Zebra Horizon

by Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

  *

  Pa Saida turned up the volume of the radio and listened attentively to the weather forecast. After the speaker had announced a fine hot day in the Freestate, no rain expected, a happy grin spread over Pa Saida’s face. “Today is the day,” he announced.

  “Yeahhh,” Hein yelled excitedly and my other host siblings joined in.

  “What’s up?” I asked. Everybody knows that the weather is important for farmers, but I was astounded to see such an outbreak of enthusiasm because of another fine hot day.

  “Today is totally special,” Debbie said. Today we are going to have the Christmas party for the blacks.”

  Sarie, Debbie and I were given the job of packing the Christmas boxes for the labourers and their families. There were clothes and sweets for the kids; sugar, oil, canned fish, tobacco, tea and enamel mugs and plates and a huge bag of mieliemeal for each family, and a new uniform for each maid, which I found wasn’t really a gift.

  At 10 o’clock Hezekiel loaded 2 cages with fowls and ducks on the bakkie. Lena and Sannie brought folding chairs and tables and Poppie and Lorah picnic baskets. Pa Saida dropped Sarie, Hein and me off at the dam behind the horse stables and turned back to fetch some more stuff. We arranged the chairs and tables under a tree.

  In the dam, 3 guys were busy erecting a contraption consisting of 2 trestles connected by a 5 metre long metal pole. Submerged to the top of their thighs, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices, they fixed the metal pole horizontally, about a metre above the water on the trestles. A boy called Twala yelled his contribution to the conversation from a place ashore, where he had built a big fire.

  “That’s where they are going to braai their meat,” Sarie told me. “Look, here’s the bakkie.”

  Hummel, Christo and Debbie jumped off the back and Ma Saida climbed out the cabin balancing another picnic basket. Pa Saida called Twala and Lazarus to come and help. They unloaded innumerable cases full of wine bottles.

  “Heidewitzka, who is going to drink all that?” I asked.

  “Us and them,” Pa Saida said grinning. “It’s party time and it’s part of the tradition.”

  Christo pulled at my shorts. “Why do you say ‘hide your whiskers’, Mathilda?”

  “Huh?”

  “You just said: hide your whiskers, who is going to drink all that.”

  Everybody burst out laughing.

  “Oh, you mean Heidewitzka.”

  Christo nodded.

  “It’s a German word, or mebbe it’s Bavarian. It’s an expression of…” I scratched my head because I had never really thought about it. “It’s an expression of…uh… amazement…or surprise. I don’t know where it comes from. I just like the sound of it.”

  We could hear the Africans’ voices while they were still 500m away, walking up the blue gum road.

  “Ja boetie, these guys can talk,” Pa Saida said opening a wine bottle. “And when they talk it’s with maximum volume. I was told it comes from walking in a file in the bush; you have to speak up if you want to be heard.” He took a schluck of vino and let off a sigh of contentment. “That’s the life.”

  When the 3 boys had finished setting up the pole in the dam, Pa Saida waved to them to come over. They waded out of the water, sopping wet, and Pa Saida gave each of them a bottle of wine. “If you want more you bring the empties back.”

  “Ee Baas.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Just the other day Pa Saida had kicked Lazarus out of the shed, swearing and shouting that he wouldn’t tolerate a drunken muntu at work, and if it happened again he’d give Lazarus a whipping, he would remember for the rest of his life. As if he had read my thoughts Pa Saida turned to me and said: “Today is a day to drink, eat and to be merry. Read Ecclesiastes.”

  “Looks like they are all here now,” Ma Saida scanned the crowd of blacks who had gathered under the trees. There were about 100 of them; everybody from grey haired old September whose job it was to herd the turkeys, to Poppie’s teenage daughter with her baby strapped to her back. Children ran around excitedly, some of the smaller ones looked with big eyes from behind their mothers’ skirts.

  Pa Saida gave an ultra short speech in Sotho. The only word I understood was kissimusi; Lorah had explained the other day that we were baking Christmas pies for little Jeesaas, who was born on kissimusi day. After the speech Pa and Ma Saida proceeded to hand out the kissimusi boxes, sticking strictly to the hierarchy of the workforce. First came the men because in this part of Africa the blacks lived in a totally patriarchal society. Ma Saida had told me, that the male farm workers would not always listen to her orders because she was a mere female; there was nothing one could do about it, just to accept it and keep one’s sanity intact.

  The boss boy collected his gift with a big grin, followed by the tractor drivers and the ordinary labourers. Each one clapped his hands once, then turned the right palm upwards and supported the right forearm with the left hand – one of their gestures to show respect – and with a brief nod of the head took his kissimusi box and a bottle of wine. The women, led by fat Lorah the chief maid, did the same plus a little curtsey. It took a while until the other house maids, the milkparlour maids and the field girls had had their turn, and by the time the last box was handed out, everybody had got stuck into their booze.

  “Now comes the best,” Sarie said. “I just love it.”

  Everybody else seemed to love it too, standing expectantly in a circle around Pa Saida. Pa Saida ceremoniously held up an empty jute bag that had once contained 50 kg of mielies. The crowd cheered. He folded the bag solemnly, more than 100 pairs of eyes hanging on his every movement. When he had folded the bag 4 times, he put it into another similar bag and presented the thing triumphantly to the spectators. The crowd cheered at the top of their voices. Pa Saida repeated the whole process with 2 other bags. It looked like the execution of some weird ritual, although for the life of me, I couldn’t work out the significance of the old jute bags. I had just turned to Hummel to ask him what the whole procedure was all about, when Pa Saida threw the bags into the crowd and all hell popped loose. All the grown up guys got into a scramble, while the women and kids encouraged them, hollering and yelling with earsplitting vigour. From then on the racket never stopped. Elias and Lazarus emerged with one of the bag things each. They ran as fast as they could towards the dam, followed hot on their heels by the other men and, at a more moderate pace, the rest of the compound population. Elias, full of wine and out of breath, got knocked over by a tall thin guy, who snatched the bag and chased after Lazarus, who was already up to his knees in the water. The crowd shouted ‘Lazarus, Lazarus’ and ‘Johannes, Johannes’. Johannes was the first one to arrive at the pole contraption. By the time he got to the top, the dam was churning with competitors. Lazarus, half way up the pole, gave Johannes one big klap with his bag and Johannes fell into the water like a stone. Lazarus let out a victorious yell, climbed up like a monkey and sat astride the pole. Some guy grabbed Johannes’ bag and got stuck in hitting Lazarus with full force. The bags were sopping wet by now and quite heavy. Lazarus took one mighty swing, missed his adversary and got carried into space by the momentum of his bag. Some other guy took over. The crowd collapsed with laughter every time somebody fell off the pole and all the Saidas were in stitches. I didn’t really think that watching guys klobber each other was that funny but I was in total convulsions too.

  Pa Saida wiped some tears off his cheeks and croaked: “They are supposed to sit in pairs on the pole and hit each other off with the bags. The idea is that the winner of the final round gets the first prize.” He suppressed another laugh attack and snorted: “And all they ever do is create total chaos. It happens every year.”

  The pole contraption filled up with guys kicking and punching in all directions. Some were hanging upside down, one couldn’t see which limb belonged to whom, and in a quick succession most of them crashed into the water. There was a short but dramatic fight between Twala and Zachariah from which Twala em
erged with a bleeding nose and Zachariah as the triumphant champion. The crowd went bananas, hailing the victor until he reached firm ground again and received the first prize: 4 ducks on the hoof in a cage, handed over by Pa Saida with a hearty handshake.

  There was a bit of a break during which most of the blacks exchanged their empty wine bottles for full bottles. Some of the women started to sing and clap and fell into a stomping dance. I went over to the folding tables, where Ma Saida was cutting a banana loaf into slices. Of all parties I had been to this one was definitely the most tumultuous and spontaneous. It was lekker fun, but when I saw Hein and Christo taking turns to sip at a wine bottle, it got me wondering where all this would end.

  I sat down and watched the women line up about 100 metres away from the dam. The men shouted in Sotho and laughed and clapped their hands on their thighs. Pa Saida yelled something like ‘ready, steady, go’, and the ladies galopped towards the water. Instantly the crowd burst into ebullient cheers again. A young, lithe milk maid took the lead, Poppie and 2 of the field girls not far behind. For the first 20 metres fat Sannie managed to keep up with the bulk of the racers, then she fell back, her voluminous figure wobbling like a big piece of jelly. I looked out for Lorah, who was twice as broad on the beam, and spotted her at the braai fire, to which Twala had returned with his bleeding nose, placing big chunks of mutton on the coals.

  The milk maid dashed into the water lifting up her skirt. The guys went wild; Lena fell flat on her face. Poppie overtook the milk maid and was the first one to make it round the pole contraption. On the way back a field girl caught up with her. When they stumbled ashore every thread of their clothes was clinging to their bodies. The guys went even wilder, waving their wine bottles, yelling, whistling and swigging as if the world was coming to an end. Fat Sannie, who had stopped running half way down the veld and leisurely watched the race from dry ground, turned round and moved her bulky frame amazingly fast to the finishing line. She got there 3 seconds before the field girl, and she claimed the first prize.

  “Holy Virgin, Mother of God,” Ma Saida put her wine glass down. “There’s bound to be a fight, damnit.”

  Although not a regular churchgoer, Ma Saida normally insisted on everybody in her surroundings to stick to the third commandment and not use the Lord’s name in vain. But on the day of the kissimusi fete, none of the habitual rules seemed to apply. Even swearing was ok, and Ma Saida, who hardly ever drank any alcohol, poured herself another glass of wine and didn’t notice, that her youngest kids got stuck into a second bottle.

  “I like the fighting part best,” Hein burped.

  “I wish we had one kissimusi party without a bloody fight,” Ma Saida sighed.

  At the finishing line things were hotting up. Sannie and the field girl were shouting at each other. Both of them wanted the first prize; the 2 hens, who were scratching around in their cage, oblivious to the drama they were about to cause. As soon as they got their breath back, Poppie and the milk maid joined in the shouting competition. A few guys joined in as well, gesticulating wildly. Pa Saida yelled something but nobody listened to him. He shrugged his shoulders and began to pick up empty bottles. There were lots of bottles lying around so I went over to help him. I soon wished I had stayed away. The fight was getting scary, looking totally out of control. The women were screaming and throwing stones. Johannes and Zachariah had a go at each other with sticks they had picked up. The other guys were standing in a threatening circle waving sticks in the air.

  “You are the boss here. Why don’t you stop them?” I asked Pa Saida.

  “How?” he growled. “They are at maximum decibels, you can’t get through to them, and anyway – it’s like trying to stop a dogfight, you’ll get bitten.”

  2 other men got into a stick fight and the first blood was flowing.

  “Let’s get these bottles away from here fast,” Pa Saida urged, “before they use them as weapons.”

  I carried a load to the bakkie and stayed there. I was really getting nervous. Another pair of stick fighters got stuck into each other; the women screamed and lashed out like they had gone totally bezerk. There wasn’t much difference between the combatants and the spectators anymore. Everybody had got involved in one way or another. Most of the kids had dashed off into the veld. I had never seen anything so uncontrolled and wild and I didn’t like it.

  Somebody will get killed.

  Pa Saida came with another load of bottles. He didn’t seem perturbed at all, only mightily pissed off. “If you asked them now, nobody would remember what this fight is all about.” He struck a match and lit one of his cheeroots. “Anyway, there is nothing we can do. They’ll just have to sort themselves out.” Pa Saida stuck the cheeroot in his mouth and that was when it all happened. Zachariah picked up a rock and smashed it into Lazarus’ head. Lazarus’ legs buckled and he fell flat on his face with blood squirting all over the show.

  “Here we go. One guy out. They’ll stop now.”

  Pa Saida was right. Everybody calmed down a bit, the screaming diminished to loud talk, the kids reappeared, and Lazarus’ wife came and tried to help him sit up.

  Pa Saida got a little bag out of the bakkie. “All right, let’s go. Isn’t your pa a doctor?”

  “Ja. Why?”

  “I might need a hand.”

  “Huh?”

  Good Lord! What’s he talking about?

  Pa Saida didn’t answer. He presented the field girl with the first prize. Nobody objected. The women gathered their kids and walked off to the braai.

  Pa Saida had one look at Lazarus and said: “Ok girlio, now we’ll see what you are made out of.” He passed me the little bag. “Take a needle and put some cotton in it. Make it quite long. Old Lazarus has a hell of a gash on his jaw and I don’t like to fiddle around with short pieces.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Are you going to stitch him up with a normal needle and some old sewing thread?”

  “You got the idea,” Pa Saida grinned. “And you are going to hold the edges of the wound together.”

  Du lieber Himmel. Why me?

  I looked around for somebody who would be better suited for the task. Ma Saida and the kids were slumped around the tables and looked completely useless. The blacks had gathered around the fire and were grabbing pieces of meat. Lazarus’ wife stank of booze and could hardly stand.

  “Lazarus, sit up you drunk poep,” Pa Saida shouted and at the same time poured half a bottle of wine over the wound, washing it clean. “Ok girlie, now hold these forceps like this…that’s right…” And before my very eyes he started stitching, every now and then pressing on the wound with a rag to stop the bleeding.