by Zakes Mda
The cherry pudding served with custard was a sensation.
“You must give me the recipe, Mina,” said Cornelia to Jacomina.
“It’s very simple,” said Jacomina rejoicing in her expertise. “Just make a good dough with butter, sugar, milk, eggs, flour and baking powder. Then cover the cherries with the dough and bake. Simple.”
“Easier said than done,” said Lizette de Vries. “My cherry pudding always turns into a mess. Even the simplest cherry crumble turns to mud in my hands.”
“The secret of a good cherry crumble is: use very little sugar. Depend mostly on the sweetness of the cherries themselves.”
“She takes after her mother,” said the dominee proudly. “She was the greatest cook this side of the Vaal. This side of the Limpopo even. She was something else, that woman of mine.”
It was obvious that the Reverend François Bornman missed his wife. He had never really gotten over her death some years ago. She had been sick for a long time, in pain from the cancer that was eating her insides. It had been a relief when she died. Her passing on to a better world had released her from the agonies of this world.
Fortunately this had happened at the time that Jacomina was having problems in her marriage to a medical doctor in Queens-town, far away in the Eastern Cape. Not that the dominee rejoiced at her marital problems. Marriage was created by God, and should last until such time that God decided to take one of the partners to His Kingdom. As He had done in the dominee’s own marriage. The only fortunate thing was that Jacomina had come home when her father needed her most. And had stayed. He had never really found out the details of the breakup.
When Jacomina’s husband had filed for divorce, she had refused to contest it, or to discuss the matter with her father. He never bothered her about it again. He just kept quiet and enjoyed her wonderful cooking. At least there had been no children in that marriage. Even a dominee could safely be grateful for small mercies.
The guests went for seconds. Captain Klein-Jan Lombard went for thirds and fourths, which brought a sharp rebuke from his wife, Liezl. People would think she did not feed him well at home, she said. Adam de Vries appealed to her to let the poor man eat. Policemen worked very hard. Their lot was not confined to chasing thieves. They were also burdened with the task of rooting out communists and terrorists from society.
Everyone agreed. And added that Tjaart must not be ashamed to pile his plate for the third time. After all, he was faced with a similar task. He was a soldier, a sergeant nogal, and everyone knew that military rations left much to be desired. Tjaart Cronje laughed and said that it was obvious that the speakers had not been in the army recently; otherwise they would know that military food rated with that of five-star hotel restaurants. Only Jacomina’s cooking could beat it.
Jacomina Bornman smiled coyly. Cornelia Cronje looked at her uncomfortably. Then at Tjaart. She was not pleased at the interest that Tjaart had lately been taking in Jacomina. She objected to the looming relationship because Jacomina was too old for her son. Jacomina had come back from a failed marriage. Jacomina had been a wild girl who had been caught necking with Greek boys in cars. In her protective mind, Ari Dukakis had multiplied into many Greek boys. His father’s Studebaker had become many cars. There was no guarantee that Jacomina had changed her ways. Perhaps that was why her marriage had failed. She must have taken her wild ways with her to Queenstown.
But it was obvious to all at the table that the two enjoyed each other’s company. They made each other laugh. They laughed at small things that others considered too stupid to laugh at. They saw humour in the unfunniest of situations. They were in love.
The Reverend François Bornman opened a bottle of mampoer, the peach brandy that had been donated by Johannes Smit when he sent his apologies, claiming that he could not be present at the dinner because of another engagement in Wepener. The truth was that there was no such engagement. Johannes Smit was wary of associating with these National Party types—traitors who were busy selling the country to the communists. So he had sent a servant over with a bottle of mampoer, and a concocted excuse about some prior engagement. The dominee had welcomed the peach brandy.
Johannes Smit’s pastime was to distil and brew all sorts of moonshine, and the dominee loved to sample these burning creations.
“If that’s one of Johannes’ concoctions, I will pass,” said Adam de Vries. He was a man of refined tastes and drank only whiskey. There was a bottle of J&B Scotch on the table, and he filled his glass as if it was soda. With his fingers, he fished out two pieces of ice from the ice bucket and sank them into the whiskey. He took two big swigs and put the glass on the table.
Tjaart sniffed at the mampoer in his glass. He had never tasted it before. He had only heard stories about it, that it was a potent traditional brandy of the Afrikaners. It was his patriotic duty to have a taste. Just a little sip. Jacomina laughed and grabbed the glass from his squirming hand. She said she was going to show him how it was done, and gulped it down. Cornelia gulped the air in undisguised shock. The other two women, Lizette and Liezl, sipped their alcohol-free ginger beer nonchalantly.
“Groot-Jan would have loved this,” said the dominee, pouring himself another glass of the peach brandy. “He used to enjoy Johannes Smit’s little experiments—especially the cherry liqueur and the mampoer.”
Groot-Jan Lombard had died about eighteen months before.
He had never really been the same since the Excelsior 19 case. His health had slowly deteriorated, until one day he had peacefully met his Maker in his sleep. The party banqueting at this table, however, did not remember him as one of the actors in the Excelsior 19 capers—victims of the sins of our mothers—but as a connoisseur of the good waters. And a great Afrikaner patriot.
“Oupa Groot-Jan was a true hero of the Afrikaner people,” said Tjaart, the mampoer making him bold enough to express his views in the company of revered elders. “We read his name every Sunday outside the church as one of those who led the Great Trek commemoration of 1938. Maybe it is good that he died when he did. He was saved the humiliation of seeing the Afrikaner bite the dust.”
“Bite the dust?” asked Klein-Jan Lombard.
“What are you talking about, my boy?” asked the Reverend François Bornman.
“He doesn’t really mean that, Pa,” said Jacomina Bornman.
“The Afrikaner will never bite the dust,” asserted Adam de Vries.
“We are releasing communists from jail,” said Tjaart Cronje, standing his ground. “We are allowing terrorists to come back into the country. We are now negotiating with them to be part of our government. Things are happening today that are inconceivable.”
“It’s all in the plan, my boy,” said Adam de Vries sagely. “Nothing inconceivable.”
He explained to the ignorant young man that President F.W. de Klerk was thinking only of the future of the Afrikaner people when he released the likes of Mandela from jail. It was part of de Klerk’s wisdom. He would never just hand over power to the blacks without making sure that the Afrikaner had a meaningful stake. The rights of the Afrikaner would always be protected. Adam de Vries assured the doubting upstart that the Afrikaner would never lose his grip on power. The people who were being released from jail were no longer agitators. Prison had extinguished the fire in them. They were now moderates who were willing to negotiate a just settlement. That was what the referendum had been about. A just settlement. Power-sharing. The majority of the white people had spoken through the referendum, saying that they wanted power-sharing with moderate blacks. Not majority rule. There could never be majority rule. Power-sharing, the sage explained, did not mean that the Afrikaner was handing over his power. Unless Tjaart wanted to believe extreme right-wingers like Johannes Smit. The Afrikaner would always have the power.
“But how can the blacks share power with the white man in our own country?” asked Tjaart Cronje. “What does a black person know about power? All he knows is how to burn down schools. Look what is
happening in their location here in Excelsior. They have forced out the Bantu councillors. The location is now ungovernable.”
Tjaart Cronje was talking about the recent events in Mahlat-swetsa Location. Viliki had led the community in demonstrations against the Bantu Council, a National Party government-created structure through which the Afrikaners of Excelsior governed the township by proxy through people like Sekatle. Sekatle had in fact been the chairman of the Bantu Council, and therefore the mayor of Mahlatswetsa Location. Until he was frogmarched from the council office to his house, where the people of the Movement instructed him to retire from public life. They had threatened to burn his trading store, his lorry and his new BMW 3 Series car if he refused to disband his illegitimate council. The council members, many of them schoolteachers and traders like Sekatle, did not wait to be told twice. They had resigned en masse for fear of their lives and property.
“Ungovernable?” asked Adam de Vries incredulously. “The location will never be ungovernable. I have been made the Administrator of the location and I have restored order there.”
He knew black people very well, he assured his admiring listeners. Traces of doubt still showed in Tjaart Cronje’s face. As a little boy, Adam de Vries said, he had played with black children on the farm. He had eaten papa and morogo in their huts. Tjaart Cronje recalled that he had done the same at Niki’s home. Although he had shared papa and morogo with Viliki, he did not see this as something he could boast about in public. It was nothing to be proud of.
As a student, he had studied anthropology, Adam de Vries continued, adding more to his insights into the black man’s way of thinking and doing things. Not all black people were bad. There were good black people like Sekatle. And there were bad ones like Viliki. The majority of black people were good people. When the elections came after the negotiations for a new constitution, black people would never vote for communists and terrorists. They would choose moderate people like Sekatle.
“You see, Tjaart,” said Cornelia sweetly, “everything has been taken care of. Oom Adam knows what he is talking about. Leave everything to the elders.”
Tjaart smiled cynically. That smile! It reminded Cornelia of her late husband. How much this boy had grown to look like his father! Poor Stephanus. She silently cursed the woman who had led him to his demise. She wondered what had happened to Niki. The traitor who had seduced her husband. She blamed her for everything. Niki had never set foot in the butchery since his death. But Cornelia had occasionally spotted Niki’s coloured brat. She hated the bastard for being a smoother, delicate and more beautiful version of Tjaart.
SWEET STALACTITES
WE CALL IT a flute. It is not really a flute. It is a penny-whistle. A metal relative of the recorder. And it is unusual for a girl to play it. But the coloured girl is blowing birdlike twitters on it. Boesman producing melodies with only three fingers of her left hand. The penny-whistle has six holes. Her three fingers commute dextrously across all the holes. Commute between deep mellow notes and shrill piccolo-like notes. Her other hand, the right hand, holds a brown begging bowl. Porcelain begging bowl with a few coins rattling in it. In rhythm to the tune. Musical bowl. Percussive porcelain.
She is sullen like the weather. Yet her tune is as bright as the fireflies of a deep night. Boesman girl with red hair parted in the middle. Light-coloured girl with a clown’s sad face. The broadest of strokes. Deep black strokes like the night. She wears a green dress that is much too big for her. Her mother’s dress that hangs loosely to her ankles. Big high-heel shoes. Her mother’s black shoes. A gift from a happy madam.
The antics of the street busker would have made Popi laugh, if she were the type that laughed in public. Everyone who watched the busker laughed. Her deadpan expression that turned to sadness when she let down her guard. Her dress that looked like it was hanging loosely on a pole. Her little feet that kept on jumping out of her shoes as she attempted what she thought was a clownish jig. All these left the spectators in stitches. But Popi’s face stayed knitted in depressed lines, as if she was having a particularly difficult time releasing her bowels. She hated the penny-whistler for being gaunt and musical and funny and coloured. She hated her for calling attention to her colouredness, which in turn would call attention to Popi’s own colouredness.
She had learnt ways of not calling attention to her colouredness. Her main weapon was the doek. She wore colourful doeks that hid her straight almost-blonde hair. Mammoth doeks that she rolled in many layers on her head, until they looked like Sikh turbans. Doeks that diverted the eyes of the curious from her blue eyes to the glorious top of her head. Another weapon were her slacks. Slacks that hid her hairy legs. Although in respectable places, such as the church, she had to revert to a dress. Or to the black skirt of the Methodists. White long-sleeved blouse. Red bib. White hat.
Popi sneaked away from the entertained crowd. She crossed the street and walked into Volkskas—the bank that the Afrikaners had established to pull fellow Afrikaners from the depths of poverty when the English practised their own version of apartheid against the Afrikaners. A bank that took its services deep into the harshest platteland where the English conglomerates dreaded to tread. Popi was going to cash an uncrossed cheque drawn in Viliki’s favour. She couldn’t make out who the drawer was.
Where do you get the money, Viliki, that comes in the form of a cheque? Is it from the underground to which you dedicate your life? No, the underground does not exist anymore. Everything is now above the ground. In the light of day. Transparency is the word that guides us. In the light of day. Everything is above ground. Almost everything. There are, of course, secret Movement matters. This is the money to do Movement work, Popi. And to pay my expenses when I travel all over the place organising workers on the farms. For the Movement. Now, stop asking foolish questions and run to the bank before it closes.
So, now you support Afrikaner banks, Viliki? Didn’t you say that one day when you had money to put in the bank, you would rather keep it under your mattress than bank it at Volkskas? That was yesterday, Popi. Today it is a different world. We are reaching a settlement with the Afrikaners. Next year we have a general election. April next year. We shall be liberated and we shall be one people with the Afrikaners. That’s what the Movement stands for. One South African nation. Now run to the bank and shut up with your politics. I am the politician in this house.
There was a long queue at the bank. The strange thing was that there was only one queue. Not two, as was the case not so long ago: a slow long queue for blacks and a quick short one for whites. One queue, now, for all the colours of the rainbow. Another strange thing was that the white customers did not join the one queue. They walked straight to the teller, who would immediately stop serving the black customer to attend to the white one.
It was the same when Tjaart Cronje entered. He went straight to the head of the queue.
We looked at the burly Tjaart and we looked at the tall and slim Popi. We saw what we had always whispered. They looked as if they had hatched from the same egg. Popi was just a darker version of Tjaart. We also noted that Tjaart did not see himself in Popi. And Popi did not see herself in Tjaart.
Tjaart Cronje did not see Popi at all. Just a row of faces that were not white, but were now permitted to share the same queue with white people. But Popi did see Tjaart Cronje. And was filled with hatred towards him. Popi’s hatred always bubbled close to the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. She hated Tjaart Cronje for having such a tight grip on Niki’s affection. The affection that should be Popi’s alone. Hers and Viliki’s. Yet some of it spilled over to Tjaart Cronje. Just because she had once been his nanny. And it was such a wasted love, because he was not even aware of its existence.
Anyway, what made Tjaart Cronje think he could just walk to the head of the queue and get service when she had been waiting in line for almost twenty minutes? Was it because he was Tjaart Cronje? And she was just Popi? Well, she had news for him. She was Popi Pule. She too
had a surname, even though the familiarity that bred contempt meant that all and sundry just called her Popi. And Niki just Niki. And Viliki just Viliki. But they were born and bred by people too. They were Niki Pule. Viliki Pule. Popi Pule. And Tjaart Cronje had better remember that. Tjaart had better remember that.
Popi Pule. Stealer of surnames from cuckolded men!
She was fuming inside while she displayed an indifferent outside.
Jacomina Bornman, now Jacomina Cronje, rushed in, breathing as though she had been running. She whispered something to Tjaart Cronje. Obviously not the sweet nothings of newly-weds, for Tjaart left her to complete the banking transaction while he shot out of Volkskas Bank.
Jacomina took forever to finish whatever she was doing with the teller, which included exchanging snippets of gossip. When she turned to leave, she saw Popi. She looked at her for a long time, until Popi feared that she might have read her evil thoughts. Jacomina slowly broke into a smile as a glimmer of recognition dawned on her.
“Dumela,” she greeted in Sesotho. Like all Afrikaners who grew up in Excelsior, she spoke fluent Sesotho. Like almost all Afrikaner natives of the eastern Free State.
“Dumela,” responded Popi without any enthusiasm.
“I remember you,” said Jacomina. “You used to sit outside our garden parties with your mother. Why, you have grown into such a big beautiful girl.”
Popi took exception to being remembered by her. But she did not say anything. These people had no business knowing her. Why should this Jacomina continue to hoard memories of her back when she used to hang around garden parties with Niki? That must have been eighteen years ago. She had only been five then. What twisted god had cursed this Jacomina with such a cruel streak of memory? She, Popi, did not remember this Jacomina from the garden party days. She must have been one of the big white girls who used to pinch her cheeks before they gave her a sweet or a cookie.