The Long Journey of Poppie Nongena

by Elsa Joubert

  When the group has completed its three months, our great day comes. Then it is the time of umlaliso, or what the people will call the sleeping-over Saturday night’s church, because the service lasts the whole night. We invite all the churches, the Methodists, the Dutch Reformed, the Presbyterians and the Roman Church and everyone that wants to attend. From Langa and Nyanga East and Guguletu. All the people come and the children bring blankets, and those that work come directly from their jobs.

  It will be about ten o’clock when the minister clothes the people. The women to be clothed stand in a row. The minister’s wife and the women who help her have the purple blouses each marked with its owner’s name. Then the minister reads what you must believe and what you promise to do, and he reads your name and everybody says from one throat: Yes, if the Lord will help us. The women come and pull your purple blouse on over the white one you are wearing, and you receive a card saying you are a full member of the Mothers’ Union. And the men are treated in the same way except they receive purple waistcoats.

  In the church hall the women have cooked a meal-meat and vegetables and rice and soup, and outside they have lit fires for making tea and coffee.

  So then we are told: Now you must eat and drink.

  All night long the candles are burning and the people sing, and at about three o’clock in the morning the minister leaves for home, as he must still be able to preach on Sunday morning. When the day breaks, the candles are low and our voices are gone because of too much singing, the children sleep on their blankets on the church benches. Those with cars will have gone, but those without cars have to stay because they can’t walk in the night, they have to wait until the buses are on the road again.

  Lord, your portals are opened to us. Your golden streets await us. Lord, the wings of your angels enfold us. We will shelter underneath your wings. We shall lack nothing, our beakers overflow.

  While she is singing, the worries that have clouded her life fall from Poppie. When she is among the women who have been clothed anew she is strong and safe. They are her sisters and she is theirs. Singing, they walk down the steps of the church, when they hear good news, they clap their hands with joy, when the bad times are upon them they take each other by the arms.

  She sang until she was completely hoarse. When she had to take the bus back to work on Monday morning her voice was still feeble. Her Bible lay next to her bed in her room.

  No, there was no special portion of the Book that I read during that time, Poppie explains. When I read in the Bible everything I read is special.

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  When she had been working for six months she received a letter in a strange hand, but in the same blue envelope that her children in Herschel used to send to her. From the time of the telegram telling her of her husband’s illness, Poppie was scared of a telegram or a letter in a strange handwriting. It was from Constance, buti Spannerboy’s wife. Buti Spannerboy had been paid his insurance money from his accident and he had returned to Herschel. With this money they had bought the house in the ilali next to the one of the old people.

  Dear Sisi, she wrote, things are all right with me, I hope that everything is well with you. Ma is a bit poorly, but she is in any case not lying down. Pa is not too well either although he is up and about. Tata says I have to let sisi know that Bonsile should return to go to the bush. Tata says he has no strength left and Bonsile should come before he dies. I close my letter by sending greetings to everybody, from Constance.

  That afternoon, while Poppie was taking in the washing, Hannie the maid from next door, came to the fence to talk.

  What’s the matter, sisi? she asked, bad news or something?

  Hannie was a coloured woman, about Poppie’s age, with children of her own. Poppie knew she had also had her share of worries and troubles.

  Poppie told her about the letter: I promised that my child could go to the bush in the land, and now his grandpa calls to him to come.

  Hannie knew about Bonsile, about the school and Poppie’s hope for him.

  She said: The child has done so well and his Standard Nine is going so well, you can’t take him from school and send him away. For what are your people so taken up with this bush business?

  That is our belief, said Poppie. It is our most important belief; he can go nowhere unless he has gone to the bush.

  That evening Hannie came to Poppie’s room: Sisi, you are such a loyal church-woman – she too is a church woman, Methodist, like Poppie’s mama – what’s all this bush-going business?

  Where did you grow up that you do not know about these things? Poppie had bitterness in her heart. She thought about the coloureds of Lamberts Bay and the Basters of Upington who held the bush ritual in respect. It’s our belief, she said once again, not only of the raw people but of us all. The Lord made everybody, the Xhosa too. He takes us as we are; it’s not sinful to kill a goat or a sheep or to make beer; it’s good work. We are the amaXhosa, as they say, and we do our beliefs as amaXhosa, and above all we serve God.

  She prayed about it, and then decided: Bonsile has not turned twenty yet and he must finish his year at school before going to the bush. Then she wrote to Constance: Bonsile cannot come now. Tell my father-in-law the time is not right, he will come later.

  That night she dreamt one of her bad dreams. She was barefoot and walking on a dirt road. She was wearing a long dress, like when she was a makoti and the skirt was dragging in the dust, but she couldn’t pick it up. She couldn’t walk straight ahead, but was being forced to pass between old men who were all around her, wearing blankets and carrying kieries. And she saw them raise the kieries and point them this way and that. They came upon a herd of cattle and one old man told her: That is the ox that you must bring, then another old man spoke up and said: No, it is the other one. They were pushing her ahead in among the cattle, closer to the trampling hooves. She wanted to run away from all this, but the old men took hold of her, ugly old men. Mama, she cried, they are ugly old men.

  The next day she received a telegram from Constance that tata-ka-Bonsile’s father had passed by.

  Mrs Swanepoel complained: When I come in late at night or if I get up during the night I see that your light is burning, Rachel. Now, Rachel, you’re wasting electricity, or do you forget to turn off the light at night?

  I don’t sleep very well, madam, Poppie replied.

  Must I give you a pill?

  If madam would.

  One Sunday she walked from buti Mosie’s house to mama’s, but mama wasn’t there, she was in church. But in the backyard she found buti Plank, sitting with his back against the wire of the fowl-run. He was carving thin palings. And he was sober.

  If I had stayed on here in the Cape, buti Plank, she said, tata-ka-Bonsile would still have been alive.

  She sat down next to him, but her hands were restless and she broke the shavings in ever smaller bits.

  If I were here he would not have gone to that man for the strong poison medicine. I don’t say that the herbalist was wrong, no; maybe it was only the medicine that was too strong for him. Or maybe I could have called a doctor. Maybe he would not have lain a whole night with his stomach running. Maybe I would have taken him to hospital earlier.

  Well, it is now finished, little sister, Plank answered. Why does it worry you?

  The old men come to me in my dreams, my buti. I can’t sleep any longer. Tata-ka-Bonsile’s tata died before I could send Bonsile to go to the bush at his place.

  It’s the fucking people of the land, said buti Plank. They must leave go of you; those things are finished for you.

  They are against everything that I have to do with tata-ka-Bonsile’s people, she thought. They are against the people of the land. Later she talked to buti Mosie.

  We are living here, buti Mosie answered. Bring the child to us; let him go to the bush here in Cape Town. We have never been on the land, we are not interested in what the people of the land have told you. Bring the child to us, we’ll look after him.
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br />   It is my grandchild, mama joined in. Let him come to the Cape when he has completed his schooling; I’ll help you with his going to the bush; I’ll support you, Poppie.

  The dreams did not stop.

  She dreamt she was a makoti once again, sitting in the hut where she sat on her first visit with tata-ka-Bonsile. Now, however, the hut was full of people and she had no breath in her and they had to drag her outside by the arms. They took her to the big drums of beer boiling over the fires, they gave her a strainer and told her: Strain this. But however much she strained so the mtombo boiled up and she couldn’t keep ahead, straining the beer. Eventually it was over the brim and running down her legs and feet.

  Buti Mosie came to the house where she was working, and he remained with her in her room for a long time.

  My sister, you take this thing too much to heart.

  She lay on her bed in the dark. My eyes are hurting me, light the candle. She had got into the habit of lighting a candle at night when she couldn’t sleep, so that the white woman couldn’t see.

  My sister, you must find peace, buti Mosie said.

  It’s the dreams, buti, she told him. Last night I went with the old men again, with one of them that I know, one who is alive, although I do not know who he is, the others are unknown to me. I dreamt I was in the land at my in-laws’ place and there were a great many people coming to the place where they were taking me and there they sat around drinking beer. They had slaughtered an ox and the old men were talking about why they slaughtered the ox. And buti, it felt as if the slaughtering had been done to me, it was so bad I didn’t even want to look. I saw the sides of life, like wings, moving, and fear came over me. Tata-ka-Bonsile wanted to take the child to the bush and my father-in-law wanted to fix the belief things for the child, and now they have both passed by.

  She straightened up, her doek falling from her head, as she pleaded with her buti Mosie: I do not want to quarrel with anybody, buti. Buti Plank will be drunk and swear at me, and you, buti, will be against this thing, and a whole lot of talk-talk will follow on this, but I have decided. The child must go to his father’s place for the ritual.

  If that is the way you feel, then he must go. And we will help you.

  She wrote to Bonsile at Mdantsane that he should finish his year at school and then come to Cape Town and work during the holiday at the garage where his tata used to work, so as to earn money for the new clothes he would have to buy when he went to the bush.

  She went to Mr Brown’s garage and asked him: Can Stone Nongena’s child come to work here during the December holidays to earn some money? Good, he said, I liked Stone, his child can come.

  She wrote to buti Spannerboy at his house in the ilali next to her mother-in-law’s place and asked: I want to do as tata-ka-Bonsile asked me to, I want to send Bonsile to the land to do the ritual when he has finished this year at his school. Will you make the arrangements?

  Buti Spannerboy answered: I have no son; Bonsile is my son, I will do as you ask.

  But then she had to talk to mama, because mama would have to help her at her work. Mama was not for this bush business. You have had enough trouble with the people of the land, she said. Get some peace in you. Let the child do the ritual here in the Cape. Then we can all help you.

  Poppie told her about her dreams: It has been decided, mama. And mama will see Bonsile when he arrives at Christmas time to work here. But now I need mama to help me.

  Because she had asked Mrs Swanepoel: If I don’t mind working during the Christmas and New Year, and if I help madam with the people who are coming down here to visit, can I have my leave at the end of January? I want to go home to my children.

  How long will you be away? Mrs Swanepoel asked.

  It will be longer than one month, she answered, but before Mrs Swanepoel could complain, Poppie said: mama will come and work in my place.

  All right, Mrs Swanepoel answered, but I don’t want to be bothered with all this, you’d better teach your mama what she ought to know.

  Will mama help me? Poppie asked.

  All right, I’ll help.

  Poppie began putting money aside for the bush business, and buti Plank gave her money, as well as Jakkie and buti Mosie who said: I am not for this, but I’ll help, sisi. After all, we are the help-each-other people. It was a word that he had heard somewhere, and he liked the sound of it. Mama could not give much, because she had to save something for Katie who was pregnant by some city boy without people. But she gave what she could. Buti Hoedjie also brought her money. He had gone back to Muis and built her a house at Cross Roads. She was ill and buti Hoedjie worked during the day and looked after her at night.

  Hoedjie has become like oompie Sam, said mama, he still drinks but when he is drunk he goes off by himself to sleep. Now he came to help Poppie too.

  Are you feeling better now, sisi? asked Hannie as they sat in the backyard cleaning the cutlery of the two house holds.

  I am now feeling better about everything, Hannie, she said.

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  At the bus terminus in Nyanga Poppie met a boy whose parents she had known at Lamberts Bay; he had been Bonsile’s friend when he was still in the Cape.

  Madolpen, she said, Bonsile is coming within a few months. Then, in the new year, he is going to the land for his bush ritual.

  Madolpen answered: Then I am not staying home either, sisi.

  His father, Malume, was a fisherman in Kalk Bay, his mother was working in Claremont. They were not living together any longer.

  But how can you say a thing like this? You have arranged nothing with your parents.

  That doesn’t matter, sisi, I am not staying behind; if Bonsile goes, I go.

  Get on the train and go and see your father in Kalk Bay, I will phone your mother.

  I don’t mind his going, his mother said. I can’t leave my work, but if he goes with you he can go.

  The next Sunday Poppie was at Mosie’s place when Malume arrived there, somewhat drunk.

  For what does my child want to go to Kaffirland? he said. Herschel is too far away. If he wants to go to the bush, he can do so here in Cape Town, just like his brothers.

  Don’t tell me that, Poppie replied, tell that to your child. Can I help it if your child wants to go along?

  Madolpen’s mother came to Poppie’s work and brought money along. It was more than fifty rand. She was glad the child could go with Bonsile. Her eldest son didn’t want to work, and the second one was a gaolbird.

  I have too much trouble with the children all by myself, she said. If this last-born of mine can go to the bush where he is taught the proper things, maybe something can still come of him. Here in the Cape the ritual is just rush-rush and everything finished.

  The boys left by train for Herschel one week before Poppie to start preparations. Sunday afternoon she went to the station with Fezile and Kindjie. Kindjie, six years old, would be going to school in the coming year; Fezi, at nine, was doing well and top of his class every time. They were going along with her to Herschel because she wanted all the children together once again, even though it would be for only one month.

  They took the train to Stormberg, Burgersdorp, Aliwal North, the railway bus to Lady Grey, the bus to Sterkspruit, then they caught the next bus to Palmietfontein. The two children were tired and fell asleep leaning against Poppie. It was past noon and the sky was heavily overcast. There was dust all over the bus, on the seats and on the sills of the windows. The children were dirty, around their mouths the dust caked on the dried spittle of sweets and food eaten earlier. It was so warm Poppie felt the perspiration form in damp circles on her body where the children’s heads leant against her.

  Then the rain came. The water ran in dirty streams down the windows, the sound of the bus wheels on the road changed, the tyres seemed to cling to the wet dirt. The heat in the bus didn’t cool down. Kindjie awoke, sat up straight and started to cry. Poppie comforted her and the child fell asleep again. The passengers were tired, they sa
t hunched, clutching their parcels. Through the dirty windows it was impossible to see whether they had reached the mountains.

  When the bus stopped the back door was jerked open from the outside and coolness from the rain came into the bus. It was the stop at Sterkspruit. The two boys had come to meet them. Poppie saw them at once, Madolpen and Bonsile. They had thrown hessian bags over their heads and shoulders to keep off the rain. Bonsile took the two children down from the bus and tried to cover them with the hessian. Madolpen helped Poppie to take down her baggage.

  My sisters stayed at home, because of the rain, Bonsile said.

  That’s all right, Poppie answered.

  They watched the baggage being off-loaded from the roof. The driver got back in his seat and started the engine. From inside the passengers she’d talked to shouted goodbye.

  We had a good journey, she told the boys.

  The rain had gone from the sky, and the black clouds had cleared. They saw bits of blue sky appearing, and the pale glow of the setting sun. The land was still as green and damp-warm as Poppie remembered it. She felt familiar with it, not such a complete stranger as the previous time.

  But Madolpen found everything completely new. He talked and waved his arms and stood in front of the two younger ones who were frightened by the passing cattle. They looked with huge staring eyes, just as Poppie, a long time ago, had looked at the naked bodies of the boys wrapped in blankets herding the cattle with kieries.

  The bus from Sterkspruit to Palmietfontein that would drop them at her in-laws’ ilali, Kwastorom, was waiting. In this bus there were raw people. Even in the heat the old men had blankets draped over their shoulders, although they were fully clothed.

  Aren’t the tatas very warm with the blankets over their clothes? Fezi asked.

  Poppie told him to be quiet.

  One of these days I’ll also be walking around carrying a kierie, Madolpen boasted.

  We have been looking around for goats to buy, mama, Bonsile said, but they are scarce and expensive; we’re not going to have it easy.