Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  ‘Look, we’re here,’ Precious said with a happy cry. She wasn’t really feeling happy but she thought she should put on a show for Karabo.

  But Karabo kept looking back at the boys and Precious had to bundle her into Jabu’s yard. She cursed Teacher under her breath for telling Karabo to always stand up for herself. That sort of chat-show life lesson could get you killed in Mthatha.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ she said to Karabo, pointing to the next room. She would have sat with her for a few minutes but it wouldn’t do to keep igqirha waiting.

  She patted Karabo on the shoulder to reassure her but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked pensive, like she was working out one of Teacher’s bloody sums in her head.

  Precious knocked on the door and when she entered she found Jabu Molefe seated cross-legged on the bare floor. He was still in his blue overalls, the ones with yellow reflective stripes around the elbows and ankles. He looked more like the municipal labourer he was than a man who wrestled daily with spirits and imparted wisdom to allcomers. There was a straw mat spread out in front of him and on it were neat bunches of herbs tied with blades of dried grass, an assortment of coloured beads and an enamel cup half full of water.

  Precious felt a little cheated that Jabu hadn’t bothered to change out of his overalls. The last time she’d seen him he’d been wearing a grass skirt with leather amulets tied around his biceps. At least he could have messed up his hair a little.

  ‘You have come.’

  His voice was deep and resonant, just how igqirha’s voice should be.

  Precious smiled. Perhaps she’d get her money’s worth after all.

  ‘What brings you here, my daughter?’

  She wished Jabu wouldn’t call her that. He’d been two classes behind her at school. She shut her eyes and tried to focus on the fact that he was igqirha now, at least when he wasn’t cutting grass for the municipality.

  ‘You know why I am here. It is my husband.’

  She thought his eyes glimmered but it was difficult to tell in the half light.

  ‘The teacher?’

  ‘Yes – Teacher. My husband.’

  Jabu bent his head and stirred the beads with a dry twig. Then he dipped his hand into the cup of water and, without warning, flicked his fingers at Precious. She recoiled and cried out in alarm, feeling strangely humiliated, as if he had spat at her. But she did not dare wipe her face.

  ‘Does he know you?’

  ‘What do you mean, Jabu? He is my husband. Of course he knows me.’

  Jabu slipped his hand between his legs and cupped his crotch.

  ‘My daughter, I asked whether your teacher knows you.’

  Precious’s face burned with shame at the turn Jabu’s questions had taken.

  ‘No, Jabu,’ she said quietly. ‘Not for several months.’

  He bent his head again and rummaged among the items on the mat. His hands were dry and covered in small scars. He muttered a few words to himself, then handed Precious a brown kidney-shaped nut.

  ‘Eat,’ he said.

  Precious reached across and took the nut from him, taking care not to let her hand touch his. When she bit into it a peppery taste flooded her mouth. Jabu watched her carefully until she had swallowed the last piece.

  ‘I see the cause of your troubles, my daughter.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said eagerly.

  ‘It is a woman.’

  What woman? Did Teacher have a girlfriend? Precious ran through the women she’d seen around Teacher, scoring them against their likelihood of mischief. She didn’t trust Dorothy Mpetla. The bitch read the notices in church and spoke isiXhosa like an Englishwoman, clicking her tongue in all the wrong places. But it was common knowledge that Dorothy only had eyes for the Nigerian pastor, so Precious struck her off the list. But what about Eunice Matabela, the new school principal? Teacher spoke of her often and with admiration. Eunice was married, not that it mattered these days. If not Eunice or Dorothy, could it be that Venda girl in Grade Twelve, the one whose parents paid Teacher to give her extra maths lessons after school? She was tall and sullen with a body that spoke more than she did, the sort of body a man liked. Precious was still trying to remember her name when Jabu’s voice rolled through the gloom.

  ‘She is here.’

  Confused, Precious glanced quickly behind her. ‘You mean Karabo? But she’s not a woman, she is my daughter.’

  ‘I have answered your question,’ Jabu said firmly. A fly whisk appeared in his hand and he began to beat himself gently about the shoulders with it.

  Precious thought the firmness of his tone was ironic for Jabu had never been able to answer any questions at school.

  ‘No, you are mistaken. Karabo is not to blame,’ Precious said anxiously. ‘She is only a child.’

  ‘There are no children in this house,’ Jabu said and a chill ran down Precious’s back. Then he dipped his hand in the cup and flicked his fingers at her again. The water tasted like it had been drawn from a dark and ancient well and this time Precious wiped her face with the back of her hand.

  She had been hoping Jabu would tell her something else. That it was indeed Dorothy Mpetla or Eunice Matabela who was the cause of her troubles. Or the Venda girl with the long slim legs whose name she couldn’t remember. She’d rather it was one of them instead of Karabo. It would have been much easier that way. She felt angry and bewildered and ashamed, all at the same time. She couldn’t bear to think of what Jabu had just said, for how does a mother denounce her own daughter?

  Then Jabu lit a small candle and she was grateful for that because the room had grown so dark she could hardly see him. But when had he unzipped his overalls? His bare chest glimmered in the candlelight. His breasts were a size larger than hers and his belly sloped forward, coming to rest in a contented heap between his legs. At school Precious used to tease Jabu about his weight. She hoped he didn’t remember.

  Suddenly, he tossed a broken piece of mirror across the mat towards her. It lay there, glinting wickedly, like a sliver of a star that had somehow fallen from the sky. Precious looked down at it, not knowing if she should pick it up or leave it where it fell.

  ‘She will go back to her people,’ Jabu said.

  ‘Which people?’ she cried. ‘Go back where, Jabu?’

  He grunted and pointed his fly whisk above his head. Precious looked up but all she could see were the shadowy traces of wooden beams.

  She didn’t understand. ‘Must my daughter climb up on your roof?’ she asked.

  Jabu began to beat himself about the shoulders with the fly whisk again. He didn’t say anything else. It looked like he was done. That was the problem with amagqirha, Precious decided. You never knew what you would get. She sighed and tucked a fifty-rand note under the corner of the mat. As she got to her feet, Jabu flicked his fly whisk at her. She was dismissed.

  Precious hurried to the room where she’d left Karabo. For some reason, she knocked on the door before she went in.

  ‘Karabo?’ She pressed her cheek against the door. ‘I’m finished.’

  When there was no reply Precious thought her daughter might have fallen asleep. She pushed the door open and saw only an empty chair.

  Karabo wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER 9

  It bothered Karabo that her mother had gone to see igqirha when she also went to church. Wasn’t that some sort of cheating? It was like the people at the Spar who pushed ahead in the queue when it wasn’t their turn. She’d heard her mother clearly through the wooden partition. It was Teacher this, Teacher that, in an endless stream of inappropriate chatter that first upset and then irritated her. She got up and left when her mother began to share the most intimate details of what she and Teacher did in their bedroom. Used to do. It didn’t sound like they had sex anymore.

  She was glad to be out of Jabu’s house. It was hardly furnished and looked as if he was still moving in. But there was something odd about the house, too, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And the
n she realised what it was. There was no one else there. All the houses Karabo had ever been to in Mthatha were brimful with people. If they weren’t inside, they were lolling about in the street, making it hard to tell which house they belonged to. Jabu’s home was different. Other than Jabu Molefe himself, it was as deserted as a schoolyard in the holidays.

  Outside in the yard, there were no clothes hanging out to dry on the line, not even a broom propped against the wall. Even Karabo’s unwell aunt, Thembeka, had people spilling in and out of her house all the time. No, it wasn’t right for a man to live alone. White people did that, not blacks. Or perhaps it was a decree passed down from the spirits that igqirha should always live by himself – Karabo didn’t know.

  In Jabu’s yard a rusted tyre rim leaned tiredly against the base of a tree. The tree itself was no longer a tree but a stump with jagged fissures criss-crossing the dry surface. A discarded street lamp lay across the yard and bisected it into two triangular halves. The bulb had been scavenged long ago, leaving an empty staring eye socket. A clutch of coloured wires spilled untidily out of a hole in its side. They looked like the entrails of a fallen beast.

  Karabo wandered across to the small gate, wondering if she should tell Teacher that her mother had been to see igqirha. But she knew she’d only hurt Teacher if she told him. He’d withdraw into himself and probably not say anything for several days. Sometimes she wished her father would lash out and scream his unhappiness into the world. She thought he’d feel much better if he did that.

  The boys were where they’d left them and Karabo’s anger surged again. There were four of them. They stood in the street, passing a cigarette and a bottle between them. They looked at Karabo warily and as she approached, the smallest one moved quietly behind the others. The one holding the cigarette sucked on it until the tip glowed brightly, then blew a cloud of acrid smoke at her.

  ‘You have come,’ he said.

  Those were the exact words igqirha had said to her mother. Well, maybe that was the way people greeted each other around here.

  The boy blew more smoke at her and his lips curled in an unpleasant smile. His head was strangely flattened on both sides. His mother must have changed her mind and squeezed her thighs together just as he was coming out. It looked like he had no lips for they were so dark they blended into the rest of his face.

  Karabo held out her hand to take the bottle as one boy was passing it to another. It hovered in the no man’s land for a second until Flathead nodded his approval. She expected the drink to scorch a fiery trail down her throat but it turned out to be a warm and insipid beer. It was like drinking soapsuds. Grimacing in distaste, she handed the bottle back.

  ‘This tastes like shit,’ Karabo said.

  The boys looked at each other sheepishly; even Flathead looked embarrassed.

  ‘Eish! No money,’ he mumbled.

  Karabo took the cigarette from his hand and blew a stream of smoke back into his face. He didn’t like that. He grabbed her by the wrist and his grip was hard and cruel. He pulled her towards him, hips swaying in a provocative dance. His other hand pressed hard against the small of her back and a distinct smell of unwashed bedclothes engulfed her.

  ‘You’re not from here,’ he said in a harsh voice. He pushed her backwards to get a better look at her and a wet, pink tongue poked out from between his lips.

  He jerked his chin in the direction of Jabu’s house. ‘What did Jabu say to you?’

  The words were out of Karabo’s mouth before she even knew they were on their way. ‘He said to stop letting men fuck you for money.’

  The others sniggered and Flathead spun around, his eyes flashing with indignation.

  ‘Shut up!’ he snarled.

  He slapped the boy closest to him on the side of his head and the boy yelped and staggered backwards, more out of surprise than from any real pain.

  ‘I should take you inside and fuck you,’ Flathead said to Karabo.

  He wasn’t much older than her and there was little conviction in his voice. It was more a show of bravado than a declaration of intent.

  ‘What with?’ Karabo jeered. ‘There’s nothing in your trousers.’

  This time the others burst into peals of raucous laughter. Flathead charged at them, his fists flailing, but to little effect and he quickly tired. He turned his misshapen head and looked at Karabo with hatred in his eyes, the weight of it bending his spine and hunching him over like a crooked little man. His tongue snaked out again, pink and agile in the slack wetness of his mouth, and his lower lip trembled. Despite her earlier bluster, Karabo’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Yel. Lo. Bone,’ said Flathead, in a rasping whisper.

  Three distinct syllables. And somehow he managed to make each syllable more offensive than the last.

  The word sloshed around inside Karabo, hunting for some past hurt to latch itself onto, but she stayed strangely calm. She’d been called Yellowbone before but always from a distance. This time she was so close to Flathead a gust of warm, fetid breath buffeted her face.

  Karabo squared her shoulders in an attempt to hide her fear. She knew she wouldn’t have stirred up such depths of animosity if her skin were as dark as Teacher’s. Sometimes it was so unbearable being light- skinned that if she could have chosen a different complexion at birth, she’d have done so without a second thought. It would be like going into the hardware store and choosing a colour from a paint chart.

  Flathead was no different to most black men she met. They grovelled at her light complexion, marked her down for a plaything, an exotic prize. Like the taxi driver who’d winked at Karabo and her mother and said they didn’t have to pay. But now Flathead’s fascination had curdled and turned to revulsion. Or perhaps he was just as afraid of her as she was of him.

  Flathead’s chest heaved with impotent rage and small erratic noises escaped from his throat. He shoved Karabo hard on the shoulder but she stood her ground. That unnerved him and he went back to calling her names. The other boys looked at each other, unsure which side to take.

  All of a sudden Karabo felt a sharp tug on her arm.

  ‘Leave my daughter alone!’

  Her mother was a small woman but when she was angry she fluffed up like a wet chicken. She shouted at the boys. ‘Don’t you have homes to go to?’

  ‘Ewe, Mama,’ one of the boys replied meekly. He was the smallest and the best dressed of the four. ‘We do.’

  ‘Go home then!’

  They walked away, four abreast across the road. They did the jive walk, with a choreographed limp and one arm swinging to keep time. Precious and Karabo watched them go. When they were out of sight Precious seized Karabo’s hand and slapped her hard on the back of the wrist.

  ‘Have you lost your mind, Karabo? Walking out here on your own!’

  ‘Why did you bring me here then?’ Karabo retorted, rubbing the hand where her mother had hit her. ‘I’ll tell Teacher you came to see igqirha!’

  Precious exhaled sharply and hunched her shoulders. It was as if Karabo had drawn her arm back and punched her in the stomach. Then she straightened and looked right at her daughter. There was a bitter smile on her lips.

  ‘Go on,’ she said softly. ‘Tell Teacher. Go and tell your boyfriend.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Karabo was awoken by a violent knocking at the front door. She sat up in her bed and heard someone calling out above Saddam’s wild barking.

  ‘Teacher! Teacher!’

  She clambered down from the bed and pulled the curtain back a little way. It was Fezeka, the girl from Aunt Thembeka’s house.

  Her mother’s shrill voice rang through the house. ‘Who is it?’

  Then Teacher groaned, his voice still heavy with sleep. ‘It’s Thembeka’s girl,’ he said.

  ‘Fezeka?’ Precious cried. ‘Why is she here at this time? Has something happened to Thembeka?’

  Karabo quickly pulled on a pair of trousers and a T-shirt. As she dressed, she wondered why, whenever there wa
s a problem on her mother’s side of the family, it was Teacher they always called first and not Precious. She opened the front door and found a little girl with spindly arms standing on the doorstep with Saddam panting enquiringly next to her. Karabo pushed Saddam aside with her foot and took Fezeka in her arms.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she whispered to the little girl. ‘Don’t cry.’

  She was still holding Fezeka when Teacher and Precious joined them. Precious was beside herself with worry.

  ‘Fezeka!’ she cried. ‘What has happened? Is Thembeka all right?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Teacher said. ‘Can’t you see how frightened she is?’

  ‘What do you mean, calm down?’ Precious snapped. ‘Something has happened to my sister and you are telling me to calm down?’ She pulled her gown tightly around her body, accentuating the outline of her nipples, which were hard and stiff in the cold morning air.

  ‘We cannot stand here,’ Teacher said and ushered them all inside.

  Still snivelling, Fezeka drew her chair as close to Karabo as she could. Precious and Teacher sat on the other side of the kitchen table.

  ‘Now, Fezeka,’ Teacher said gravely, ‘tell us what has happened.’

  Fezeka was painfully thin. Next to Karabo, she looked underfed. She could not have been more than ten years old and her feet didn’t even touch the floor. But Fezeka’s hesitation only fuelled Precious’s impatience and she could not keep still. She wrung her hands in despair. ‘Dear Jesus,’ she moaned, ‘send your angels to protect Thembeka. And take Khanyiswa and Khethiwe with you. They know where Thembeka lives.’

  Karabo could barely remember her deceased aunts Khanyiswa and Khethiwe and she thought her mother’s exhortations were vaguely embarrassing. It wasn’t right to snatch at any passing spirit who was in the vicinity and might be willing to lend a hand.