by Zakes Mda
“I do not want to be angry with Tjaart. I do not want to be angry with anyone.”
“At least now you do admit that you have some anger in you.”
“I told you, I react to his anger. I become angry at his anger. Perhaps I have gone overboard with my anger. Perhaps when the people of Mahlatswetsa made me angry by calling me names, I took it out on him.”
“Remember, my child, anger eats the owner.”
This sounded very much like the message that Jacomina and her father were trying to transmit to Tjaart Cronje. If Popi had ridden her Christmas rickshaw to the Cronje household, she would have found Cornelia Cronje, Tjaart Cronje, Jacomina Cronje and the Reverend François Bornman sitting on the veranda, enjoying their coffee and brandy after a lunch of roast quail with berry sauce, and trying to talk Tjaart Cronje out of his anger.
As usual Cornelia was fussing over Tjaart, to the annoyance of Jacomina. Cornelia always fussed over Tjaart as if he was a child. Did you have enough, Tjaart? Don’t you want another piece of this . . . or that? It irritated Jacomina even more that Tjaart allowed himself to become a baby whenever Cornelia was around. Is Tjaart warm enough? . . . Don’t allow him to go out in the cold like that, Jacomina . . . Did Tjaart eat before he left . . . Oh, my child this . . . my child that!
Jacomina had once complained: “You won’t be there to pick up the pieces when Tjaart gets thoroughly spoilt, Cornelia.”
She called her mother-in-law Cornelia, as she had always done before she married her son.
Cornelia Cronje had mumbled something to the effect that Jacomina did not know how to look after a man properly. That was why her first husband had left.
“I heard that,” Jacomina had screamed.
Cornelia kept silent as Jacomina and the dominee discussed her son’s anger. It was not doing him any good, they said. He had turned thin and twisted because his anger was eating him up, they observed. Cornelia observed in her mind, without voicing her thoughts out of respect for the dominee, that her son had become thin and twisted because Jacomina was not feeding him properly.
“Every time he returns from the town council meetings he can’t even eat because of anger,” said Jacomina.
“It is that Popi who needles him all the time in the council,” Cornelia burst out in defence of her son, unable to contain herself any longer. “Everyone in this town knows that that girl would like to see my child dead.”
Tjaart Cronje admitted that his little tiffs with Popi were indeed affecting his health.
“I am fighting a lonely war on many fronts,” explained Tjaart Cronje. “It is Popi on one front, who always wants to take the first opportunity to annoy me. But there is a broader and bigger front, where I fight for the rights of the Afrikaner—rights which are being trampled upon every day.”
“We agreed, Tjaart, that you would not talk politics at home,” said Jacomina.
“You started the subject, not me,” said Tjaart Cronje.
“So now he can’t even express an opinion in his own house?” asked Cornelia.
“Politics only makes him unhappy,” explained Jacomina.
“Perhaps in the next local elections in November he shouldn’t stand,” advised the dominee.
“I certainly won’t stand,” said Tjaart resolutely. “Let the black people take this town and ruin it. I’ll focus on my butchery, and on planning for the return of the Afrikaner to his rightful place.”
“We do not need to be sombre,” said the dominee, getting up from his garden chair and going to the table, which was laden with drinks and fruit. “It is Christmas! Let us have some more of your wonderful brandy, my boy.”
The Christmas rickshaw left them to their Christmas cheer and returned to Niki and Popi.
They were sitting silently, listening to the bees. Niki unwrapped the turban from Popi’s head and exposed the locks that flowed to her waist. She caressed her daughter’s hair.
“While you are at it, why don’t you scratch my scalp,” said Popi. “It is always itching.”
“It is because of dandruff. It is all over your head like flakes of snow. You don’t wash your hair often enough.”
“This hair is a curse,” said Popi. “I never know what to do with it.”
After thirty years, she had still not learnt how to deal with her hair. Even as a young girl she had always regretted the fact that she could not do the things that other girls her age did with their hair. She could not use the trendy hair straighteners like Dark-and-Lovely and Sta-sof-fro—all the way from America—because her hair was already straight. She had watched with envy as other girls relaxed their hair by frying it with chemicals or with red-hot copper combs. She herself was deprived participation in that ritual as her hair did not need relaxing. She could not be part of the camaraderie of braiding either. Once she had tried braiding her hair, but had had to undo it immediately when she saw her split ends sticking out all over the braids like a badly made raffia rope. She could not use extensions because her hair was already naturally extended. She had watched with envy as grease dripped down her friends’ ears after a perm. She had drooled at their cornrows. At their dreadlocks. And most recently at their closely cropped kinks that had been dyed blonde. Her hair remained flowing locks. She alone, among her friends, could flip her head like a white woman. This became necessary whenever activity or the wind blew some of her locks across the front of her face. The turban, therefore, continued to be her saviour.
“Your hair cannot be a curse, Popi,” said Niki quietly. “God cannot create a curse on your head.”
“The pain of my whole life is locked in my hair,” said Popi bitterly.
“Hair is just hair, Popi. Hair or no hair, you are a beautiful person, Popi. A very beautiful person.”
VILIKI WAS grateful. So was Niki. From the outrage of rape (that’s what we called it in our post-apartheid euphoria), our mothers gave birth to beautiful human beings. As beautiful as the Seller of Songs, who could create beautiful things. As beautiful as Popi, who could not create, but who knew how to love beautiful creations like the trinity’s Christmas cart that took her and her mother back to Mahlatswetsa Location that evening, after spending a comely Christmas Day with the bees.
SOMETIMES THERE IS A VOID
SHE IS NOT a madonna. Although she sits like one. There is no baby in sight. Her golden-brown body is illuminated by red streaks of light. She is naked, except for the veil of lace that flows from her head to the blue floor on which she sits. Black outlines reinforce her fullness. She looks away from the window on which the shadow of a voyeur is cast. Between her open legs is a red bowl. In front of her, two white doves are foolishly pecking at the flowers on the lace. Soon they will discover the life-lessness of the flowers and will hop to peck at the blackness of her pubes, where life throbs.
Colour goes haywire. Once more a beautiful madness. Life throbs in the green field where two black reapers cut green wheat with their invisible scythes. They put it over their shoulders, where it immediately assumes a yellow ochre colour with tinges of red. One bends to cut the wheat. He wears blue overalls and black gumboots. A wide-brimmed red hat protects him from the absent sun. Another one stands to stretch his tired back. He wears a red Basotho blanket. A black conical Basotho hat protects him from the absent sun. A black donkey pulls a red cart in the field, trampling the crops: A black man and a black child sit in the cart. Not black as in black, but black as in Payne’s grey. A black hat protects the black man from the absent sun. The field is not only green. It has broad strokes of titanium white. Strokes of yellow ochre. Strokes of naphthol crimson. Green, white, yellow and crimson strokes extend to the cobalt blue sky.
A wide-eyed girl stands against a deep blue wall. The whites of her eyes are white and the pupils are black. She hides a subtle smile in her blue and green face. She stands between two reliquary figures. One is dressed in white and the other is bare-breasted. Nothing else. No other detail. Just the questions that remain in her eyes.
The same questions were in Popi’
s eyes as she moved from one canvas to another. What did it all mean? Did it matter that she did not understand what it all meant? Was it not enough just to enjoy the haunting quality of the work and to rejoice in the emotions that it awakened without quibbling about what it all meant? Why should it mean anything at all? Is it not enough that it evokes? Should it now also mean?
She tried very hard to identify the Flemish expressionist influence that she had read about in the oversized books in the library. The trinity had clearly strayed away from that early influence. All for the better. His work had a robustness that had escaped the Flemish expressionists. Perhaps it was the broad strokes, some of which were created with palette knives instead of the usual broad brushes. And the multiple glazes that seemed to suck her into the canvases, making her walk the same soil that the trinity’s subjects walked.
She had finally come to Tweespruit. To the mission station where the trinity had been based since leaving Thaba Nchu many years ago. She had found the trinity hard at work. Not painting. At eighty-three, he was too old to mess around with pigments. Perhaps his eyes could no longer distinguish the different colours. Or he was too frail to survive the excitement of mixing different colours of oil paints, and of acrylics, to create feasts of new colours. He was hard at work spraying fixative onto a charcoal drawing of a girl reading a book in the candlelight. He was covering his nose with a dirty rag to protect himself from the fumes that assailed the crisp air.
Charcoal drawings. That was all he was capable of creating now. A world in black and white.
The trinity had led her into the living room. The walls were filled with many of his old paintings. They re-created the ambience of his studio in Thaba Nchu. It was as if she had been here before. As soon as she had entered and cast her eyes on the walls, memories of previous visits to Thaba Nchu had flooded her. She had recalled with nostalgia the visits that had made her see everybody’s life through the eyes of the trinity’s works.
At first, the trinity had thought she was one of the women who had come to model for his nudes. She had stood there for a while, feeling very uncomfortable. The trinity had smiled, and looked her over. Then he had told her that he no longer painted nudes. He no longer painted anything. Jokingly, he had added that even if he were still in his painting prime, she would not qualify as a model. She did not have enough flesh on her body. She was tall and slender like the models of the city. Not like the trinity’s buxom models. She had felt naked as he inspected her. It was as though her yellow and blue floral dress, her fawn petticoat and matching knickers, and her red turban had disintegrated. But with the naked feeling, she was no longer uncomfortable. She had been naked here before. Many times. She had fixed her blue eyes on the trinity’s. Both she and the trinity had smiled. And then he had shaped a donkey from the pages of a magazine and had emitted two brays as he gave it to her. She had known at once that he had remembered who she was.
Popi had caught a minibus taxi to Tweespruit, twenty-nine kilometres from Excelsior, on the pretext that she was going to ask the trinity to donate a painting for the library in Mahlatswetsa Location. But as she bathed herself in the light of the canvases, she knew that that was not the reason she had come. She did not even mention the donation. She just walked from one canvas to the next. Over and over again. The trinity watched her silently for a while, and then went back to his charcoal drawings.
The works exuded an energy that enveloped her, draining her of all negative feelings. She felt weak at the knees. Tears ran down her cheeks. She did not know why she was crying. She had to go. She walked out of the living room, and out of the mission station, without even saying goodbye. She had not uttered a word to the trinity throughout her visit. Yet she felt she had been healed of a deadly ailment she could not really describe.
In the taxi back home, weakness was replaced by a great feeling of exhilaration. There was no room for anger and bitterness in her any more. Yet an emptiness remained in what she imagined to be her heart. Anger had dissipated and left a void.
How was she to fill the void?
PROFOUND NOSTALGIA
ALL THINGS ARE bright and beautiful. Even the smile on the man straddling the light brown donkey. In the summer heat he wears a blue and white woollen cap, blue overalls and brown boots. He holds a giant white candle to illuminate his path in the bright daylight. The donkey is burdened not only by the man, but also by its huge head and tall ears. And the white brush strokes on its behind. It walks tiredly on the blue and yellow ground. A giant sunflower follows it. Strokes of white clouds rise in the cobalt blue sky. Like smoke signals to a world beyond.
Even bright beautiful days come to an end. The yellow sandstone hills of the Free State changed into dark mounds that loomed on the horizon. Fires began to burn outside some homesteads. Children sang songs of the evening. Boys and girls played hide-and-seek. Finding hiding places where they could tickle one another without being discovered. Smoke from coal stoves and braziers hovered above Mahlatswetsa Location. Over the years, some of us had gradually moved from cow-dung to coal.
The Pule Siblings sat at a brazier in front of their mother’s shack. Viliki sat on an empty beer box and Popi sat on a pile of bricks. They were waiting for the coal to change from black to red-hot before taking the brazier into the shack. By which time the smoke that was billowing to the sky would be gone. Only the fumes would remain. None of them liked to breathe in the fumes from burning coal. They were used to the gentle smoke of dry cow-dung. But Niki’s homestead no longer had sufficient supplies of cow-dung, now that she spent most of her time with the bees instead of gathering cow-dung. And, of course, Popi was busy with her library and council meetings. She had no choice but to buy coal from Sekatle’s coal-yard and carry it home in a battered washing basin.
The Pule Siblings sat as they used to sit when they were a little boy and a little girl. They roasted dry maize on the cob on the side of the brazier where a big hole displayed the coal that was beginning to turn red. Once one side of the cob was roasted, Viliki took it from the brazier and with his thumb plucked out a row of corn, which he crunched with relish. He passed the cob to Popi, who did the same. Then she put it back on the brazier to roast another side.
They sang songs that they used to sing during the struggle. The chimurenga songs of the Zimbabwean war of liberation that Viliki had taught Popi whenever he came back home from the underground. The songs of the Frelimo cadres of Mozambique. They did not understand the languages of these songs. It was possible that they were not even pronouncing the words correctly. But it did not matter. The haunting harmonies were good enough to evoke a feeling of deep nostalgia. As did the songs whose languages they understood very well. The songs that the cadres of the Movement sang, that Viliki had also brought home for Popi’s pleasure. They sang these with a new passion. The passion of those who had fought battles and won, but had not survived the victory.
A profound nostalgia for the romantic days of the struggle attacked them. Days of sacrifice and death. Days of selfless service and hope.
“At least those days we were together fighting the same war as comrades in arms,” reminisced Viliki. “Sharing our suffering and moments of respite. Now others are up there and have forgotten about the rest. Survival of the fittest is the new ethos. Each one for himself or herself in the scramble for the accumulation of wealth.”
It had started like that in Zimbabwe too—a liberation struggle that had inspired Viliki and his comrades during the worst moments of their own oppression. As soon as the revolutionaries had got into power, Popi wailed, they had focused on accumulating farms and hotels for themselves. Ardent revolutionaries continued to use the rhetoric of socialism, while in behaviour and outlook they were born-again capitalists.
“Of course we live in a capitalist world. What do you expect them to do?” asked Viliki, who had sharp differences with his sister on the question of capitalism versus socialism, thanks to the library books she was no longer just caressing but reading as well. The same boo
ks that had exposed her to the world of the Flemish expressionists had also taken her to Cold War era debates on political and economic systems of the world. With the basic knowledge she had gleaned from these pages, she decided that socialism made more sense to her, while Viliki, ever the loyal and disciplined cadre of the Movement that had kicked him out, followed the national leaders to capitalism.
“I expect them to be honest,” said Popi. “They must not pretend that they are socialists. And they must not accumulate capital by looting the coffers of the state and by taking kickbacks from contractors.”
Viliki agreed that the Zimbabwean leaders had failed their people, and that to entrench themselves in power, they were now rendering their own country bankrupt and ungovernable. They were trampling on the human rights of their own people.
The Pule Siblings consoled themselves that at least in South Africa, democracy remained intact. The human rights culture was being entrenched every day. But Viliki expressed fear for the future. For how long would the Mandela legacy of tolerance last? Already he could see signs of the arrogance of power gradually turning into racial arrogance—even within the Movement, which had prided itself on being a non-racial party. This could be seen every day in Mahlatswetsa among the leadership of the Movement, who strutted around pretending that their blackness elevated them to the ranks of angels, while the fact that they were once oppressed made them into very special people who could never be criticised. Critics, however constructive they might be, were being labelled racists or lackeys of racists. It had become treacherous for a black person to point out the corruption of a fellow black.
People like Sekatle were turning into black Tjaart Cronjes. In Sekatle’s campaign for the local elections that were coming in a few months’ time, he never forgot to mention that the Pule Siblings had sold out to the whites. That Excelsior was cursed with a white mayor almost six years after liberation because of their vote. The perceived friendship between the Pule Siblings and the de Vries family was frowned upon, not because of the de Vries’ history and political pedigree, but because they were white. After all, Sekatle himself had a dubious history.