David's Story

by Zoe Wicomb

  Waving his hand proprietorially across the town, he waits for David to take in the panorama. This green and fertile land, the tamboekie grass—it’s yellow now ’cause it’s mos winter—but then the grass was bright green, calling out, waving at them, and what could the captain say with such glory staring him in the face?

  Thomas pauses, but David, insensible to that which stares him in the face, has no reply, so that his disappointed informer supplies the obvious: Glory, glory, hallelujah! That’s what the captain said. Pointing vaguely towards the mountain, he continues, That’s where they stopped with the wagons still at a dangerous angle and fell to their knees to pray. The captain didn’t have much learning, you know, but he could pray like a professor. Then they built a monument; you can see the four tall fir trees from here that the captain planted that day. And they were mos tired, so they made their houses right there as they came down the mountain. Now it’s the Nature Reserve and Reservoir, ’cause you see we moved further away from the mountain into the valley and that, if you ask me, was our first mistake.

  Moved by the suggestive gap in the mountain, Toothless Thomas rubs his upper gum tenderly in remembrance of the first extracted tooth and its absence, the soft pink gap in a white edifice. A beautiful tooth it was; no sign of decay but it ached like an ox, kicking free the cloves stuck in on either side. What a struggle it was to get her out. David’s tongue moves nervously across the denture at the front of his own teeth where he gratuitously and in accordance with coloured fashion had the two front teeth extracted in his youth, but with the passion-gap now decently plated with plastic, he leaps to his feet. Around him people have stretched out in the morning sun and he really ought to be off. Thomas, fired by the memory of the patriotic gap, places a firm hand on David’s arm.

  No, man, I’ve left out the voorloper, the chap who leads the oxen. The captain wouldn’t have been the first to come through the poort; it must’ve been the voorloper ’cause why, look, the oxen would not have wanted to do that terrible climb and even with God’s help they need a strong young man to lead them.

  He smiles demurely, lowering his voice, That was my own great-grandfather, my very own Oupa Grootjie, strong as anything and a man who could do what he liked with an ox. Those beasts were just putty in his hands. A born voorloper he was, and the faithful, trusted right hand of Captain Kok.

  Rewarding himself for this freshly discovered family history, he draws two oranges from his pocket. David declines and is about to leave, but the restraining hand falls once again on his arm. In his right hand Thomas pummels an orange pugnaciously. With hardened gums he digs out from the top a plug of skin and flesh which he spits out and putting his mouth to the hole, sucks contentedly at the fruit, pummelling it all the while like a babe at the breast. He aims the deflated, disembowelled globe—no longer a fruit but still bright and orange in colour—at a wastebasket.

  Well done, says David, biding his time.

  Do you then keep yours in your pocket ou pal? You spoil your smart suit that way my bra, he laughs. Come, let’s go. I’ll show you this town. We Griquas, man, we’re civilised; we don’t leave a visitor stranded on his own. Sir, your trusty guide, Thomas Stewart, at your service.

  He removes his hand to salute. Upon which David grabs his right hand and shakes it firmly. He has some business to attend to; he is indeed grateful, lucky to be in such a friendly town, such reliable hands; he would be very pleased to avail himself of Thomas’s services at another time, and turns away briskly. But Thomas deep-smiles and begs to detain him for just another second. From his breast pocket he draws a paper, remarkably clean and freshly folded, a picture of the Kokstad coat of arms.

  See the crown, here, these diamonds the Free State Boers stole from the Griquas. They drove Adam Kok off his own Griqualand West without a diamond in his pocket, that’s mos why we’re here in the East. Thomas folds the paper carefully and returns it to his pocket, patting it as if to check for precious stones.

  Hey Mister, he calls after David, swaggers up to him, and, after an intimate display of gums, whispers, Diamonds are forever, hey.

  Another clear, bright winter’s morning. Toothless Thomas slides out of a doorway and lurches with a peculiar thrust of the shoulder at David who, in shock, lashes out with his left hand while his right plunges into his breast pocket. Touching the metal, he collects himself and smiles, patting his chest in disappointment at such uncharacteristic jumpiness.

  The old heart’s not on its best behaviour these days. What a fright you gave me, he laughs.

  Steady on, my bra. What’s the matter man, are they not treating you right at the Crown? There’s that smart goosie at the desk; just keep in there and you’ll be alright, he winks.

  He looks David straight in the eye, pausing and nodding by way of encouraging a reply, then, without a hint of reproach, says, No man, we mos didn’t finish our chat about the history ’cause you were too busy, but I tell you what, we go get a lekker cup of coffee at the café and we sit right there in the square where you can see a thing or two about life. Sit in a motorcar like the larnies and the world passes you by. Nay, don’t worry ou pal, we’ll make up for lost time hey. Nothing like a Kokstad cup of coffee. Kô ons waai Meraai—Let’s fly, Maria. See, I know the Cape lingo also. Adaptable, that’s me. And he takes David’s arm to cross the road.

  It is chilly in spite of the bright light and clear blue sky. Thomas is wearing two very similar brown tweed jackets of the same size, the outer being rather too small over the buttoned up inner, giving him a stuffed look. Catching David’s eye, he laughs, You like my coat, hey? Kokstad winter fashion, you know, so that David, ashamed of looking, allows himself to be steered to the café, where he orders two cups of coffee to take away. Once settled on a bench on the square, Thomas excuses himself. His breakfast is not to be compared with that at the Crown; if he could trouble David for a couple of rand he’ll just nip across the road for a hot dog. I’ll be back just now, he says.

  David had planned to spend the morning at the offices of the Kokstad Advertiser and after waiting for some time considers leaving to do just that, but as he gets up Thomas comes rushing out of the café, waving from across the road with a fresh set of coffees.

  Sorry ou pal, you getting tired of waiting, hey? Had to make a phone call to put off my appointment with this guy I’m doing a bit of business with, but he’s now a slippery customer I can tell you. Thinks I’m some kind of coloured baboon. Nay, my bra, you can’t mess with Thomas, make no mistake, hey.

  And the hot dog? David asks.

  No sir, there’s no messing with Thomas, make no mistake, he says pensively.

  In quiet companionship they sip the sugary Ricoffee with globules of powdered milk floating on the surface.

  Nothing like a Kokstad coffee. Nothing like Kokstad, really, says Thomas. You see the big mistake the old guys made was with the diamonds. Now a diamond is a funny thing, you know. Have you ever seen one? And he pats his breast pocket as if to check for one with which to demonstrate. It looks like nothing special, just a little dull grey stone, but my motto is, always look a second time; on the face of it you got something worthless, but take nothing for granted, look again, otherwise you come to grief like the old guys. Now even a rough diamond: you look again and again and ’strue’s God you see like through a pinhole the light come shining through and that thing glitter man, I tell you, it just glitter, blinding you for a second or so. Then you know aha, something’s up with this grey little stone.

  But the Griquas weren’t blinded by the glitter then, David reminds him.

  No-o, you see it’s mos always like this with our people: they’re blinded by wanting to ape the white man. Say after me: this is not a diamond, and then that’s what the eyes also tell you ’cause, why, the eyes follow the heart. So Adam Kok just sold it all, even when his own people said, Look here Chief, there’s more to this than meets the eye. But what did that Hotnot care, just as long as there was good hunting and grazing and then, then when Griqual
and West got swallowed up by the Free State Boers—even though England swore to them, Don’t worry, that won’t happen—he just got the trekgedagte in his head and so he said to the people, Come on you lot, no more lazing about and resting on your laurels, we’ve got to get over the mighty Drakensberg, and see, then our Great Trek started. See—

  David, fearing that he would tell the same story again, leaps to his feet. He crushes the paper cups in his hand and, looking round for a rubbish bin, avoids Thomas’s eyes, as he explains hurriedly, Got to go. I didn’t realise the time but I’ve got an appointment with a chap at the Advertiser, and now I’m late.

  Thomas leaps to his feet. No, that’s okay, pal, I can see you’re a man of your word. Not like these bladdy Griquas who keep kaffir time. Wait, I’ll walk down with you, he says, limping somewhat as he struggles to button each jacket in turn against the cold.

  You might like to think, Mister Kaffir, of your own timekeeping over there in the café, David reprimands.

  Okay, okay, black time, he laughs. Look here, never mind that now, you see, he says, attempting to take David’s arm, but the restriction of his too-tight jacket allows David a neat side step. You see, you see, and he pants, trying to keep up while puffing at his hand-rolled cigarette, this trekgedagte was in the Griqua blood. Once they got themselves nicely settled down in Kokstad, fires burning, kettle singing on the stove and the goatmeat stewed nice and soft, then they want to get going again. Now me again, I’m a modern man; I like to keep steady. Stay in the same place, get to know the lie of the land, keep track of what’s coming and going, keep my feet on the ground and listen to the bones of my ancestors ’cause why, when you walk around with your troubles—and mister, I can mos see you got mighty troubles—just keep your ears pointed man and listen and you’ll hear the ancestors whisper their advice. Look at old Chief le Fleur, mad with the trekgedagte, but then you could say that trekking was the fashion then. See how the Boers just trekked around, then there was the kaffirs, I mean blacks, doing their own serious trekking. Just the British in their offices, staying put on their flat backsides, but cracking their whips and just herding others along. Like we were all flocks of sheep sweating our way over the mountains, carving out roads, then they come, ice cool in their smart red uniforms, just shouting in English, telling everyone where to go next. No good you don’t understand English in those days, you jus’ had to learn quick-quick ’cause otherwise you wouldn’t know which way you wanna go. Anyway, it’s mos Le Fleur’s treks you want to know about. Man, he had now a lust for trekking, ’cause you see he started out as a wagon-maker, so naturally he would say to himself: Look here, I take all this trouble to make a beautiful wagon so now it must travel somewhere. What use is a wagon that stands still in a garage. Three treks he organised, but it’s mos the trek down from Namaqualand, there from Leliesfontein, you want to check out. No, man, that won’t be in the Advertiser. Look, I got a better idea. We could take a walk out of town, perhaps up to the mountain and see if we can hear the spirits of the ancestors ’cause it’s not something like a wireless you just switch on, no, my bra, you have to learn how to tune in, learn how to get in touch with your roots.

  David feels a chill rising from his feet to his head. He has mentioned neither Le Fleur nor his interest in the trek from Namaqualand. They are a few yards from the building. He stops, takes Thomas’s hand, and smiles, declining the offer. Another time perhaps, but he had better keep his apppointment. Thomas shakes his hand vigorously, promises to be around and at his service.

  At the top of the steps he looks back to see Thomas’s generous toothless smile still beaming, and before he turns the handle of the door, the man winks, waves, and singsongs a merry see-you-later-alligator.

  •

  David finds the day in Kokstad exhausting. Far worse than a day’s training in the mountains. He spends an hour in the little museum, making polite conversation with an attendant who behaves as if no one has been there all year and who will burst if he does not there and then relieve himself of the details about starching of bonnets and greasing of wagon axles. Then the municipal library, where he reads Halford’s Griquas and is charmed by women of old Kokstad-Scots pedigree who are anxious to display their lack of prejudice. How fascinating, they say, as he speaks of Le Fleur, the maverick chief. No, they have not heard of the man, but they give him a cup of tea, which is nice, sitting like that in a library of all places as if it were their parlour, drinking tea from a tray covered with an embroidered cloth, chatting with the ladies. Who wear uniform: two-piece suits in baby blue polyester, as do the bank clerks on the Main Road, only theirs are a darker blue. Soon the entire country will be in uniform; that seems to be what freedom has boiled down to, free of the burden of choosing something to wear, from the tyranny of colour coordination. For most people the leap is from rags to uniform. People want to look smart even as they leave their smoky hovels, and who can blame them. Pride and discipline, that is what uniform brings to people, that is how an armed force keeps itself in order. David has long since overcome his adolescent distaste of uniform and now has no patience with arguments about individuality.

  From one of the many carryouts he buys fish and chips, which he plans to eat on a bench in the square but loses heart when he sees the number of people converging at lunch time. The workers pouring out of the surrounding shops in their deep blue suits of cotton drill carrying parcels of food, the hailing and chattering in many tongues, the screeching of buses and taxis, and the beggars after a morning’s slumber perking up with the rustle of food wrappings—all these make him uneasy, so that he takes the Matatiele road out of town and, after dithering about suitable places, sits down to eat and falls asleep under a tree. A drugged sleep from which he half emerges only to be dragged down again, so that feeling himself pulled hither and thither by sleep and wakefulness, he rises quite unrefreshed.

  David spends the afternoon at the offices of the Kokstad Advertiser, going through old newspapers for entries on the Chief.

  It would be gross negligence on the part of Her Majesty’s government not to keep a close eye on the impudent Le Fleur. In the crowded village hall with no regard for the representatives of Church and State, he ranted afresh about retrocession and the Forty Years’ Money. Affecting not to acknowledge annexation, he accused Her Majesty’s government of dishonesty and in his vulgar tongue advised the naive Griqua people to move to the Cape where he has established a Griqua church independent of the influence of missionaries. If ever there were need for guardianship of these poor people it is now that the gullible Griquas cannot see through Le Fleur’s scheme of lining his own pockets in the improbable guise of Robin Hood.

  ‘We will pool our resources and distribute them equally on farms and farming equipment. There through hard work, sobriety and independence from corrupt European influence we will prosper. It is in agriculture that the future of the Griquas lies,’ he raved.

  With characteristic arrogance he refused to answer the practical questions put by Mr. Fraser, the town clerk, claiming that he had not addressed himself to colonisers and owed the town no explanation.

  That the charlatan, Le Fleur, should have the gall to appear in Kokstad testifies to the fellow’s lack of shame.

  David smarts at this branding as if he were himself accused of being a thief and a charlatan. He would go the next day to the coloured township, speak to some old people who would surely have stories to tell. He has no interest in the details of the earlier treks, of Le Fleur luring so many Griquas to the unsuitable plains of Touwsrivier where they lost everything to drought, disease, and what the Advertiser calls incompetence. These he reads cursorily, and withholds judgment. It is the later, Namaqualand trek that interests him, the agitation for a Griqua homeland in the Western Cape, which culminated in a strip of godforsaken desert that the Chief nevertheless believed would flourish with their labour. How had Le Fleur come to be converted to separate homelands before the Nationalists had even dreamt up that idea?

  So what
’s the explanation? I ask.

  Lost his marbles, David says without hesitation. You should see the ridiculous sycophantic letters he wrote to the prime ministers, Botha and Hertzog. And pride, he adds. When it transpired that the Boers were not prepared to put any money into a homeland for a handful of Griquas, not a penny towards irrigation schemes, he persuaded himself that he and God would see the project through without water.

  DULCIE is surrounded by a mystique that I am determined to crush with facts: age, occupation, marital status, what she wears, where she was born and raised—necessary details from which to patch together a character who can be inserted at suitable points into the story. But David cannot or will not answer such questions, except that she is single and works as a researcher for a nongovernmental organisation, which accounts for the flexibility of her time. Her story is of no relevance to his own, he says weakly, but he has already betrayed the belief that some trace of hers is needed for his to make sense; he has already betrayed the desire to lose her story within his own. So I persist.

  David will answer no questions about her life as a guerrilla, perhaps because he does not know; he has never operated in the same cell as Dulcie. I ask about the conditions of female guerrillas.

  Irrelevant, he barks. In the Movement those kinds of differences are wiped out by our common goal. Dulcie certainly would make no distinction between the men and women with whom she works. So I gather that, like him, she is high-ranking in the military wing, probably a commander. David appears to be surprised by this inference. It is impossible to know whether he has deliberately given the clue to the power she wields, whether he is genuinely naive about language, or whether he is keeping up a pretence about giving nothing away, pretending either to himself or to me.