‘Only five days. Well, four, actually because my brother comes to pick me up before the fifth day.’
He nods towards the river.
‘Any more drowning stunts before you go? Yesterday’s performance was quite entertaining.’
‘Ehh, listen to this nonsense! You interrupted me there yesterday, son. I was busy slaying it.’
He laughs, kicking back his head.
‘Look at you laughing, Jabu, but can you even float? Busy there spitting insults!’
‘Ahh, I’m not the one claiming to be a fish, ka! Even if I can’t float, at least I won’t be doing this,’ he says, acting as though he’s drowning. ‘But listen though, mfana. Since your time is running out, why don’t we do a short run tomorrow and then pass through the river? Maybe I can see if you’re really a Kirsty or just a wannabe. These waters need experienced folk like me.’
‘Ay! Listen to this farm-boy. Challenge accepted! Me, I don’t play in the water though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
We laugh as he walks away, and I am left smiling. Because for real, he’s good people this Jabu boy … this Jabu.
34
Evening has come and the television is buzzing on that one boring channel. Ranga is in the kitchen, and Ambuya is sitting opposite me on the other sofa with Noku. No matter how many times I check my messages, there’s nothing from Musa. Only an email from the school’s official sports account to say I’ve been kicked off the team. Something about missing too many days of practice and inconveniencing the rest of the team. I didn’t read the rest of the email. There’s no need to because I already got the message. I’m on my own, and I’m going to have to make it on my own.
I glance at Noku, who is now trying to teach Ambuya some game she no doubt learned at nursery. I smile as the old woman is repeatedly told the game has to start over because she’s done something wrong.
‘No, Ambuya, put your hands like this. You aren’t listening,’ she says, laughing and shuffling the old woman’s hands. I’m smiling as I look at Ambuya. My eyes drift to the poem hanging on the wall and though I glide over the words, I linger on the picture stuck there in the corner of the frame. The picture where Ambuya is standing next to a young white man. I think I know who it is now.
Ranga brings in the mats and lays them on the coffee table in front of us.
‘But, Ambuya, I want Nando’s,’ Noku starts to whine.
‘Eh, mzukuru wangu, there’s no Nando’s here for miles. Just you wait though – this will taste way better than your Nando’s.’
Ranga smiles at Noku as he sets down plates of steaming sadza with stew and fried spinach. Noku glances at Ambuya again and becomes possessed with an unending series of yawns. She curls up on the sofa next to the old woman.
‘I’m so sleepy now though, Ambuya, pun intended,’ she says, sending me into a fit of laughter. The one time she had heard Mkoma use the term, he had told her it meant he was dead serious, the same way she is now about not eating that sadza. Ambuya chuckles as she watches Noku, whose eyes are open only a little to see if her story is being bought.
‘Eat only a few morsels, my mzukuru, and then you can sleep.’
‘Ahh, Ambuya, but I’m already dreaming now. Daddy says people shouldn’t eat if they’re sleeping,’ she says, faking a snore. Of all the times to take heed of Mkoma’s instructions!
‘It’s not even a lot of food, Noku, look,’ Ambuya says, lifting her plate. It’s pointless. She should already know that she’s not winning this one. Especially because she doesn’t have Mkoma’s deep voice to scare the little thing.
‘People can choke and die if they eat while they’re sleeping, Ambuya. You don’t want me to die, do you?’
Ambuya laughs, shaking her head. Till this day, I haven’t met anyone who has won against Noku. She’s a heavyweight professional, is what she is. And Ambuya knows what defeat looks like. We all do.
‘What about some rice? I think there’s a little rice left over from yesterday, no?’ she says.
Noku perks up. ‘Well? Am I eating or what? I’m a small-small child, feed me oo-oo abeg before I go collapse and die!’ Her accent slides in, sending us all into bursts of laughter. Ambuya’s eyes are teary with merriment. For the first time her scars don’t really scare me. They’re there, a part of her, the same way her arms are a part of her. I think of her story, and my eyes glide up again towards the picture on top. The scars are there in it too, something I hadn’t noticed before.
‘Ambuya?’ I start. She smiles at me and I hesitate. Everyone is looking at me now and I don’t know that it’s appropriate to ask about the scars.
‘How does a war start?’ I manage. I don’t know where that question came from, but it worked, because now she is smiling softly at me. Her phone rings and she glances at it before she answers me.
‘Well, mzukuru,’ she says, ‘I imagine all wars start the minute we invent the words “us” and “them”.’
She picks up the phone and I watch the expression on her face slowly change.
Her eyes bulge, her lips quiver and she turns toward me.
‘No,’ she gasps.
I have seen fear before, but never painted with long strokes and drawn thickly within the wrinkles of an old woman’s face. And although I can feel my heart beginning to pound, all I can hear screeching in my head are her words: all wars start when we invent the words ‘us’ and ‘them’.
35
Ambuya’s story
You know, mzukuru, there’s something they say about silence. That it can be a source of strength. Maybe it can, but what they don’t tell you is that silence can burn, holding you hostage as it corrodes everything inside. It can be the soft, dying embers of a fire which, if left untended, can set a whole house ablaze. And that day, it was the kind of silence that took turns to stare us in the face. The kind that gnaws at you like a hungry rat. A silence so loud you can hear nothing.
I stood by the mantel, feeling the weight of his stare boring into me. We both brewed in that silence. And then finally, fighting my pride and everything that came with it, I walked to the table and sat next to him.
‘Are you still upset then, Matthew? About the other night.’
‘I’m not upset.’ His expression remained neutral.
‘Then what is wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he said.
Now, you’re still too young, mzukuru. You haven’t learned that to ask a person if anything is wrong and be told that it’s nothing is a polite way of being told ‘You know, I’m doing absolutely everything I can not to punch you in the teeth for a reason you should have realised but clearly haven’t yet.’
I watched him sipping his tea, going on as though ‘nothing’ was wrong.
The door to the bas’s office creaked and both Matthew and I turned. I immediately stood up, knowing that I could not be at the Missus’s table, sitting casually next to Matthew as though we were equal. Wednesdays were meant to be peaceful days. Routinely, Matthew and Baba loaded the truck with sacks of tea and Matthew would drive off to town. The Missus always went to visit friends in Umtali, dropped there by the bas as he went to play cards. Then it would be just me, cleaning, cooking, thinking, mostly thinking. But since Phillip had moved into the farmhouse, unpredictability had become part of the game.
I nervously wiped the glass window of the cabinet next to the mantel. But even though I had made it back to the mantel by the time Phillip walked out of the office, my heart still shook at the sight of the old man. Hand over his chest, holding a thick yellow envelope, head bowed slightly and eyes looking down and avoiding me, and that same coffee suit. He lifted his head slightly and our eyes met briefly.
‘VaGuhwa,’ I whispered, bobbing in respect. He nodded to acknowledge it and immediately looked away.
‘You can leave, boy, and don’t spend that all on beer now,’ Phillip said, drawing out a chair next to Matthew. My heart shivered, mzukuru, as though there was a cold wind blowing in. Did Phillip know? I wondered. What
had the old man told him?
‘Cousin, what do you have planned for the day?’ he asked.
‘I was hoping you would come with me to Umtali to drop off the sacks of tea,’ Matthew answered.
I continued to polish the mantel, watching their reflections in the glass window of the cabinet.
‘Umtali, eh?’ Phillip said, watching me. He stood up, walked to the mantel where I was and reached into the bottom cupboard, where the bas kept all the strong drinks. He held a bottle of whisky in one hand and brushed my arm with the other as he pulled out two glasses.
‘Cousin, a drink?’ he asked, his eyes still watching me the way the leopard watches a kudu just before it pounces. And although I stayed there polishing and wiping, I was afraid, mzukuru. Afraid of the truth, because it is exactly as they say, that only the truth will set you … well, off to an early grave.
Matthew seemed oblivious to all that was happening. I saw him shake his head, and my eyes tried not to be obvious as they peeked at Phillip, who was inspecting the bottle in his hand.
‘Have you been taking some of my whisky, girlie? The bottle is almost empty,’ he said, standing so close behind me that I could smell the last cigarette he had smoked.
Matthew’s head lifted.
‘No, bas.’
‘Don’t say no when the alcohol is missing now.’
‘I didn’t take it, bas.’
‘This one is a troublemaker, isn’t she, Matthew?’ he said, gripping my hand. I let out a little squeal, with my back pushed against the mantel and trying as hard as I could to refuse to be scared. A knock on the front door came just in time, and this time both Phillip and Matthew turned. I tried to calm my breathing.
‘Bas, the bags are ready,’ Baba’s voice called from the veranda. My heart drummed, and in confusion I prayed that Baba would come closer to the door so he could see, yet also hoping to stay out of his sight because I knew what would be done to him if he intervened.
‘Perhaps we should attend to that, cousin?’ Matthew asked, watching Phillip, who paid no attention as he pressed on my arm.
‘I’ll need help with the bags, Phillip.’
He smirked and let go of me, laughing through his nose.
He knows. My God, he knows!
The voices of the three men – Baba, Phillip and Matthew – could be heard from outside. And although I could not see anything from the kitchen where I was, I knew that they were loading the sacks full of dried tea into the truck. The voices disappeared, and I peered through the kitchen window at Baba, returning to the estate. My stomach churned and I wondered if I could call him. But what good would that do?
The sound of footsteps returned to the house. I halted, waiting for it, whatever it was.
‘You! In the truck! You’re coming with us!’ Phillip demanded.
My eyes went to Matthew.
‘Phillip, maybe we should leave her behind. After all, maybe she’s been given things to do in the house.’
‘You remember what Uncle spoke to us about, don’t you, Matthew? Blood or water?’ Phillip’s voice softened.
‘I remember well, but she needs permission from the registrar, and it takes a while to process. If we go with her, they will arrest her for violation of the segregation laws; you know this.’
‘Don’t worry so much, cousin,’ he said, ruffling Matthew’s hair as though he were a small boy. ‘Isn’t she with me? Look at me. Am I not the law?’ His fingers rubbed the emblem of the security forces on his breast pocket.
‘I guess,’ Matthew said, nodding, apologies dancing in his eyes.
‘Now that that’s sorted, why don’t you get in the truck, eh, girlie?’ he said with a smirk.
And again, mzukuru, I was afraid. I see you wondering now, not knowing that in those days people like us could not roam the streets without a pass from the registrar. Not understanding that after we had built the cities with our sweat, slaved to raise the towns that sat on our land, they looked at us and decided that that contribution was invalidated by the paint the womb had given us.
‘You should smile more, girlie,’ Phillip said as I passed him, heading for the truck. ‘You almost look as though something has been stolen from you.’
Of course he would say that; it was typical of a thief.
36
I stood outside the back door of a little restaurant in Main Street, deep in the heart of the city of Umtali. It had been a while since I had been this exposed to privilege. But even when I had been in Salisbury, I’d never been allowed to wander to the heart of the city. Phillip had said nothing when they had left to go inside, except that I was to stand there by the door and wait. Matthew had only watched me in silence. He seemed to be stuck in a dilemma. I hadn’t heard what his uncle had said to him about blood and water, but I didn’t need to be any kind of genius to figure it out.
I peeped through the back door of the little restaurant to see if Matthew and Phillip were on their way out. A middle-aged woman sat inside at the far end, fanning herself with a bottle of cola in front of her. I smiled nervously at her and she looked away. The men had been in there for about twenty minutes, although it was beginning to feel like an eternity.
A man passed, with a little boy young enough to be his grandson. When the little boy saw me, he smiled and waved, but as soon as the man saw, he whisked the little boy into his arms, his hand covering his grandson’s nose. I shook my head. Even anger could not come out. Only colour, and yet a grown man feared he might breathe it onto his own skin.
My eyes drifted to the sign hanging slightly above my head with its letters big and bold:
EUROPEANS ONLY, DOGS AND AFRICANS NOT ALLOWED.
I remember seeing the white van with two threatening blue stripes as it drove from the road to the kerb where I stood. I remember how my heart jolted within me, scampering in all directions and looking for a place to run to. I remember breathing as softly as I could, fearing that even my breath was criminal.
Five men descended from the car, one holding a leash to a panting German shepherd with glimmering amber eyes that gave away that he was looking for someone to devour. I was asked once how I came to be prayerful. I am sure God laughs about it – the girl who breathed in and whispered a little prayer as she watched vultures strut towards her, in pressed khaki uniforms and brown shoes.
‘What are you doing here, girlie?’ one of the men asked.
The dog sniffed at me, and the officer with the leash yanked at it, pulling it back.
‘I’m waiting for Mr Rog— I’m waiting for my bas, sir.’
‘You know you’re not supposed to be here, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is your name?’ another officer asked. I froze.
‘Ros— Thandiwe, bas. I mean, officer … er, sir.’ I could feel the dog’s breath kissing my skin and my nerves melting into shivers.
‘Let’s see your pass then.’
My armpits stung and I peered back into the restaurant again.
‘I …’ I swallowed as I watched that middle-aged lady now standing up, moving towards us.
‘My bas, sir … he said … My bas, he has it, sir.’
‘That’s the thing with you bloody kaffirs! Always ungrateful, never respecting the law.’
‘Officer, oh, I’m so glad you came. I was so worried. This is who I spoke to you about on the phone? She has been standing here suspiciously for hours. I was so afraid that she might throw a bomb in here. You know, you can never be too careful with these Africans.’
I looked at the woman, confused.
‘You did well to ring us, ma’am. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last week.’
She nodded, satisfied with herself. And in that moment I remembered how Baba had mentioned something about a bomb going off in one of the suburbs in Umtali. How the security forces had then set a curfew, for ‘everyone’s’ safety. It was ironic, mzukuru, that after years of bloodshed, they had only now noticed that people were unsafe, when the war had tir
ed of being hidden in the Msasa trees of the reserves and had strutted to their carefully trimmed hedges.
I watched as one of the officers consoled the woman, who was seemingly distraught and shaken by it all. And although I only knew he was speaking because his lips moved, his words escaped me as I hung on to myself, praying. One of the five men unhooked a pair of handcuffs that jingled on his belt.
‘Officer, my bas, he’s in there …’ I tried, my heart speeding up. The other men laughed and I held my breath, afraid that maybe all the anger and fear would merge into each other and erupt. I stepped back as the man reached for my arms. The dog pulled at its leash, snarling and barking and showing its teeth.
Before I had gone to Salisbury for my training, Baba and Amai had sat me down. ‘You never run if the security forces stop you, you hear, Thandiwe?’ Baba had hissed, and Amai had pulled his arm to calm him down. ‘You do as you’re told. You remember that we have no one on our side. You must remember that we have not taken back the land yet.’ That had been the end of the conversation.
I took another step back as the dog barked, jerking in my direction, hungry for a bite. I had given up on Matthew and Phillip, given in to the idea that this was why they had brought me here. And although I am old now, mzukuru, and my memory sometimes fails me, I can never forget how I thought to myself, You’re alone, Thandiwe. There is no one here who will stand for you.
It must have been the very moment when my distinct desire to remain alive overrode all of Baba and Amai’s teachings. Because, at that moment, the brakes on my feet broke and I charged past the unsuspecting officers. I’m not even sure where I thought I was going, or how far I thought I would get. But I ran, as fast as my legs would oblige, speeding away. I could hear the loud barking sounds of the dog and the mad fury of chasing feet behind me. But even then, I ran.
The Colours That Blind Page 13
