by Zakes Mda
Viliki had allocated himself a house quite early on. And so did the four other members of the council who came from Mahlatswetsa. Popi had refused a house, and had continued to stay in her shack with her mother. She used part of the stipend of seven hundred rands that she received from the town council to dig a foundation and buy concrete blocks. She was going to build herself and her mother a bigger and better house. A house with five big rooms and a bathroom and a toilet. No one would ever go outside again for ablutions or when responding to the call of nature. There would be no need for a chamber-pot anymore. But after two years, the house was only knee-high. Seven hundred rands a month could only go so far, especially as she also had to buy monthly groceries with it.
Viliki had allocated himself a second house, which he was renting out to some houseless family. He felt that as the mayor, he deserved a second house in order to supplement his meagre income from the council. That was the source of one of the Pule Siblings’ many disagreements. Popi felt that it was immoral for Viliki to give himself a second house when there were still so many people on the list, desperately waiting for government-subsidised houses. It had been immoral, she felt, for the councillors to have allocated themselves even the first houses. She had heard that some of them had even allocated houses to girlfriends who did not qualify for government subsidies. And to their mothers and grandmothers. As leaders of the struggle, Popi felt, they should have led by example. They should have had their names on the waiting list like everyone else. Or they should have used their council stipends to build their own houses, just as she herself was doing, instead of dishing out free government houses to themselves. They should have sacrificed for the benefit of their fellow citizens.
The members of the Movement in the council laughed off Popi’s concerns and said: “We sacrificed enough when we fought for liberation. Now it is time for us to eat the fruits of our labour.”
Of course, these debates did not take place in the council chamber. They happened privately when Viliki visited Niki’s shack. Or when Popi visited Viliki’s house, whose lounge now had two sofas, a coffee table and a big colour television. Or when the members of the Movement held their party caucus.
The first disagreement between the Pule Comrades had occurred after the very early sessions of their first year on the council. Popi had moved that the council’s minutes and agenda should no longer be in Afrikaans, but in English. The three National Party members and Tjaart Cronje of the Freedom Front had objected in the strongest terms.
“We all speak Afrikaans here,” Tjaart Cronje had said, standing up and glaring at Popi. “Our proceedings are in Afrikaans. Why should the minutes and the agenda be in English?”
“Maybe all our proceedings should be in English instead of Afrikaans,” Popi had said, looking sneeringly at Tjaart Cronje.
“Instead of eliminating Afrikaans,” Lizette de Vries had suggested, “we should rather say that our proceedings should be in Sesotho as well. We all speak Sesotho in Excelsior, don’t we?”
“It is a communist plot to eliminate the Afrikaner from the face of South Africa,” Tjaart Cronje had cried. “This is why the Afrikaner needs his own homeland.”
“I am sure your leader will deal with the question of your homeland in Parliament,” Viliki had said.
“Why don’t we give him his homeland?” Popi had asked. “Why don’t he and his type just disappear into their pie-in-the-sky homeland?”
“No one speaks English in Excelsior,” Tjaart Cronje had observed quietly, as he resumed his seat. He had come to the conclusion that Popi, of all the councillors from the Movement, was bent on needling him. He was not going to give her any further opportunity to enjoy herself at his expense.
“We’ll just have to learn English then,” Popi had said with finality.
The members of the Movement had cheered and applauded.
The council had adjourned that afternoon without resolving the matter. That evening, Popi had gone to Viliki’s house. She had found him watching a soap opera on his big colour television.
“You didn’t express any views on Afrikaans this afternoon,” Popi had said accusingly.
“Come on, Popi,” Viliki had pleaded, “I am watching Generations. Can’t we talk about this some other time?”
“No, we must talk about it now,” Popi had insisted. “We are voting tomorrow and we of the Movement want to know where our Mayor stands on this crucial issue.”
“You know, Popi, Tjaart was right. No one knows any English here.”
“Tjaart was right? Is it you who is saying this, Viliki? You who taught me that in 1976, students died in Soweto because they did not want to be taught in Afrikaans?”
“It was being forced on them. They were right to fight against it. But this is another world and another country. It is no longer the country of 1976.”
“It is another country only if you live in your own dreamland. In South Africa, Afrikaans is still the language of the oppressor.”
“We have eleven official languages in this country. Afrikaans and Sesotho are two of them. And both are spoken by the people of Excelsior—black and white.”
“English is an official language too. Afrikaans is the language of the oppressor!”
‘Afrikaans cannot be the language of the oppressor. It is the language of many people of different colours who were themselves oppressed. Even in its origins it was not the language of the oppressor. The oppressor appropriated it and misused it. The slave masters’ language was Dutch. The slaves took that Dutch and used it in their own way, adding structures and words from their own original languages . . . the languages of the Malay people . . . of the Khoikhoi people . . . of many other people. Afrikaans was a hybrid . . . a creole spoken by the slaves. The slave masters took it and made it their own. As far as I am concerned, today’s coloured people have more right to the Afrikaans language than the people who call themselves Afrikaners. The true Afrikaners are the coloured people.”
Popi could not counter this argument. She knew nothing of the things Viliki was jabbering about. She had often been called a coloured by those who were more polite than those who called her boesman. Yet she did not see how on earth she could have a right to the language of the oppressor. How could she be labelled a true Afrikaner? She had stomped around the small room and screamed at her brother: “Rubbish! Afrikaans is the language over which people died! And tomorrow you’d better vote with the rest of the comrades to abolish it from the council chamber.”
“I am not voting,” Viliki had said, not bothering to hide his relief. “I’ll only have a casting vote if there is a tie.”
The following day, Popi’s motion had been passed. Five ayes and four nays. Viliki consoled himself that he had had no part in the foolish decision.
Another spat among the Pule Siblings blew up when Sekatle, the rich businessman who had worked for “the system” before liberation, applied to join the Movement. There were celebrations in the ranks of the Movement, rejoicings that Sekatle had at last seen the error of his ways. But Viliki objected. He said Sekatle was nothing but an opportunist. He was joining the Movement, not out of conviction, but for what he could gain from it financially.
It seemed that Viliki was taking an opposing view to that of the Movement on too many issues. Had his mayorship run to his head? Did he now think he was bigger than the Movement?
“Sekatle may be a scoundrel, Viliki,” said Popi, “but he is donating a sizeable sum of money to our branch to carry out the activities of the Movement.”
“That’s what I am saying, Popi,” said Viliki. “He thinks he can just buy his way into the Movement after doing all those filthy things against our people. He is the man who sold me out. Because of him, I was tortured by the Boers for days on end.”
“Where is your spirit of reconciliation, Viliki?” Popi asked. “We forgave the Boers who oppressed and killed us for three hundred years. We are reconciling with them now. Why can’t we reconcile with our own people too?”
Reconciliation won the day, and Sekatle became a member of the Movement in good standing.
Viliki gave in, and focused on his work as the mayor of Excelsior.
One of the greatest achievements of his council was the electrification of Mahlatswetsa Location. Every dwelling was wired up, even shacks like Niki’s. Families threw away their paraffin lamps, and kept their candles only for the days when there were power failures.
A naked bulb hung from the roof of Niki’s shack above the wobbly “kitchen scheme” table. At night it shone so brightly that it made her eyes uncomfortable. It reminded her of the naked bulb that had hung from the roof of the police cell in Winburg.
In addition to the electricity, Popi had installed a telephone. Most days it just sat there on a box in the corner without ringing. It rang only when Popi was away attending political meetings in the outlying districts. She called often to find out how Niki was keeping. And this greatly irritated Niki. She was only forty-nine, yet her daughter treated her like a senile invalid. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone in her solitude, as Viliki was doing? But when a whole day passed without Popi calling, perhaps because she was too busy, or maybe because she could not find a public phonebox in the vicinity, Niki would be irritated. Why didn’t the ungrateful girl call? Didn’t she know that her mother worried about her?
IN THE MORNING Niki went to collect cow-dung, as she did every day, while Popi went to town to attend to matters of the council. Niki missed Popi’s company during these expeditions. But Popi was too busywith the council. Or with political rallies throughout the eastern Free State.
On Saturdays, she was too busy with funerals. She was a funeral singer in one of the many choirs of Excelsior. In her red and white and black uniform of the Methodists. Singing at funerals was a pastime she had begun nine years ago, when she had sung her little heart out at Pule’s funeral. Since then, every Saturday she attended funerals and sang at them. There were more funerals than ever before. In the old days, there used to be only one funeral per Saturday. Some Saturdays would even pass without a funeral. But now there were about three every Saturday. The people of Mahlatswetsa Location were dying in great numbers. Sometimes Popi would be torn between funerals. Or between a funeral and a political rally.
This did not mean that Popi had outgrown cow-dung expeditions. Once in a while, when she wanted to release the stress that inhabited her body, she joined Niki in the veld. And became carefree and happy. She became a child again. She slid down the slopes and rolled on the grass. She skipped like a kid and gambolled around like a lamb. All her bitterness seemed to dissolve.
But these moments were becoming rare, Niki thought as she gathered dry cow-dung. If only things could be as they were before they took her children away.
As if in answer to her prayers, Popi approached, still wearing the blue dress with tiny white dots and the blue turban that she wore for special council meetings.
“You can’t collect cow-dung in your nice council clothes, Popi,” said Niki.
“I haven’t come to gather cow-dung, Niki. I have come to ask for your help.”
Swarming bees had invaded the Stadsaal. People were scared to go in or out of the building. Popi had offered to get rid of the bees. But once she had taken a look at the place where they were swarming, she knew that she would not be able to do it alone. She needed the assistance of a greater expert. Hence her pleading with Niki to go to town with her to get rid of the bees.
Reluctantly, Niki agreed.
The bees were hanging under the eaves of the building. They had swarmed the previous day, and had clustered around their new queen. Niki piled papers and cow-dung on a corrugated-iron sheet and lit a fire. Popi stood on a 55-gallon paraffin drum and lifted the smoking corrugated-iron sheet above her head just below the swarming bees. Soon the bees were drunk with smoke. Niki climbed on a stepladder and put her naked hand among the bees. They sat all around and over her arm without stinging her.
“What are you looking for, Niki?” asked Popi.
“The one with the golden legs, Popi. That’s the queen. All we need to do is to capture the one with the golden legs. The rest of her black-legged subjects will follow their queen.”
Niki found the bee with the golden legs and transferred her to a wooden box that was coated with honey inside. She shook her arm and the rest of the drunken bees fell into the box.
A group of spectators had gathered around the two women.
“Some of you stink of beer,” said Niki, as she shook more bees into the box. “Bees are sensitive to alcohol. They smell alcohol and they sting you.”
Two or three spectators skulked away into the building. They did not want to provoke the bees with their fumes.
“We’ll take these bees home, Popi,” said Niki. “We’ll build a hive in our backyard.”
The spectators went on their way as Niki placed the box full of bees on her head. When she turned to leave, she came face-to-face with Tjaart Cronje, who had just walked out of the building. They looked at each other. Quietly for some time. Softness crept into her eyes. His remained blank. But there was a littie twitch of a smile on his lips. Popi glared at Tjaart Cronje angrily, and then walked away. Niki followed with the box on her head. Tjaart Cronje walked to his bakkie parked on the pavement in front of the Stad-saal.
“I hear you and Tjaart fight like starving dogs over a dry bone,” said Niki, as they walked to Mahlatswetsa Location. “It is not a good thing for you to fight Tjaart.”
“I don’t fight Tjaart, Niki,” said Popi. “Tjaart fights me.”
THE WAR OF THE UNSHAVEN LEGS
YELLOW-COLOURED YOUNG MAN in a fiery red conical hat. Fiery red overalls. Fiery red shoes. Round-nosed combat boots. Gleaming. His coal-black fingers are strumming on the invisible strings of a golden-yellow guitar. He dances in a fluid of red and yellow flames.
The Baipehi danced around one big fire. A jig of victory. The big silver moon and the tiny silver stars reflected the red and yellow flames against the clear night sky. The Baipehi: those who had placed themselves. During the day, they had marched with pieces of rusty corrugated-iron, cardboard boxes and plastic sheets, and had allocated themselves a vacant piece of land on the outskirts of Mahlatswetsa Location. They had constructed a number of shacks, about fifty or so, establishing instant homes. Tonight more than a hundred men, women and children were celebrating with songs and dances around the winter fire. Singing and dancing to a lone guitar.
The establishment of this squatter camp had caused bitter divisions among members of the Movement. Viliki, His Worship the Mayor of Excelsior, was greatly exercised by the Baipehi. They had no right to divide among themselves chunks of council land and to build shacks on it. His council was housing the citizens of Excelsior in an orderly manner. New houses were being built every day—Reconstruction and Development Programme houses to which every family was entitled. Yes, there was a long waiting list. A backlog of a hundred names. But no one had the right to take the law into their own hands and set up shacks, which marred the landscape of Mahlatswetsa Location. For a long time, the township had prided itself as one of the very few in South Africa that did not have an eyesore of a shanty town attached to it. And if Viliki had anything to do with it, it would stay that way.
The activities of the impatient Baipehi had generated heated debates in the council chamber. At first, Popi had argued that people should be given the power to do things for themselves rather than have the government build houses for them. The Baipehi had taken the initiative in the correct self-help direction. She never forgot to remind the honourable members that she had refused an RDP house, and was slowly building herself and Niki a big house of their own. A mansion with many rooms. It had not progressed much in the last three years. It was only waist-high. But she was confident that one day she and Niki would live in it. The rusty shack that needed to be patched with anthill mud every other week would not be their home forever.
Sekatle—the rich businessman who had now purch
ased a big house in town only two houses from Adam de Vries’s English bungalow—adopted the Baipehi and made himself their spokesman. He drove around the new settlement in his new Mercedes-Benz, making fiery speeches through a hand-held megaphone. He assured those who gathered around his car that the Movement would stand with them. The Movement had fought for liberation so that people could have roofs over their heads and bread and butter on their tables. The Movement would see to it that they were given title to the land they had already allocated themselves. The Movement would give them water and electricity and paved streets. The Movement. The Movement.
The destitute were given hope. Here was a man who stood with the people, even though he himself was so wealthy. A man who never forgot his humble origins. A man who had transformed Maria’s RDP house into a gleaming palace. If he looked after his sister so well, surely he would look after the interests of his destitute brethren and sistren just as effectively.
But the members of the Movement in the council did not see things with the same eye. Whereas Viliki wanted to take a hard line against the Baipehi, others felt that they should be allowed to stay. Or that, at the very least, the council should offer them alternative land on which to build their shacks. Popi agreed with this latter position.
“I do not think we have an obligation to give them alternative land,” said Viliki. “Where did they come from? Surely they must have lived somewhere before. They must go back there. We are not going to have a shanty town in Excelsior!”
“That is very callous, Comrade Mayor,” Popi argued. “These people are homeless. We cannot wish them away. It is our duty as the council to see to it that they are housed.”
“The land those people are occupying is earmarked for more RDP houses,” Viliki insisted. “The Baipehi must vacate it.”