“A very authoritative bridesmaid told me to do something customary in this country. She said that at this juncture I have the prerogative of saying they can kiss each other,” says Reverend Andrew.
We finally kiss each other before the congregation for the very first time. Our lips meet. The physical attraction is so powerful, as though the internal fireworks display is a full-on explosion. My knees shake in alarm; I push my husband gently away. I hear applause from the congregation; perhaps we’re inconsiderate towards our onlookers. The photographers take countless pictures, with numerous flashes everywhere. What a day! Life is wonderful.
Reverend Fleming is now excited, as he returns to the altar to encourage us, saying,
“For some people, it seems as if marriage is the contract of escapement, and then they start playing with time. No wonder it becomes boring for them. Unless there is growth in a continuing relationship, you can indeed become disenchanted easily. Treading water in any relationship is tedious in the extreme. A bonfire relationship is just the infancy of love, and the beginning of trust. You should say to each other, ‘Oh my darling, what a long way we’ve come! What a journey we’re determined to go on; growing and deepening our preciousness and togetherness.’”
“Yes, that’s true,” says my fiancé, nodding quickly and repeatedly in agreement.
“Shh!” I’m overcome by mixed feelings of joy and tiredness, and just want him to keep quiet.
It seems Reverend Fleming senses that he has no need of ‘preaching to the converted’. So, he quickly draws the sermon to an end with a blessing, inviting us to the rectangular table covered in a white tablecloth with a fresh vase of flowers on the right-hand side of the altar, to affirm our commitment by signing the marriage register. The bridesmaids also come along to offer their support.
While my husband signs the register, I look around, my heart bubbling with joy, admiring the rough stones sticking through the walls. To me, it’s a beautiful, unusual design.
We both finish signing, and then the witnesses add their signatures, as Melanie continues playing the organ. Issuing the certificate, the Reverend Fleming concludes the ceremony with, “Go forth and multiply.”
“What ‘multiplication’?” I exclaim, thinking he is referring to having many children. My husband pats my shoulders slightly, saying in his soft tender voice, “Hmm, don’t worry, darling.”
The procession leaves during the playing of another song. My husband and I come out to jubilation, applause and confetti throw. My new life starts. The ecstatic faces all around are a reflection of my own. We get into our car, and we’re driven to a beautiful park for photographs, before heading for the reception at the Golf Club.
Cars are already parked in the car park, behind the building. Some guests and friends are already seated, while others are having drinks in the bar, waiting for us to join them. We wait at the door for the DJ to start playing the music. This time we go into the hall dancing; some people stand up while clapping their hands. Most people are smiling. Perhaps they have never seen such a kind of dance, because it’s the South African beat. My husband and I love this rhythm immensely. We’ve had lots of practice. Sometimes he loses it, but soon he catches up. We dance until we reach our seats. The best man, Frank Warden, delivers his witty, but very sincere, speech.
Finally, he says, “Today has been a wonderful day for everyone here. This is truly an international gathering – not because the groom is European and the bride is African, but there are people from various parts of the world. People from England, Wales, Zimbabwe, South West Africa and other parts of Africa are here.” I hear a round of applause, and see the people waving their hands. Frank continues, “We have people from Asia, United States of America, Brazil, Ireland, Poland, Canada, Finland, China, Germany, Japan and Sweden, all coming together.”
“Yeah!” Another group shouts, clapping their hands. There is a sense of unity that shows us life’s possibilities. And then he proposes the toast.
“So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses to the bride and groom!”
All raising their glasses, the guests say in a chorus, “To the bride and the groom!” The crowd, having filled this hall up to the door, start chatting among themselves. I look around, admiring this beautiful gathering. I like what I see – what appears to be a changing world, where humans live together, value each other, and race or origin are not a determinant of anything. That subject is not even mentioned here.
The servers bring in various delicious foods, including the foreign dishes, such as couscous, pizzas, samosas, wraps, rabbit and all sorts. I just can’t get over what I see – people from many different races sitting, eating and chatting freely together. We have our first dance of the evening together. Later, other people join us dancing to all kinds of music. We can’t stay longer. We soon vanish discreetly to prepare for our two-week honeymoon in Cyprus. Our flight departs from Heathrow Airport at 8.30 a.m. the next day.
To Miss Betty Baker – A small token
Thank you for being Brian’s Year 1 teacher. You have been splendid in helping him overcome his writing difficulties in the early days. He has done so well. He enjoys coming to class each day. I thank you for all your help. Brian is achieving a very good standard in his education. Thank you again.
Mr Jasons
A Parent
A message of appreciation handwritten on a card - from Betty’s Folders
Chapter 2
At Skoonfontein
November 1960
It’s been very hot all morning at Skoonfontein Farm near Burgersdorp. As the afternoon approaches, clouds fill up the sky, darkening the atmosphere. I hear rumbling thunder, and then the lightning strikes. I can smell rain.
My mum had told me to watch out for those thick, dark clouds appearing over the mountains, as this indicates heavy rainfall or storms shortly. “When you see them, abandon what you do Betty, and get closer to shelter. Lightning is dangerous. It kills. You must be careful.”
She was the daughter of poor farm labourers, plunged into her miserable marriage to my dad after turning sixteen, wedded without her consent. She had just learned to write her name and surname, something she finds difficult to do these days, resorting to signing her signature with a thumb-print.
The farmers benefited from marriage between labourers living nearby, to retain their skilled labour market. They wouldn’t entertain fornication by any means. My mum, blessed with worldly wisdom after finding herself in this awful predicament, crying for months, finally settled down, becoming a devoted wife to my dad. She had no choice.
She never knew she wouldn’t return to her own parents’ labouring farm that Saturday afternoon after visiting her aunt living on another farm. Ten strong men approached her randomly, grabbing her hands saying, “Come with us.” She resisted, struggling to break through. When she refused to walk properly, three men carried her on their shoulders. The other seven sang loudly, clapping hands, hindering her scream from being heard. They arrived at Skoonfontein about four o’clock in the afternoon. Her eyes were blood shot, swollen from crying.
Immediately, my granddad sent a messenger to my mother’s parents saying, “Don’t search for your daughter, Gladys. We’ve got her here. She’s now our son’s wife, Benjamin’s.” The messenger dropped them a bag of corn, sugar, tea and coffee, offering ‘dowry’ – the bride price - before vanishing hastily, leaving them in deep dismay.
My mama, quite timid and hunched up in obesity, is careless about her appearance. She gets so occupied with both her and ‘Baas’ Jimmie’s families, that sometimes she forgets my name. The farm-workers use this Afrikaans word, ‘Baas’ meaning ‘Boss’ to address all the European male farmers respectfully in situations like this.
She is an ambitious mother for her family, a sensible hard-worker, quite popular among other farm labourers with her humour expressed in a deep low rough voice. Although she is withdrawn, she makes herself available to younger women confiding in her for counsel.
She likes telling me both fascinating and dreadful stories about my maternal and paternal grandparents. These are mainly about their lives in the olden days. She also touches on those of other natives living near Burgersdorp and Aliwal North farms.
However, her forehead creases slightly as she blinks rapidly to hold her tears; and then, a faint smile vanishes from her face completely. Extreme sadness replaces it as she remembers my paternal grandfather, Mvula Nkomo (meaning Rain Cow), a farm labourer for Baas Jimmie’s dad, Walter Douglas.
Walter struggled to call my granddad with his indigenous names. So, he gave him the Caucasian name, Baker; he was often seen carrying his baking pot, baking his own bread. That’s how my dad became Benjamin Baker, the names he cherished. This is a common trend in South Africa.
Born and bred in Skoonfontein, my father resembles his dad in every way possible, his six foot height, baldness, short temper, and above all loyalty to his master, Jimmie. His body is well-built like an athlete’s. His farm jobs require such a physique. There’s a lot of running around, carrying heavy bags of cement or crops, and he is always rushing. Often he is dressed in his filthy, sweat-smelling patched blue overalls and black Wellington boots: my father works night and day.
He has little time for himself and the family, often on stand-by for availability for as long as Baas Jimmie needs him. One can tell this from his cracked, hard dirty hands, eyes clogged with sleep, and scruffy long beard. I sometimes wonder how he managed to have the two of us. My dad is compassionate when unprovoked, and likes to have other children around helping us with these unending farm errands.
Being the youngest in our family, I often wonder why my appearance is different from my parents’ and my sister’s. They are all brown skinned, yet mine’s very light. I’m referred to as ‘a goat among the sheep’, in addition to other names. My family has black coarse hair, and mine is a bit thin, wavy, long and brown. There’s no doubt, I have mixed-race features in me. I have a slim body with brownish eyes and protruding nose, more like a European’s.
I could easily be classified as ‘a Cape-coloured’, an official term for people born from natives and European ‘parents’. However, as both my mum and dad are natives, I can’t get this identity. How I bear such features is still the mystery to be resolved. Rita, my cousin, joined my family from the age of two. We are often together in whatever we do.
On this day
We’re out collecting cattle from the field. It’s our turn. We set off earlier due to the day’s unpredictable weather. We run all along, competing against each other until we reach the camp.
“The person who reaches the bridge last will marry Brother Bravo,” I say, taking the lead. When we reach the place, the next person says the same and names the place. This game, ‘Brother Bravo’s wife’ speeds us up, and I love it. In reality, there is no person called Brother Bravo. He could be a character from a book. We get there without feeling the tiredness that usually follows a long walk.
The grazing fields are quite a distance from home, and it takes some time to gather the cattle. Strangely, today when we get to our field, there are no cattle. The field is ring-fenced, and the gate is properly shut as usual.
We walk around the fence trying to establish how they might have escaped. We come to a gorge. The fence seems to have been deliberately cut. Who could do this awful thing? And what would be the motive behind it? I think of many things. However, I couldn’t be certain my guesses were right. Baas always says, “Be vigilant – we have enemies around here.” At the same time, he never reveals who they are. So, ‘our enemies’ did it, perhaps.
As we stand there wondering what to do next, the lightning flashes, and the rumbling thunder follows. The rain pours heavily. We walk around, foolishly not knowing what to do. We carry on searching, ignoring the rain for a little while. It gets heavier, making it difficult for me to see the way. The water starts dripping from my clothes. Feeling soaked from head to toe, I struggle, dragging myself, trying to speed up. I brush off the rain from my eyes with my hands, to be able to see the way. Different thoughts cross my mind.
If we return home now, Baas Jimmie Douglas will be extremely annoyed with us. “Where is my herd of cattle, Betty?” he will ask aggressively. He might lash out; I know him. What shall I say to calm him down? He can be a monster, demanding things to be done his way throughout.
Jimmie, with his wife Theodora, and their only son, Mark, own this farm. They inherited it from Jimmie’s parents. Jimmie, the giant with big, blue eyes and grey moustache is frightening. He has a distinctly loud, hostile voice, and never laughs with farm labourers. He is short-tempered, and very unpredictable. He maintains his dignity in that scary, intimidating way. He wears clothes according to seasons. Two things that make him special – he hates lazy people, and swears a lot. He never enjoys seeing people sitting down or sleeping, except at night when all the jobs are completed and the animals are asleep. However, I still believe he is a really nice man, generally. Where would I be, should he not have given me and my family a home, made of bricks, instead of just shacks like houses for labourers in other farms?
I imagine the conflict, if we return home without finding the cattle. I can’t provoke him. I dislike hearing him swear when he is angry. Though no one ever challenges his behaviour, he shouts non-stop, calling all the bad names he thinks of. He usually leaves me emotionally scarred after a conflict. I have to live with these scars as I cannot erase them.
“Where have the cattle gone, Rita?”
“I don’t know,” Rita replies, clenching her lips, eyes opening widely, and shrugging her shoulders.
“Huh, we’re in great trouble today,” I suggest, feeling uneasy, confused and frightened with wobbly knees, shivering from cold.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rita replies hesitantly, with her eyes gazing about, searching. Our pace slows down for a while, and then gradually improves.
“For goodness’ sake, we must find his cattle, Rita. That will cheer him up. We can’t get away with it.” Feeling heartbroken and dismayed, I shout loudly at the top of my voice:
“Betsy!”
‘Betsy.’ I merely hear a faint echo.
“Buttercup!” I call as loud as I possibly can.
‘Buttercup.’ I hear an echo again.
I stand on the riverbank, looking down and across the river, hoping to find clues for missing cattle. My eyes look between the bushes, under the dancing leaves of the willow trees, towards the cliffs, and at the foot of the mountain. I wonder why Baas’ cattle can’t respond to my voice today, and come to me running. “Stanford, beautiful Stanford, come to me!” I plead, in desperation, with my whimpering voice, and with tears in my eyes.
“Ferdinand! It’s time to return home!” I say, running out of words, and getting tired of screaming. My head starts pounding.
There’s no sign of the herd of cattle. I always call once or twice before they recognise me, and then come running and bellowing. However, not today – all I can hear is my echo. Suddenly, Rita and I plunge into the dirty deep water swimming across the river. We reach the other side, force our way through the wet thorn trees. We walk across the barns, towards the rocks, expecting to find the herd of cattle.
“Ouch!” I scream, as a thorn pricks my face, tearing my skin deeply diagonally. The blood flows down my left cheek, just below my eye. I wipe it off with the back of my hand, feeling very hurt without imagining the bruise I have. It would have been worse if it had pierced my eyeball.
I lean over the fence, exhausted and confused. My heart throbbing loudly, I fear the worst. “I’m responsible. What will I tell Baas?” I say to Rita, who is also panting from tiredness. “Shall we go home, and continue searching tomorrow?” I’m deeply stressed and confused. It’s hard for me to make a
firm decision and stick to it, as a similar memory bombards my thoughts.
“No, we can’t go home without them. Where will I run to?” I’ve tried very hard to forget about this terrible incident over the past three years, but it is impossible. It’s stuck to my mind. Whenever I think about Baas’ reaction when angry, I remember what he did to my friend, Raymond Barton. Then, sadness and fear engulf me. Tears start flowing, and I weep uncontrollably.
On that day, Baas Jimmie waited until we put out our lamps, leaving our house dark. He was certain we were all asleep. However, he was wrong. I wasn’t. Lying still, with my head covered with only a small opening left just for my eye to see what he was doing, I watched every move he made.
Trying to be still by breathing gently was difficult. I couldn’t continue for any longer. It got better when I opened my mouth. However, the more I tried to suppress my breathing the louder my heart pounded. Could he tell I was awake? Just in case he looked at me, I lay motionless like the dead, giving him no chance to be suspicious. I was like the other children in the room.
My Baas trod carefully in silence, trying to locate Ray, the oldest of us all at that time. This task seemed difficult for him. There were many children sleeping on the hay mattresses on the floor. Someone was snoring loudly. Baas uncovered their heads simultaneously. He stood above Ray’s head calling, “Ray! Ray! Get up… now!”
“Hmm?” Ray replied in a slurred tone, clearly still in deep sleep, turning over to face the other side. I felt a chill slip down my spine. Afraid to move, I held my breath. My eyes blurred with tears. To gain visibility, I wiped them off gently with the corner of my blanket that I held tightly onto.
“Bloody hell!…Why are you here when my Daisy isn’t? You’re happy to enjoy your sleep, at my loss? No boy, you can’t, get up!”
Starlight in the Ring Page 2