But mostly she sang, offering her song to the stars, and he listened.
As he listened to the sounds of the early morning, he thought of how beautiful those moments were, with her at his side, the stars looking on. Sometimes they held hands; other times he would sit on the ground with his back against their rock and she would lay her head on his lap. He would slowly run his fingers through her thick hair as she sang softly to the stars above. When the night breeze got too chilly, they would stand up reluctantly and walk back home.
De la Rey got up from his sleeping mat, stretched and yawned. In the distance, he could hear the river singing with undisturbed clarity, its monotonous music punctuated by the song of birds. Other noises soon emerged from all over the village, growing in volume as daylight began to declare its dominion over land: some young men whistling shrilly, as if in competition with each other, while others chanted praises to the cows that they were about to start milking. Soon enough, the air would be alive with a strange kind of melody: klo-klo-klo. De la Rey would soon learn that this was the music made by sharp jets of milk escaping the udder of a cow being milked, the streams of milk hitting the bottom of the wooden pail. Klo-klo-klo-klo, sang the pail.
Of course De la Rey had no idea what village life had been like before the war. What he witnessed when he arrived was a people unified in poverty and desperation. But soon enough, his impressions were replaced by those of plenitude and expansiveness. This touched De la Rey himself so that he began to wake up every morning with a smile, ready to face the day, and whatever it had in store for him. He would get up from his sleeping mat, stretch himself and yawn noisily. He would then gather his sleeping mat and the cured cowhide which he used as a blanket. He would put his sackcloth on, pound his sleeping mat and blanket against the wall of his hut and then roll them into a neat pile, which he placed alongside the wall. Before he left his sleeping quarters for the day, he would have a look at the latest drawing he had been working on the previous night. Then he would walk outside and inhale the fresh, crisp breeze.
On seeing De la Rey, the girls pounding the grain would pause from their labour. They would greet him shyly, covering their mouths with their hands as they gossiped about him. By this time, the young boys who looked after the cattle would have long left the compound, having taken the livestock to pasture. Older women would be sweeping the yard, or feeding wood into the communal fire. Old men would get out and inspect their horses, sometimes riding down to the river to water them. But riding long distances was no longer allowed, as the region was in the grips of war. It was better to roam around the confines of the village, hidden away from the rest of the country by the mountain and the woods which formed a natural perimeter wall around the settlement.
Having exchanged pleasantries with some of the girls and the old women around the yard, De la Rey would run down the slope towards the river, where he would take a bath in the shallows.
On this morning, he had left the village at daybreak. He was going about his ablutions when he felt something sting him on his exposed buttocks. He turned around to see Matshiliso with a group of her age-mates. They laughed out loud as he fumbled around the rocks for his sackcloth, in a desperate attempt to cover his nakedness.
Matshiliso said, ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to wash your dirty self here? This is where we fetch our drinking water. If you want to wash, you go downstream. Over there.’ She pointed in the distance. He mumbled an apology, put on his sackcloth and started walking uphill, back to the village. He’d finished washing anyway.
He decided to take a shorter route that cut through thick bush. There, he stumbled upon an old man squatting next to a tree, singing quietly as he relieved himself. De la Rey’s hand instinctively went to his nose and he mumbled an apology.
‘Why are you apologising, Morena Rey?’ asked the old man. ‘Haven’t you seen a man emptying his bowels before? As a soldier, you surely must have squatted in front of other men. You know, Morena, daybreak is the perfect time for cleansing one’s body of yesterday’s impurities. You can’t take breakfast while your body is still teeming with the impurities of the previous day. Why don’t you join me here?’
De la Rey folded his arms across his chest to avoid his right hand’s involuntary move towards his nose.
‘Come on,’ continued the old man, ‘let’s do our business at a leisurely pace, no hurry, and let us talk a bit. Pity I forgot my pipe at my house, otherwise I would light it now and we would enjoy it together. Yes, young man, nothing like emptying one’s bowels in the presence of a friend. Your waste matter doesn’t smell any better than mine, does it now? We are equals when it comes to these smelly matters.’
A carrion crow perched on a tree not too far from where they were. De la Rey shooed it away.
The old man continued, ‘Ah, Morena Rey, so impolite of me. I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself to you. I know you see me around the village, but you don’t even know who this old man is. I am Mokhele. Ntate Motaung is my cousin. We’ll shake hands properly, some other time …’ His voice trailed off.
De la Rey grunted his acknowledgement.
Mokhele looked at birds flying in formation above, then he spoke, ‘Looks like it’s going to be a fine day. So, what are you waiting for, young man? Squat over there and rid yourself of yesterday’s impurities before you go and take breakfast.’
‘But I don’t feel like … I mean, I am not pressed.’
‘Nonsense. A man is never without some shit in him. Just squat right over there, and you shall see. In any case, this bush here is the communal toilet.’
‘Why aren’t you using one of the pit latrines? They are all over the village.’
‘Ah, those things are for women. Men dispose of their manure right here. You can’t just walk through this piece of ground without dropping some manure on it. The Christians would call this our holy ground, or something like that, where we dump that which helps nurture our soil.’ The old man laughed at his own joke. ‘Come on, squat, young man.’
In spite of himself, De la Rey obeyed. Before he knew it, he was groaning at the pleasurable effort of expelling a turd.
‘See? I told you. Even your face is glowing with relief now.’
De la Rey allowed himself a smile of acquiescence. He didn’t know what else he could do, or say.
‘So, what is this I hear about you and Matshiliso?’
De la Rey looked into the old man’s eyes and said, ‘What is it that you have heard? Please enlighten me.’
The old man laughed briefly, shook his head, then said, ‘You see, in these parts even trees have ears, eyes and mouths. What you do behind those moluane trees will finally reach our own ears.’
‘Why is it that you always have to speak in riddles? Can’t you just get straight to the point?’
‘Aaah! The guilty are touchy.’
De la Rey let out a loud, fully rounded, earthy fart.
‘I heard that,’ the old man said. ‘You are being dismissive of me, farting arrogantly like that. I heard that loud and clear.’
De la Rey stifled another one, face reddening.
Mokhele said, ‘The tongues in the entire village are already wagging. Warawarawara! Yes, the tongues are dancing with some interesting truths. The village has seen you and the chief’s granddaughter stealing into the forest together—’
‘What are you—’
Mokhele checked him with an upraised hand, and continued, ‘You see, Morena Rey, this is the chief’s granddaughter that you are leading astray. From a long time ago, she was earmarked for one of the village sons, and now you come here and steal he
r purity.’
‘But that’s a lie.’
‘It pains my heart to have to repeat such scandalous stories. But the village can’t be wrong.’
‘May I ask you to relay the message to whoever is spreading the rumour – I have done no wrong to Matshiliso. Besides, I can’t betray your people after all you’ve done for me – feeding me, sheltering me …’
‘That’s exactly why the village is disappointed in you: we shield you, feed you, and you thank us with a bowlful of shit.’
‘I—’
‘I have lived long enough to know the likes of you. Your brothers start a war. Cowardice takes the better of you. You show a clean pair of heels. Encounter helpless natives, and then take advantage of them. Now you’re here playing saviour. Great white saviour. Tomorrow you will claim dominion over our village. Another Jantoni! Gaat!’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘We should have killed you the moment we stumbled upon you. I told the others you were a bad omen.’
Mokhele gathered a handful of fresh tree leaves to wipe his behind, got up, and scooped up some soil and twigs to cover his smelly mound.
Then he said, ‘The fire which will one day burn you is the same as that which warms you.’
‘Wait,’ De la Rey called, panic in his voice. The old man disappeared from view.
Finished with what he was doing, De la Rey realised, with shock, that he had not brought some leaves to wipe with. It had not been his intention to relieve himself here in the first place.He looked around for fresh leaves. There were none. He duck-waddled towards a tree and grabbed a branch with big, dark green leaves. He plucked a handful of these and used them to wipe his behind, wincing with pain as they cut him.
When Matshiliso came behind his hut to collect his empty bowl after breakfast, he looked up at her. He wanted to ask her if she had heard the rumours about the two of them. He wanted to ask her to sit down next to him so he could enjoy her presence, to ask her why her smile seemed to outshine the early morning sun and her eyes created in him a thirst he didn’t know how to quench. He wanted to tell her that he believed the war would end soon, and things would go back to normal and society would turn over a new leaf. And on that new leaf would be written a new code of behaviour for mankind, where it would be normal for him to sit with her, even hold her hand, without his or her people finding the scene odd and unacceptable. He wanted to ask her so many, many questions.