Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  ‘I must consult my ancestors over this matter,’ my grandfather said. ‘Before I speak to the leaders, I must talk with the spirits.’

  I tried not to look doubtful. My grandfather smiled, reached out and touched my braided hair. The simplicity of the gesture touched me deeply. I remembered Tom’s words: ‘Ask how you can help him.’

  ‘How can I help in these matters?’ I asked. The least I could do was ask, even though I knew he wouldn’t allow me to help, of course. I was a woman. Women don’t help in matters like this.

  Right on cue, he answered, ‘No woman can help in matters such as these. To help me, you must marry and have children, Thabisa, to continue the bloodline of our family, but I see my granddaughter is stubborn, like me. I hope one day we can reach agreement over this matter.’

  He drew a deep breath. ‘I will talk to you now about this man Zikhali, who is Ollis Sando, before we go to the bead room again.’

  I nodded.

  ‘He wished to marry your mother, but it was forbidden. She was already promised. He was a proud and angry young man, well-educated and clever. It was rumoured that he told the authorities of the three young men, who were seen running from the scene, your father and uncles. He identified them. A month later, they were taken into custody. They all confessed and were executed six weeks later. Then he claimed the three million rand reward, and it was said that he travelled to a far land. Until you revealed the actions of this Sando to me, we had no knowledge that this man, seeking to be president, was the same Zikhali. But it is him, Thabisa. He carries the mark of the snake. He must be stopped.’

  We walked together to the Great Place and my grandfather held the lantern while I stepped inside. The beads were waiting. They leapt off the wall into my mind, hypnotising me as I read the story of the snake man who had betrayed the valley, his passion for my mother, his fury when they couldn’t marry and his revenge on the family of the man who stood in his way.

  I reached forward and touched the beads with my fingertips. The symbols I had learned at my mother’s knee swam effortlessly into my subconscious, forming patterns I could read as clearly as a book. The jagged point for a dagger, the long straight line for a snake; a broader deep green line meant the valley, the jagged blue one the mountains. Alone, they were nothing. It was only when they joined with others that they made sense. Colour changed their meaning. A long red line symbolised treachery, a thinner black line, a tall man.

  I thought back to my history lessons at school. The Egyptologists and archaeologists tried to make sense of the hieroglyphics they discovered inside the pyramids. The codes that had helped them break the ancient scripts and the ones used to read the valley beads were much alike.

  My eyes scanned the beaded landscape of village life, the stories worked in, generation after generation. I stopped. There was something here. The symbol for man, the symbol for snake, the symbol for young woman. A young woman standing alone. She was pregnant, beaded in pale red. Something slid into place, something I shouldn’t have missed. Wouldn’t have missed the first time if I had been allowed to see more. There was no man beaded close to her, no shapes or colours to suggest a wedding celebration.

  I had a reputation in the Unit for being a good code-cracker and puzzle solver. Frame by frame the beads led me on, drawing me into the story. The story of my mother. Who beaded this in? It could only have been one person. Ngosi. The evil old woman must have guessed my mother’s secret and beaded the story to record my mother’s shame, so that it could never be forgotten. A message to the world that not only do I, Thabisa, carry the blood of a white- skinned woman, I also carry the bad blood of a man who is not my mother’s legal husband. I stood staring at the beads and the colours shifted into a sickening kaleidoscope of colour, all shouting the same message.

  Finally, I turned to my grandfather: ‘He’s my father, isn’t he? This is the secret you have all kept from me. Sando is my father? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he must be stopped.’

  ‘That’s not answering my question. Is he my father?’

  ‘And if he was?’

  My mouth tasted metallic, like faintly sour milk.

  ‘We have to stop him,’ I whispered.

  I had stirred my ancestors into action. Now they were whirling, a dust storm, looking for justice, looking for vengeance.

  31

  18 August 2006

  News-flash

  Doctors at Greenacres Hospital, Port Elizabeth, have confirmed that Ollis Sando, slated by political forecasters worldwide as the next President of South Africa, died in Port Elizabeth this morning. The cause of death appears to be heart failure.

  Tributes from around the world have been pouring in to the Sando family. Leaders of African states have sent heartfelt condolences to the family, and the White House and Downing Street have expressed shock and concern about Sando’s sudden death.

  Yesterday, Sando attended an Imbizo with Traditional Leaders in the Eastern Cape. A spokesman stated that after dining with the Leaders, Sando retired to bed, but became ill during the night. He was rushed by helicopter to Greenacres Hospital.

  His condition deteriorated rapidly during the night and early morning and he died at 10 a.m. today.

  Although rumours that a snake was found in Sando’s bed have been discounted as ‘typical sensationalist misinformation’ by a spokesperson close to Sando and his family, police have not yet ruled out the possibility of foul play.

  Ollis Sando (54) leaves his wife, Sitina, formerly an Ethiopian beauty queen, now a minister in the Department of Health. The couple had no children.

  32

  26 August 2006

  A perfect day. The sky was a deep and thirsty blue as we headed for the sea, rocketing down the road to the beach in Tom’s open-top Golf, with a picnic basket in the back. We stopped at Salem, watched cricketers on the green, and paused to visit the little church where the graves of the 1820 settlers pushed up the earth.

  ‘These guys had a hard time,’ Tom said. ‘They thought it was all going to be milk and honey when they came here, but it turned out to be hell on wheels, really hard for them.’

  ‘They had to fight my ancestors,’ I said. ‘My people fought them stark- naked, covered in red clay, when they stormed Grahamstown.’

  ‘I’ll think of that every time I stand on Signal Hill,’ Tom said. ‘Any chance of a re-enactment, Thabisa?’

  I laughed. He was easy to be with. He’s a good guy.

  We passed game farms where blesbok, impala and wildebeest grazed calmly, unaware of passing traffic. We saw elephants in the distance and watched the Kariega River winding through gorges on its way to the sea.

  It was my last day before returning to Johannesburg, a day for the beach, for the sand dunes, for the river.

  We had met up earlier at Tom’s place, the top floor of a grand old house in Worcester Road; a cleverly converted studio apartment with high ceilings, white walls and lots of light. The whole apartment was filled with the warm smells of good food cooking and music. A procession of clay Nguni cattle stretched across a white bookcase, their vigour and character vividly evident.

  ‘Interesting work,’ I said, picking up a tiny figurine. ‘Where did you buy these? They’re beautiful.’

  ‘I made them,’ Tom said.

  ‘They’re wonderful. So you’re a sculptor as well as a doctor?’

  ‘I try,’ Tom said. ‘I just wish I could be better at it.’

  ‘You’re really talented. I love these.’

  I touched the tiny works of art gently. Tom had caught the splotched patterns and colours of the cattle perfectly. Some were ceramic, others just plain clay.

  ‘I go up to the university and take the ceramics classes when I can,’ Tom said.

  ‘You must be top of the class. You’re really good.’

  ‘You should see the others in my class. There’s some real talent there.’

  ‘None better than you,’ I’d said, replacing the perfectly sculpt
ed figure. ‘I’m a valley girl, remember. I know all about cattle.’

  We packed a picnic, and piled food, wine and swimming things into Tom’s car. The weather was glorious. A champagne Eastern Cape day.

  I leaned back against the headrest, enjoying the chance to forget all about work and do nothing but enjoy a day out in the country.

  ‘How are you feeling now it’s all over?’ Tom asked.

  I smiled wryly. It had been a hectic few weeks, but now I’d finished the reports, and tied up all the loose ends, I was keen to leave Grahamstown.

  ‘Better,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got a tough job.’

  ‘So have you.’

  Tom leaned across and dropped a kiss on my cheek, ‘Let’s forget about our tough jobs and have a good day, okay?’

  I grinned. ‘Okay, tell me where you’ve been this week?’

  ‘Monday Grahamstown, Tuesday Umtata, Wednesday Port Elizabeth, Thursday East London, Friday Grahamstown, Saturday Kenton-on-Sea with Thabisa Tswane.’

  ‘You travel a lot.’

  ‘Which is why I can’t get to my ceramics class as often as I’d like. I’m in Umtata all next week.’

  ‘My grandfather goes to Umtata next week to collect his grant.’

  ‘It’s good that you’ve reconciled. What happened?’

  ‘I’m indebted to you, Tom. I wouldn’t have done it without your advice. I tried your approach and it worked.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the valley?’ I decided to tell Tom about the beads, and the bead room, and my ideas. He listened intently to what I had to say.

  ‘This is amazing, Thabisa,’ he said. ‘Shapes, patterns and colours can be proved to have a meaning in early history. Look at the Egyptians and their hieroglyphics – and now your valley. I visited Easter Island a few years ago, and they have these amazing petroglyphs carved into the stone. Nobody has been able to decipher them, because the local population who could have passed the information on, was wiped out by invading forces. A wealth of information, gone in a flash.’

  ‘I’ve asked my grandfather to allow me to teach three young women how to read the beads,’ I said. ‘I figure that if I fall under a Jozi taxi, the valley loses one of the few people who know how to attach meaning to the symbols and the colours.’

  ‘Has he agreed?’

  ‘Believe it or not... yes! And he’s agreed to allow his youngest wife, Nomvula, to get some training, and maybe set up a school in the valley. We’ll start small, with the younger kids. She’ll make a brilliant primary school teacher. ’

  ‘What an amazing woman you are, Thabisa!’ Tom shook his head, laughing, as he pulled into a parking lot. ‘Now, let’s go, we’ve got a boat to catch.’

  ‘Boat? What boat?’

  ‘Not only am I a doctor and a sculptor, I can also handle a boat up the Bushman’s River. We might even see elephant at some of the game parks along the way.’

  Bright boats on the river, the cream and aqua of water and sand dunes – it was a perfect day. I relaxed after the drama of the past few weeks. Tom was easy company. He was patient, didn’t press me for explanations of what had happened. I didn’t give any. It was enough to lie back on the boat trailing my hand in the water, watching the river as we floated past. Tom caught a fish, and we saw elephants playing in the water. An idyllic day.

  When we returned to Grahamstown, Tom said, ‘Right, where shall we eat? Any ideas?’

  ‘Why don’t we stay in?’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, got any food?’

  ‘I make great pasta. Can you do salad?’

  Tom lit candles all over the apartment and we chopped, stirred and cooked together, Tom’s iPod playing French café music in the background. I felt chilled out for the first time in months. Words came easily when we were together. We chatted about our childhoods, our dreams and ambitions, history, politics, movies and music. Several times Tom made me laugh out loud.

  After we’d eaten and cleared up, he came up behind me and lifted my hair. His mouth was warm and soft on the back of my neck. He pressed up against me; I pulled him to me and we kissed. Then he took my hand, drew me into the bedroom.

  I pulled back.

  ‘What is it, Thabisa?’

  I looked at him. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I really like you so much. I enjoy being with you. But I just can’t...’

  ‘Is it too soon for this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s too soon for me. I just want us to be friends.’ The worst thing to say to any guy, but I couldn’t lead him on.

  Tom slumped onto the bed and ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘Thabisa, we talk about life and art and politics and our families and everything else in the world. That’s the best thing about us, the way we talk. I don’t think it’s too soon. We know each other very well. But you have to want me. I’ve wanted you ever since that first day when we met in the hospital.’

  Sure, we could talk about everything under the sun – except intimacy. In that area there were things unsaid and undone that loomed large between us. I didn’t know how to resolve it – or if I even wanted to. A relationship with Tom would be a serious commitment.

  Everything in my life had been coloured by the passionate afternoon with Zak after I had shot Sue Kellon. But Zak wasn’t a friend and confidant like Tom. And lust wasn’t the same thing as compatibility at all. Surely a proper relationship should have all the elements – the person who shared your life should be everything: friend, confidant and lover. Why couldn’t Zak be more like Tom and Tom be more like Zak?

  ‘I don’t want to get it wrong. Too much has happened to me recently.’

  ‘I’ll wait. For as long as it takes, Thabisa.’

  He ran his finger softly across my cheek. Nothing he said had indicated that he might be upset, but it was there in his eyes. Disappointment.

  What was the matter with me? Tom was such a good guy, smart, handsome. Everything a woman could possibly want. And yet, none of this was enough. It didn’t feel right, and I didn’t know why. I wished I could try to explain it to him, but how could I, when I couldn’t figure out for myself how I was feeling? I could feel tears coming and I walked into the kitchen and stared through the window. I looked at the soft green garden below, a sharp contrast to my tumultuous feelings.

  He followed me. ‘What exactly is this about, Thabisa?’

  I couldn’t answer.

  ‘Is it because we’re from different cultures? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Tom. Never. You know that.’

  Tom took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything drastic, Thabisa, just give me a chance. Let me show you what a good guy I am.’

  I smiled through my tears. ‘I know what a good guy you are, Tom.’

  I suddenly realised why I was feeling so confused. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make any major decisions. It was all too much to digest: Sue Kellon, Julia McEwen, Zak, my grandfather, the beads, Ollis Sando. What I needed, more than anything, was space to breathe, and time to decide where my life was going.

  ‘Can I come and see you in Johannesburg?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let’s take it from there.’

  I felt lighter, like I could finally breathe.

  33

  Three months later

  November 2006

  The meeting of the village elders took several days. It was hosted by Chief Solenkosi Tswane in the valley. It was an important occasion. Big decisions had to be made. Chief Tswane had requested dancing before the ceremonial meeting took place. I had not been invited to join the initial ceremonies.

  I smiled to myself. Change might be happening in the valley, but it was coming slowly, and at the pace dictated by my grandfather. One of these days I might settle down next to my grandfather and watch everything as it happened. But not today. For now I had to imagine the dancers dresse
d in their best, brightest clothes and bedecked with beads, the great showing of magnificent turbans and ceremonial skirts of all kinds: white ones, ones made of brown ox-hide or sheepskin, and some that had been freshly ochred for the special day. I’d seen the women donning the beaded leather belts and cummerbunds that drew attention to supple waists and swelling curves, watched as they fastened traditional bead headbands, throat bands, anklets and very long necklaces. During the dance the necklaces would be flicked over their shoulders and they’d sway with a life of their own. I might not be able to see the dancers, but I could hear their voices, the shrill call to the ancestors, for it was through their spirits that all decisions were made about the valley.

  As the women sang they stamped to the rhythm, and I listened as the tempo picked up, pictured their bodies spinning and twisting, the beadwork patterns and colours interlinking with the dancing, painting bead pictures as they moved.

  And then the sound changed, became deeper, hoarser as the men came surging into the circle, blowing shrill whistles, shouting and stamping, dancing and leaping in fierce mock battle. They too would be adorned, in beaded body harnesses and girdles that flashed in the sun. Hard feet pounding, strong voices singing, a feast of music and drama. After the dancing, the elders and Chief Tswane rose and entered the Great Hut for their meeting. I remained outside for this too, along with all the other women and younger men. I wondered when this would change, if ever. Would we, the younger people of the valley, ever be allowed to hear the deliberations of our elders?