by Elsa Joubert
By that time his brother had come, and the neighbours, and Mosie and his wife. Dr Mantagisa gave us a death certificate and he called the undertakers. They took him away to the morgue and then I sent you the telegram, Poppie.
Poppie was not satisfied. She and mama and Miriam, the sister-in-law who had come from Johannesburg, and sisi Lindiwe waited in the kitchen for Johnnie Drop-Eye to bring the box and the case containing tata-ka-Bonsile’s belongings from the bachelor quarters. There was not much to bring. A spoon, a mug, a knife, a plate and a few blankets and pieces of clothing. Mama took the medicine from Groote Schuur and Conradie and the doctor and burnt it on the outside fire.
Poppie unpacked the few pieces of clothing, unfolded them, touched them gently and folded them again. These are old clothes, she told mama.
The clothes we took to the morgue to lay him out in, said mama, were better.
Poppie thought of the money he had sent them every fortnight, and the forty rand damage money he’d sent for the child of Bonsile. Then she remembered about the child and took the note from her handbag which read: Xoliswe’s son was born Monday, she was cut open for the birth.
My buti has been given back to us, said Lindiwe.
They compared the dates. She was taken to hospital on Sunday, but she could not give birth, so they had to cut her on Monday.
The child was born on the day my son-in-law died, said mama.
He must pay lobola for the girl so that we may have the child, said Lindiwe. The forty rand was just damage money. It does not make a Nongena of the child.
But when his oompie Spannerboy went to talk to him about the child, Bonsile said: I don’t want to lobola her. I am a schoolchild. I want to complete my studies. The girl has no people, she’s a cast-away orphan child. If you want the child she’ll give him to you.
If she’s a cast-away orphan child, who were the men that came to talk damage money? asked Poppie.
They aren’t her kinsmen, said Bonsile, she grew up with them. I’m not paying them lobola.
I lay my husband’s death at the door of the igqira, said Poppie.
Why don’t you go see him? mama said. Talk to him, tell him he killed your husband. It will lift this heaviness from your heart. What do I seek from him? asked Poppie. I don’t believe in those people, what now can he tell me?
You can make a court case, said buti Mosie.
She remembered the attorney in the Volkskas building, but he brought back troubled memories. She considered the Black Sash people and the Legal Aid that Mrs Retief once said would help her. Johnnie took her to the office in town where black people were given free legal aid.
The white man behind the desk was angry at first: You go to the herbalists and then we have to mend matters. He pushed his work aside and pulled the telephone to him. He phoned up the Guguletu police station.
They know of your husband’s death, he told Poppie. They are looking for the death certificate.
They waited, they heard the voice of the police sergeant speaking.
The white man put down the telephone. The certificate states that chest trouble caused his death.
It’s not true, said Johnnie. I heard this Dr Mantagisa say: The igqira’s medicine kills you off, but you still go to him, you must stay away from him. And I saw the man dying that night, how his stomach worked blood till he had no strength left.
The white man answered: What can I do? The certificate says chest.
Poppie picked up her bag and got up. It’s bribery, she said. The igqira bribed the doctor, or even the police.
Against bribery she had no power.
The igqira is rich, she said, the people fear him. He has ears where we don’t. He hears talk of the court case my husband’s brother will make and he gets chest trouble written on the death certificate.
It’s a serious thing you are saying, said the white man. If you can bring me proof, I’ll take up the matter.
It’ll be no use, said Poppie. In the location they say: Money speaks, and I have no money to bribe. Leave the matter be. My husband is dead.
The white man looked at Johnnie.
He hung his head, at a loss. Master must rather leave it be. If the police hear about this, it will cause trouble. They’ll demand where’s your pass, where’s your permit. We don’t feel for more trouble. Leave it alone, master. And if it ever gets to the court, they’ll twist it in such a way that we won’t even know what it’s all about. We don’t hold it against the herbalist, he only tried to help, sometimes his medicine helps a person, but this buti’s illness was too deep for him.
Poppie thought: I am here in Cape Town without a pass, I must stay as far as I can from the police.
You mustn’t blame tata-ka-Bonsile too much, said mama. He just tried to help, and found his death.
Poppie did not blame him. Her feeling of attachment to him grew. Perhaps because buti Plank had gone back to sea and apart from the money he gave her, he could do no more to help her; and buti Hoedjie had moved in with another coloured woman. Buti Mosie was good to her and said: You and your children must come and live with me. But he was busy, too, every night with his volunteer work, or choir practice or overhauling his car. Which of her brothers was left to her?
Jakkie. Jakkie worked in his mama’s garden, dressed in his new long khaki pants and shirt, and black doek tied round his head, his face smeared with red clay. Since he had been to the bush, he had changed. The girls told her that he had become a leader amongst his age-mates, they called him Jungle man or J-man. He seemed shy of her, as younger people are shy of older people that have suffered a deep sorrow. But she heard him and Bonsile laughing and talking as they sat round the fire at night.
Groote Schuur and Conradie hospitals could not help her husband, Poppie thought. It was not the igqira who killed him, it was the hard life in the Cape. Starting with the dairy work in Philippi, carrying on till she had to leave, even to the present. And the hardest for him was the burden she had to bear.
Don’t harden your heart, Poppie, said mama. She took her to the prayer meeting. She prayed for Poppie till the tears streamed down her face and she had to take a handkerchief to blow out her nose. Mamdungwana and mama supported Poppie when they left the meeting.
The old white boss Steyn at Standard House had told her: If it is the Lord’s will that you must go, it is His will. You must accept it. You must not fight it. And now the Lord’s will had led to tata-ka-Bonsile’s death.
Her heart was filled with self-reproach. Was she right to refuse her in-laws when they had wished to take the body to the land? She let the preachers of her church bury him, because of her his tata and his mama did not see his corpse.
Dear Lord Jesus, did I do right?
57
After a few days, Poppie was strong once more. I have come thus far, she thought, and now, even with tata-ka-Bonsile dead, I can’t tum back, for I must go forward. The year has begun, I must see that my children get schooling.
Buti Mosie came to Makhulu’s house to see Poppie and said: Now the children are my children, ‘cause why their pa is dead and the one oompie they have, is sick in his head and it’s here we must put them to school.
We can’t put them to school in Cape Town, buti, said Poppie, because they aren’t registered here. I know this business well, I don’t want to start struggling all over again.
We’ll try, said buti Mosie.
Because Poppie was in deep mourning and had to remain in the house, Mosie went to auntie Violet, the auntie they had stayed with when she was a young makoti, and who wasn’t working at the moment.
I’ll give you bus fare, sisi, then you go to the school and say: These children were born here but their mama was sent away from the Cape. Can they get their schooling here?
This auntie Violet went, but the principal of the first school said: The children must first be registered at the office, and when sisi Violet went to the office they said: No, the children are registered in East London, they must get their schooling there.<
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We’ll slip them into a school, said buti Mosie, and he sent auntie Violet to a principal that he knew, but the principal said: My school is full, how can I take them if their names are not registered on a house card?
Mosie was dissatisfied, but Poppie said: Then I must make new plans.
To mama she said: I decide one thing at a time, mama, and I have decided I must work for my children to keep them at school, and I am coming to work in the Cape. There is no money there in East London. With eighteen rand a month and five children, I’ll get nowhere.
Bonsile must go back to school in East London, but the girls can’t live alone in the house, they must go to my in-laws on the land. Even if it is far to the next ilali where I hear there is a school, they’ll just have to walk.
Kindjie and Fezi can live with buti Mosie and I’ll work sleep-in.
And your pass? mama asked.
I’ll work without a pass, mama, and if I get sleep-in, how will the office know about me?
And if you come to the location weekends and there is a raid?
Then the Lord must take care of me, said Poppie. The money is twice as much here and I must keep my children at school. So it’s not something bad I’m doing, mama.
She talked to Mr Kwinanu who was going with his lorry to Herschel: Take my children with you, I will pay you. When you get there help them to find a place in school, for the parents of my husband are old, they don’t know about school. There are schools there, but it is far to walk.
He promised to help.
I am sending my daughters to the land as my in-law-people wished after all, Poppie thought, but there was no bitterness in her heart: What must be, must be.
You’re going to Herschel, she told Nomvula and Thandi. I’ll go back to East London first to fix up the house and get your school papers to send to you. Tell the teachers in the meantime that your father’s death has caused confusion. Mr Kwinanu will help you.
Nomvula and Thandi did not want to go. They wept.
Let us stay with Katie and Baby, let us go to school here, they begged.
Poppie did not answer them.
Once more she felt the uneasiness come over her that she had felt before her husband’s death. At night she slept restlessly, dreams darkened her sleep. She dreamed that she was searching for tata-ka-Bonsile. She walked past rows of old men sitting smoking their pipes. She looked for him but did not find him, and the old men turned their faces from her and would not show her the way to go.
Must I find the road myself? thought Poppie.
So she refused to listen to Nomvula and Thandi and packed their clothes in a bag and forced them on to Mr Kwinanu’s lorry.
We don’t know the land, they cried. We’ve never seen our grandfather and grandmother, we’re afraid of them.
Then you must see them now, said Poppie. She wrote down the address for Mr Kwinanu; he put it in his pocket. She wrote on a piece of paper: Nomvula has passed Standard Six and must go to Standard Seven, Thandi must go to the Higher Primary to Standard Six. The sooner they get to school the better, she told Mr Kwinanu.
The girls wept as he drove off. We want to stay with Bonsile in Mdantsane, they had begged, we’ll cook and do the housework and go to school. But Poppie had Xoliswe in mind: I won’t leave my daughters unprotected in NU 7.
The owner of the garage in Goodwood where Stone had worked knew about his death and sent a message: If his son wants to come under contract, he can get his father’s job.
But Poppie refused. To come under contract was for her a harsh thing. Must Bonsile’s life follow the road his father’s had gone? No, he goes back to Mdantsane to complete his schooling.
Buti Hoedjie was drunk. He shouted at her: For what are you sending him away? Who told you about Mdantsane? Always Mdantsane, bloody Mdantsane.
Has buti not yet asked at the office who told me about Mdantsane, said Poppie. My people have never been to the Ciskei or the Transkei, Poppie thought. They hate the land, they don’t want my children to go to Herschel or Mdantsane, but what other way is open to me?
A week later she said: I leave for East London on Sunday to fix up the house and to find people to rent it, then I will come back.
But before she and Bonsile could leave by train for East London, Mr Kwinanu’s lorry stopped at the door of mama’s house and Nomvula got out. Her face was streaked with dust and tears. She saw her ma and ran to her. She was unable to speak for crying, but hid her face behind her fist, and wiped her nose with her forearm.
And this now? Mr Kwinanu? Poppie asked.
Mr Kwinanu got down from the lorry and shook hands with Poppie.
Molo, sisi. He looked embarrassed. He looked at Nomvula, opening his hands to show his powerlessness. We couldn’t get school for her. The little one got school at the Higher Primary, but the big school was full. Again he looked at Nomvula, at her uncombed hair, her dirty face. She fought, sisi. She wouldn’t stay there. She got on to the lorry and we couldn’t get her off.
I want to come back to mama, said Nomvula, I was too late for school.
If you’re late there, you are late here too, and in any case they will not take you. I can’t leave you here because already I am on my way to East London.
Nomvula arrived on Friday, and Sunday Poppie took her and Bonsile back by train.
I’m taking you back, said Poppie, because the law says you cannot stay here.
58
Poppie and Nomvula got off the train in the night at Stormberg, and Bonsile went through to East London. Poppie did not remember this part of the country, but by asking they found their way, from one train to the other, and at last by bus to Palmietfontein.
Since her first visit as makoti, the old people had moved to a trust village where the huts were built in rows, each one with a small mealie patch and a kraal. She asked her way of an old man who was half-blind and walked with a stick. It was tata-ka-Bonsile’s father.
She said after she had greeted him: I brought the children here for their schooling, because I don’t want them to live apart from one another. And tata-ka-Bonsile told me they are needed to look after you.
The old man nodded.
Now, if this one gets no schooling this year, she must stay here till next year, because I’m taking a job and she can’t stay alone in the house with her brother in East London. I’m not looking for trouble. She must stay here with her sister.
Thandi was not expecting them. She was carrying water to the old people’s hut when she saw her mother and sister coming along the road. She took the pail from her head and ran. She was crying. She tried to stop her mother from walking too fast and arriving at the hut too soon.
It’s a bad place, mama, she said. I don’t like staying here. I want to come back to mama.
What’s wrong with it? Poppie asked. She talked roughly to the child. Are you too good for these people?
Ma, they don’t even have paraffin here. To eat we must first make a fire outside. She pointed at the cooking shelter where the embers were still glowing and where the black three-legged pot had been pushed aside. Ma, I can’t eat their food.
The trust village was far from the school and shop and post office. The old people had been given one hut only, and Miriam’s small daughter from Johannesburg lived with them. The old woman was sitting inside the hut. It was dusk and she was wrapped in her blanket. She greeted Poppie, taking her hand.
While they talked Thandi went out to boil water on the fire and make tea in the little blue teapot and poured for them. Poppie tasted the goat’s milk in the tea. She disliked the taste, but it was warm and wet, and she was thirsty after the journey.
What other work must you do? she had asked Thandi.
I must fetch the goats to the kraal, I must do my homework, I must cook for tatomkhulu and makhulu.
Go and help your sister, Poppie told Nomvula.
She sat beside her mother-in-law, close to her so that she might be heard.
It is good that you have come yourself, sa
id her mother-in-law, because we are helpless. We are too old, we cannot walk to the school and speak. They did not take the child. We could not stop her when she got on to the lorry to go back to you.
She must stay here, mama. Because I must go out to work, and the money is not enough in East London.
They can stay here, said her mother-in-law. Miriam’s child is too young to look after us, and the old man is blind and I cannot fetch water any more.
I will send money for their school and food, said Poppie.
Nomvula cried and pleaded when Poppie prepared to leave after two days.
Thandi goes to school, it is not so bad for her, she pleaded. She has her schoolmates, and even if it is far, they walk together and they play on the paths and on the hills, but I will have to stay here, every day. Ouma is too strict. They’re raw people, mama, the hut stinks, I don’t want to sleep here.
Poppie thought once more: If it is the Lord’s will that you stay, you will stay, and if it’s the Lord’s will that you go, you will go. She was sorry for her child, and yet there was some part of her heart which was not sorry for her. If this is what she was born for, then she too must carry her burden. As she, Poppie, had to carry hers.
You are still young, Nomvula, you will get used to it.
But I don’t want to get used to it, mama.
They heard Thandi outside, breaking twigs and starting the fire. She was singing softly, a song unknown to Poppie. A new fear entered Poppie’s heart.
She gripped Nomvula’s arm. You are staying here, my child, but you must not forget where you have come from. You must not forget your ouma and your family in Cape Town. You must not forget your oompie Mosie. And don’t allow Thandi to forget. You may visit your auntie Constance in the next ilali. Go to her for company. See that you get school next year. Keep thinking of next year, next year at school. Help Thandi with her schoolwork. One day, I promise you, we will live together again.
59
After two days with her in-laws, Poppie returned to East London.
