by Zakes Mda
We observed that Viliki could afford to be critical now that he was no longer a town councillor. Didn’t the dirt begin during his tenure as mayor? Those days, of course, his garden used to be one of the very few that were clean and beautiful, with lilies of different types. Now he no longer had the right to pontificate about gardens because his own garden was as ugly as the rest. It had fallen into neglect since he took to the road.
Adam de Vries did not give up on Viliki. He knew that next time he came to Excelsior, Viliki would visit his office, and the old lawyer would try once more to convince him to stay and join the Excelsior Development Trust. He was proud of its achievements. It had established a mentoring programme that he hoped would change the face of agriculture in the eastern Free State. Under the auspices of this organisation, Adam de Vries had recruited a number of Afrikaner farmers to support emerging black farmers. He had even been able to convince Johannes Smit to join the programme and mentor some emerging farmers.
Like Tjaart Cronje, Johannes Smit still believed that the Afrikaners had been lied to by their leaders, who had assured the volk that they would not just hand over the government to the blacks without making certain that the Afrikaners would continue to wield their rightful power. Unlike Tjaart Cronje, Johannes Smit was resigned to the fact that the Afrikaners had been deceived and therefore had to make the best of the situation. After all, there were some benefits in getting into partnership with black farmers. Some affirmative action contracts and tenders would surely come his way, in the name of his protégés.
Tjaart Cronje was in his butchery when he first heard of Johannes Smit’s treachery. He was no longer a town councillor, as he had not stood in the local elections. He had decided to leave politics to the blacks, who would doubtlessly ruin the town and the rest of the country, making it possible for the Afrikaner to regain his power.
“Did you hear about Johannes?” asked Jacomina, as she rushed into the butchery from the bank.
“What about Johannes?”
“He has joined Oom Adam in the Excelsior Development Trust.”
“No . . . not Johannes Smit . . . he can’t do that,” said Tjaart Cronje, shaking all over with anger.
“Maybe you should reconsider your stand too, Tjaart,” advised Jacomina. “Maybe it is better for all of us to be part of this new South Africa.”
But Tjaart Cronje was no longer listening. He was ranting about the betrayal of the elders. He was raving that he had fought wars oh behalf of Adam de Vries, whose generation had never died at the border nor faced petrol bombs in the black townships. And now he had made an about-turn, taking many good Afrikaners with him. He would remain true to Afrikaner values even if everyone left to join the enemy camp. He was prepared to fight a lonely war.
It was clear that Tjaart Cronje had altogether lost control. He was screaming at the top of his voice, wielding a cleaver. His workers cowered in the corner. But he made no attempt to attack them. He was only interested in chopping the air in front of him. Jacomina stayed out of range while at the same time pleading with him to calm down.
“What do you expect from a man who ate pap and morogo in the huts of black nannies and boasts about it?” screamed Tjaart Cronje.
“You are not well, Tjaart,” pleaded Jacomina. “You have been working too hard. Let me drive you home. You need a rest.”
He seemed to calm down, and placed the cleaver on the counter. Jacomina rushed to him and embraced him.
“Don’t you worry, my darling,” she said, “everything will be all right.”
“Okay, many an Afrikaner child has played with black piccaninnies and has eaten in their homes,” he said weakly. “I myself used to play with Viliki. I had a bite or two at Viliki’s home. But it is not something I boast about at a dinner table. It was just part of the reality of growing up in the Free State platteland. Something better forgotten than broadcast at a dinner table!”
Then he began to jabber and foam at the mouth. He was running a temperature. Jacomina phoned Cornelia Cronje, and then drove her husband to the doctor.
A SEASON OF WHISPERS
ASPAN OF four donkeys is pulling a cart across the emerald-green ground. A green man and a green woman sit on the cart. A big round red sun burns in the red sky. Flashes of green and white cloud float around the sun. Green hills appear on the expansive horizon. The tones are hot and sombre.
The rays of the summer sun seared through the corrugated-iron roof and through the white ceiling. They filled the room with unbearable heat. The whirling fan on the ceiling was fighting a losing battle. It stirred the hot air that was descending with a vengeance over Tjaart Cronje as he lay on a white metal bed. His gaunt body was covered only in a white sheet, which was already drenched with his sweat. He was fast asleep. A group of elders in black suits stood over the bed, looking at him sadly. Among them were Klein-Jan Lombard, Gys Uys, Adam de Vries and the Reverend François Bornman. Klein-Jan Lombard was now retired from the police service and was dabbling in vegetable farming on his smallholding. The one-time mayor of Excelsior in the good old days, Gys Uys, was the oldest of the elders.
The elders were solemn. And respectable. None of them looked like men who would not acknowledge their daughters.
“It is terrible to see him like this,” said Klein-Jan Lombard, sighing sorrowfully.
“Ja, ou Stephanus’s boy used to be big and strong,” agreed the dominee. “He could have easily become a Springbok flank forward if he had pursued his rugby career.”
“It is sad to see him like this,” Gys Uys echoed Klein-Jan Lombard.
“What do the doctors say?” asked Adam de Vries.
“They are not able to put their finger on his problem,” said the dominee. “He’s tired. We should let him sleep. Jacomina says he was hallucinating all night long . . . something about the lies of the elders.”
“And you all pretend you don’t know what is wrong with him?” asked Gys Uys angrily.
“Do you know what is wrong with him, Gys?” asked Adam de Vries.
“We all know. Let’s not pretend,” cried Gys Uys. “We all know that we used these children to fight our wars. And then we discarded them. All of a sudden they find that they live in a new world in which they do not belong. We, on the other hand, have simply blended into this new dispensation. We were already established in our careers and in our businesses. We have the wealth and the influence and are now in cahoots with the new elite. Things like affirmative action do not affect us at all. But what about these young men who had to kill and be prepared to be killed on our behalf? They suffer the consequences. They are the ones who are on the receiving end of affirmative action and the kind of transformation that decrees that there should no longer be any white faces in any senior positions in the public sector and parastatals.”
“I knew that Gys would find some political reason for the young man’s sickness,” said Adam de Vries. “You always want to score some right-wing political point, Gys.”
“Perhaps Gys is right,” said the Reverend Bornman. “We all regret the past and yet are fearful of the future.”
“Don’t you dare count my name among those who regret the past,” yelled Gys Uys. “There was never anything wrong with the past until you people and your de Klerk messed it up. People like you, Adam, go around apologising to the blacks for apartheid. Did you ever think of apologising to these young men that you used?”
“It is people like you, Gys, who take away all hope from these young people,” said Adam de Vries. “You plant in their minds the false notion that Afrikaners are now the oppressed people.”
The Reverend François Bornman stepped forward and said, “Let us remember that we are here to pray for this sick boy. We are not here to poison the whole atmosphere with our silly arguments.”
The elders put their hands together and bowed their heads. The Reverend François Bornman led them in prayer.
SATURDAY MORNING. Popi decided to help Niki patch the holes in their shack before going to sing at the
cemetery. The shack was falling apart. They spent a lot of time attending to the leaks, patching the ramshackle structure with mud at the corners and replacing corrugated-iron sheets that had been perforated by rust with plastic bags and cardboard.
Popi was telling Niki about the cherry harvest season in Clo-colan that had enabled her to put a few rands into her post office savings book. But the money was not enough to buy even a row of concrete blocks. The house would have to stay waist-high until a stroke of fortune came their way.
“The house is not important, Popi,” said Niki. “We should be happy that we do have a roof over our heads.”
“But I vow that one day I will finish this house, Niki,” said Popi. “I tell you, Niki, one day you are going to live in this house.”
Niki’s crusted face cracked into a smile.
“I know,” she said.
“And I’ll furnish it with very posh furniture,” enthused Popi.
“You know that I don’t care for posh furniture, Popi. I am just happy to have you back.”
“Back? From Clocolan?”
“From your politics. At least now I am able to spend a lot of time with you. But sometimes I can see that you are lonely. There is no man in your life. A woman needs a man in her life.”
“You know that I do not need a man in my life, Niki.”
Niki shook her head pityingly.
“I need something more substantial than a man to fill the gaping hole in my heart,” added Popi.
“Sometimes I think you miss being a town councillor,” said Niki.
“I do not miss being a town councillor. The only thing I am sorry about is that I left the council before we could have a festival of our own in Excelsior. And I miss running the library. Of course I can still go there to borrow books like any other patron.”
“Anyway, it is a useless council. All they know is how to eat our money.”
Popi laughed and asked how her mother knew anything about that.
“People talk,” said Niki. “Maria and Mmampe always come with strange stories of how they eat. They say now the spout of the kettle is facing their direction. It is their turn to eat. They say my children were foolish not to eat when the spout of the kettle was facing in their direction.”
“At least as a coloured person I can complain that in the old apartheid days I was not white enough, and now in the new dispensation I am not black enough,” said Popi jokingly. “What about you, Niki? You are black enough, but you are not one of those who eat. What is your excuse?”
Niki laughed. For the first time in many years. She laughed for a very long time. Popi just stood there in amazement. She had not thought her joke was all that funny. Niki laughed until tears ran from her eyes and disappeared into the cracks of her face. Popi was getting worried.
“Are you all right, Niki?” she asked.
“Oh, Popi!” cried Niki. “I am so happy that at last you are so free of shame about being coloured that you can even make a joke about it.”
“My shame went away with my anger, Niki,” said Popi quietly.
“You are free, Popi, and you have made me free too. For a long time, I felt guilty that I had failed you . . . that I had made you coloured! Every time they mocked and insulted you, it ate my heart and increased my guilt.”
“God made me coloured, Niki, not you. You have no business to be guilty about anything.”
Popi and Niki embraced and laughed and cried at the same time. They were not aware of the bakkie that had stopped outside their gate. The roly-poly frame of Johannes Smit rolled out of the bakkie and up to the gate.
“I am sorry to break up this Kodak moment, ladies, but I have an urgent message for Popi,” said Johannes Smit, flashing a broad smile.
The message was that Tjaart Cronje wanted to see Popi. She was taken aback. She couldn’t imagine why her mortal enemy would want to see her. The temerity of it all was that he expected her to go to his house.
“He wants to see me, so he must come here,” said Popi. “He cannot just summon me as if he is the baas.”
“He is sick, Popi,” explained Johannes Smit. “Very sick. He wants to talk to you.”
“He wants to make peace with you, Popi,” said Niki. “I think you must go.”
“How do you know he wants to make peace with me?” asked Popi.
“His ancestors are telling him to make peace with you, Popi. You can’t go against the wishes of the ancestors.”
Popi laughed and said, “White people don’t have ancestors, Niki.”
Niki offered to go with her. But Johannes Smit said Cornelia Cronje would not be pleased to see Niki in her house. Popi said that if her mother was not welcome, then she would not go either. Johannes Smit relented and allowed Niki to accompany her daughter.
Niki sat in the front of the bakkie with Johannes Smit while Popi sat in the back.
“This is a good opportunity to speak with you, Niki,” said Johannes Smit as he drove out of Mahlatswetsa Location. “Why don’t you join our mentoring scheme with your bee-keeping project? It could benefit you a lot.”
Niki did not answer.
“I think we must declare a truce,” pleaded Johannes Smit. “We can’t live in the past forever. Bygones should be allowed to be bygones, Niki.”
“This is a strange way of asking for forgiveness,” said Niki. “I do not understand all this nonsense about a truce. I don’t remember any war between us. You, Johannes Smit, wronged me. You stole my girlhood. And now you talk of a truce?”
It was Johannes Smit’s turn to be silent. He held his peace until they reached the Cronje homestead.
He led the two women through the kitchen door, as was the custom. He asked them to wait on a bench while he went to look for Jacomina. Niki’s eyes ran around the room. It had not changed. The varnished oak cupboards and the cast-iron pots and pans that hung on the wall were as she remembered them. So were the wooden table and the six heavy wooden chairs in the centre of the room. The antique coal stove was still there. But it was no longer in use. There was a cream-white electric stove and a matching fridge. These were the only new additions.
Jacomina came and led the women to the bedroom, without greeting them. Tjaart Cronje was lying in the antique metal bed. Niki recognised the bed at once. She shivered slightly as she remembered lying on it. It was possible that Popi had been conceived on that bed. If not in the sunflower fields. Or in the barn. The white bed still looked like a hospital bed to her. And the fact that a gaunt Tjaart was lying in it, covered with a white sheet, enhanced its hospitalness. The atmosphere in the room reeked of a hospital.
“Niki, you came too?” said Tjaart Cronje, his eyes brightening. “You are lucky my mother is at the butchery. Otherwise you would not leave this house alive.”
Then he laughed weakly at his own joke. No one else laughed. Jacomina left the room. Johannes Smit gestured to Niki that they too should leave. But she did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the framed portrait on the wall. A dashing Stephanus Cronje, frozen in a perpetual state of youthfulness. Johannes Smit gently took Niki’s arm and led her out. Popi’s eyes remained fixed on the portrait.
“I wish you had known him, Popi,” said Tjaart Cronje in a quivering voice.
“Known him?” asked Popi.
“Our father,” responded Tjaart Cronje. “He was not a bad man.”
“Your father.”
“Our father. Surely you know that by now.”
“I have heard whispers.”
There was an uneasy silence for a while. Then Tjaart Cronje made some small talk about their days on the council. He did not talk about their fights. He recalled only some of the funny moments when the joke had been on him. Self-deprecating moments. Soon Popi was laughing. An uneasy kind of laughter. After a while, Tjaart Cronje said he was tired and wanted to sleep. He thanked her for coming. But as she was about to walk out of the door, he called her back.
“I have a little present for you,” he said, giving her a container of Immac hair remo
ver. “It is a cream that will make your legs smooth.”
For a moment, anger flashed across Popi’s face. Her hand did not move to take the insensitive gift from his shaking hand. But when she saw the earnestness of his face, she took it and said, “I don’t shave my legs, Tjaart.”
“You are a beautiful woman, Popi. Very beautiful. That cream is going to enhance the beauty of your long legs,” he said.
Popi smiled and whispered, “I do not shave my legs, Tjaart.”
“But you must,” cried Tjaart Cronje. “You are a lady. A beautiful lady.”
Popi was blushing all over. No one outside Niki and Viliki had ever called her beautiful before. At least, not to her face. Apparently she never knew how we used to gossip about her beauty, grudgingly praising it despite our public denunciations of her being a boesman.
“Lizette de Vries told me that progressive women don’t shave their legs,” she said. “Not even their armpits.”
“Lizette de Vries is an old-fashioned old fart,” he responded, chuckling at his own joke again.
“I’ll take the cream, Tjaart, because in my culture they say it is rude to refuse a present. But I will never use it. I love my body the way it is.”
Once more she bade Tjaart Cronje goodbye and left the room. Niki was waiting for her in the passage.
“I wonder what is eating him,” Popi whispered to Niki.
“Anger,” Niki whispered back. “It is as I told you, Popi. Anger does eat the owner.”
“He didn’t say much. I wonder why he wanted to see me?”
Johannes Smit and Jacomina were waiting for them in the kitchen.
As they walked back to Johannes Smit’s bakkie, they heard Jacomina whispering to Johannes Smit: “She looks so much like Tjaart.”
It was a season of whispers.
FROM THE SIJVS OF OUR MOTHERS
THE REAL NEW MILLENNIUM has dawned. Four women with pointed breasts walk in single file. Their long necks carry their multicoloured heads with studied grace. Their hair is white with age, but their faces glow with youth. They do not lose their way, even though they undertake their journey with closed eyes. They walk straight and rigidly, their brown shoes hardly leaving the naphthol crimson ground. Their profiles foreground a white and yellow sky. The woman in front wears a green dress. Her face is pink and blue and green. She holds a bunch of white cosmos. The second woman wears a red dress. Her face is blue and orange. She holds a bunch of violet cosmos. The third woman wears a brown dress. Her face is blue. She carries a bunch of pink cosmos. The fourth woman wears a green dress. Her face is brown and pink. She holds a bunch of white cosmos.