It’s bad of me to be happy because Baas’ sheep died delivering a lamb. Whenever an animal dies, Baas gives it to us to eat. We have loads of meat and we’re also able to share with other farm labourers. Well, I can’t help it; one man’s meat is another man’s poison.
We’re having a kind of a celebration today with our visitors sitting outside having a barbecue, although my parents are unable to entertain them fully. The smoke is thick in the atmosphere, and the smell of barbecue is mouth-watering. Sadly, my Mum and Dad are unable to stay with our guests; that’s a shame. They pop in to see that everybody is all right, eating meat, peaches and drinking homemade ginger-beer, and then return to their usual farm-jobs. Baas should be happier since they are not neglecting their duties. A bowl of yellow peaches is put in the middle of the circle, for those people who want to help themselves. Aunty Rose starts singing songs in her distinctive voice, one after another, and the others join in. I stand by the door listening and watching them sing Happy Skoonfontein and dancing with sweat dripping down into their eyes. They don’t seem bothered by this, as they wipe it off with the back of their hands. Others blow their noses, and wipe off their hands on the grass or their clothes.
Happy Skoonfontein! Home to our Elderly!
We love you; we thank you.
Happy Skoonfontein!
I’m happy for Skoonfontein, ha-ha-ha! I’m happy for Skoonfontein,
oh-ha-ha-ha! Happy Skoonfontein!
We’re happy with you!
Here to stay; and to die.
Happy Skoonfontein!
I’m happy for Skoonfontein, ha-ha-ha!
I’m happy for Skoonfontein, oh-ha-ha-ha!
A young man, half naked, with a red cap on, is playing an accordion. He plays with his eyes shut but manages to press all the buttons, playing a beautiful melody. The farm-workers appear happy, dancing many different kinds of dances. I’m fascinated with one where they form a circle and then take turns dancing in the middle, doing all kinds of tricks, lifting their legs up, one after another. Some men are great at vibrating their bodies from their legs to their shoulders. Women tend to concentrate on moving their waists.
“Huh, what are you doing?” The volume of the music is so high and to make things worse some people are aiding the rhythm, yelling, “yep, yep, yeah.” I shout louder, “No” putting my right hand under my chin, surprised as Uncle Dover goes behind Aunty Maud’s back, moving his waist towards her buttocks and then drops his upper body to the right and left. They receive a round of applause. I find it absolutely disgusting for grown-ups to dance like that. Uncle Witvoet turns his head, waves at me, before filling a glass with ginger-beer. He finds a space and sits down drinking.
Both men and women take turns beating the drums. These are made from cut diesel containers, and then covered on both sides with dry cattle skin. They paint them bright colours and attach a strong string to go around the neck and hold them up. Women shake improvised tambourines. They dance alone and in pairs, gently smacking each other’s backsides. They are very loud. It’s a real happy day in Skoonfontein for them.
As for me, I know what I want – to be in school daily and hear Mistress Barlow shout, “Children, read your books. You need the best possible education!” Miss Barlow is a tall skinny lady with a friendly, echoing voice, sharp nose and grey curly hair. She often wears dark-brown attire and high-heeled shoes and never misses wearing her red lip stick. Her black-framed spectacles suit her long face. She is my outstanding teacher and I always miss her when we are apart.
I haven’t been in Miss Barlow’s class, in Butterworth High School for two weeks, since the term started because I’m not well. I’m home, sitting down hearing my family members talking, laughing and shouting. I hear footsteps going in various directions, the cluttering of plates, mugs and spoons. I can’t see anything – it’s very dark. “Mum! Are you there?” I ask, seeking assurance after hearing her voice. “Is the storm coming, that it’s so dark?” There is no response to my question.
“Mum, when is daytime coming? What is happening in Skoonfontein? Why is it so dark? I want to go to school,” I ask my mum after noticing the endless darkness. Mum doesn’t answer me but I can hear her talking to a visitor. I guess I’m disturbing and maybe even embarrassing her. Children aren’t supposed to interrupt when parents entertain visitors in case they hear adult secrets and pass them on. That would get them in trouble!
I want to read books, but I can’t, and I’m upset. Is it still at night? But why is it so long? I love daytime, being out on the farm doing my favourite things; playing with my baby dolls, Ruby and Clifford, which I made with sticks and old rags in my playhouse behind our home. I feel someone grabbing my hand, saying, “come and sit outside for fresh air.” And that’s my mum for sure. I follow her, and as soon as I step my foot outside, I feel the heat of the sun on my skin.
“It’s very hot out here. It’s lovely.” My mum and Rita exchange hands; I hold onto Rita’s hand as we both go further away, perhaps by the bushes behind our house.
“Sit here,” says Rita. Our playhouse is still there, fortunately, I say in my mind. Rita says, “I’m going to gather firewood to cook dinner for Ruby and Clifford, Betty. Please wait for me right here. I’ll be back soon.”
“All right, but don’t be long – our children like soup and bread, don’t they?” I hear Rita’s footsteps and then it’s quiet.
She returns and passes Ruby to me to feed. I rock and pat her gently, pretending to feed her bread and milk. We play together for a little while and then return to our house when the sun goes down and it gets cooler.
Strangely, the dark continues, and I wonder what’s going on. I’m used to working, or doing my own stuff. So, I get up and walk, hoping to get to the kitchen.
“Oops!” I’ve bumped into the metal chair. I turn around, stretch my hand forward, hitting the washing-stand corner. After striking the corner of the wooden table, I cry as I fumble, hoping to find my way around the house. Why will no one tell me what is going on? I start to get used to being moved around and having people doing everything for me.
That same evening I hear my mum suggesting taking me to the doctors. Yes, I say to myself. But, what if I never see again? I don’t want to be a burden on others. How will I read the books? “No!” I say aloud, feeling agitated with my thoughts and situation.
I hear the car stop by our door, and my mum talking, and I recognise Missus’ voice. My heart fills with joy as the car starts moving forward, my mum taking me to the doctors. I can remember the silence in the car all the way, until it stops, and the door opens. Somebody helps me out into the surgery. I hear the Doctor’s voice, asking my mum questions. We return home, and I’m put straight in bed. I get the sticky sweet medicine three times a day. I get fed up of staying in bed.
Fortunately, in time, I recover from this temporary blindness, and return to school. Miss, being very pleased to have me back in class, beckons me to her table at the front of the class, saying, “Betty Baker, you’re my star. Work harder and succeed in your education.” She looks directly into my eyes, making me feel uncomfortable.
“Yes, Mistress Barlow.” I look down at my feet and smile, nodding in agreement.
“Spend your time searching for information. Sometimes this can’t come to you. You’ve got to look for it.” In her deep persuasive voice, she warns me.
“Education, Mistress! Do you mean this Bantu Education?” I ask her this question, not trying to be funny, but to show her that I’ve heard something about the standard of our education; I know it’s not good enough.
“There’s no other for you, Betty. Learn what you’ve got. You can improve on it later, when you’re old enough to understand.”
Her voice trails off before finishing the sentence, and she turns her back as she walks away from me. She returns and looks at my eyes. I see sadness in her eyes. As she swallows deeply, her lips tighten, stretching. And her left eye blinks – this talk seems to trouble her. What does she know, that
makes her feel sad about me and my education?
Her words stick in my mind, and I keep remembering them every so often. I like her because of her concern about my future; she sees past my current status. Mistress always talks about my adult-life and not my present childhood. But I wish I could say to her, “Mistress, be happy because there’s a great person in me. She is locked inside me. No one hears her talk. She never starts conversations, but responds well to instructions. She only does as told. She never cries loudly, when upset. You can see her sleeves or palms going across her face and her bloodshot eyes when someone provokes her or something has gone terribly wrong. During such moments, she only lifts up her glossy big eyes to hold back tears so that no one sees her cry. She is very strong and always strives for success, no matter the barriers in her way. Failure is her only enemy. Therefore, she always fights to succeed, and rarely complains. She normally grins or bites her inner lip, staring at people around her. She wishes somebody could listen to her own stories. Betty is always ready to make peace and settle for less. She even takes the blame to avoid conflicts, but lacks opportunities to demonstrate her potential. Some people call her names – the names she hates most, ‘kaffir’, coloured, coward, deaf, ‘black’, big-eyes and many more – and this makes her sad. However, there’s one thing all these have in common – they are mean. But why can’t she tolerate what others like? The answer to this question is simple – no one asked Betty what she wants to be called. Betty never agreed to be given other names other than Betty Baker; and this is unfair.”
I’ve lived for many years, with hurt inside me, because of these names. “While I can’t do much about this name-calling, I must stop moaning and tolerate them. The people calling these names have power and authority over me. I wish I could tell them to stop calling me these names. They sound bad in my ears. Call me African; that’s what I choose to be called. Do not use my skin colour when describing me because you often get this wrong. My skin colour is light brown, but you mistakenly think it’s black. Call me bookworm because I like reading books. I’d be fine with this name and feel proud of it. I live hoping that one day I’ll be free to say my wishes without fear of the government. When that day comes, it will be like a fairy tale.”
Two months later
I’m at home for Easter holidays, about four o’clock in the afternoon. I lie on my bed resting, and think about the many things happening at Skoonfontein. Life at school is becoming monotonous. Visiting another town might make me feel better, so I pretend to be ill as an excuse to see Dr Berry. I don’t mind getting the sticky green medicine, as long as I actually get to visit the town.
I wonder – what will I suffer from this time? I ask myself. Should it be a toothache, headache or stomach-ache? I’m not sure; but I must find something. It can’t be the stomach-ache because Mum will just use blue soap and a syringe to clean up my tummy as she usually does. It hurts when she sticks the syringe into my backside. I’ve had enough of this. Toothache…Yes! I should say this. I can lose another tooth. So, I cover myself with blankets and start groaning until my Mama comes in.
“Betty! For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you?” my Mum asks, banging the door loudly before she walks into my bedroom. She is in a bad mood, I can tell. “Why are you in bed at this time of day?”
I remain quiet, thinking how best to respond so that she’ll believe me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, shouting at me. My Mum can’t stand sick people. “Get up!” she says, ripping off my blankets.
With the appearance of ‘difficulty’, I try to sit up and struggle to speak. “Toothache, Mummy,” I say.
“Oh, which one is hurting this time?” The tone of Mum’s voice was more sympathetic now. “You should have told me this. How did you expect me to know?”
“The back one, Mummy,” I explain, feigning tears and opening my mouth to show her.
She looks for the tooth and then says, “Uh-huh, that one’s rotten. There’s no cure for toothache, Betty. You should have it removed immediately. I’ll take you to the doctor tomorrow.” Around Burgersdorp, doctors take care of all health issues, including dentists’ work.
I feel like saying, “In town, yeah!” But I manage to control my excitement by biting my lower lip, and Mum covers me with blankets. “Please sleep earlier tonight. We’ve got a long way to go. We should aim to be at the bus-stop at half past ten in the morning,” Mum says, slamming the door hard as she leaves my room.
“All right, Mum,” I reply, happily.
I can tell she isn’t impressed. The journey will cost her more than fifty shillings. My mum’s reluctant to spend such money, and I can’t blame her, knowing the effort that goes into earning it.
I cover my head with the blankets, deep in thought. Sometimes I have to lie to get things for myself. This is not good, but what else can I do? I know that Dr Berry will ask me with a big smile, “Betty Baker, what’s troubling you this time?” He never tells anybody that I fake sickness. That’s not his concern, I suppose. He gets his consultation fee and medication costs, and his private practice is successful, and full of patients.
I think about a lot of things, like the journey in an overflowing, stuffy, noisy bus that travels slowly on that bumpy dirt-road for ten miles. I’ll be standing all the way, because normally children give up seats for older people, and that’s always a bad journey. My parents aren’t bothered about this. They’ve been doing it for many years.
“Cars are mostly driven by Europeans only, Betty,” Dad usually says when I challenge him for not buying us a car. He doesn’t intend to buy one because he can’t afford it anyway. The greater part of my dad’s income is paid in kind. We receive left-over food, and lovely used clothes from Baas and Missus, Baas Jimmie’s wife. We live on their farm for free. Baas Jimmie always buys us paraffin for our primus stoves and lamps. He is certainly a good Baas!
I wish I could say, though, “No Dad, you should move on. That’s your mind-set showing you the difficulty in owning a car. There are natives, who own cars in our days. Look at Miriam’s dad; is he European? You need to change your way of thinking.” Even so, I daren’t speak to him like that. It would probably be humiliating, and very bad manners to tell an adult your views, especially your father.
We don’t mind getting a lift on the back of Baas Lyndon’s van (the farmer next to Baas Jimmie) and pay him the hiking fare. We often do this, even on dusty or rainy days. I’m happy using any transport available to get to town.
I soon fall asleep, to wake up hearing my mum’s scream the following morning. “Betty, wake up! The warm water is ready for you to wash in the washing basin. Your breakfast is on the kitchen table. Hurry up, will you?”
“Okay, Mum,” I say, yawning, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I jump out of my bed to get my flannel out of the dresser, and quickly wipe myself from head to toe. I put cream on my body, and brush my teeth. I put on my pink knickers which have frills at the back, and my matching dress. It’s my favourite. I got them from Missus for Christmas. I try on my only black pumps, and my big toe sticks out, but they will do for now. I have no other shoes to wear.
Soon, I’m ready for the two mile-walk to the bus stop, still hoping to get a lift from one of the farmers. I wait in the living room for Mum. She comes out, and we walk slowly together towards the small gate. I realise I’ve forgotten my notepad on the bed, so I run back to get it. I run and catch up with Mum who’s now heading towards the Big House – Baas and his family’s residence.
We walk together to the bus stop, with me looking backwards every so often in case a van comes. We reach the bus stop, and there’s no one else around.
Soon the bus arrives. My mum sticks out her hand, signalling it to stop. It does, and Eugene the bus conductor jumps out, giving us a warm welcome.
“Get in, Aunty. We’re running late for the town,” he says out loud. Unsurprisingly, I don’t get a mention. It’s common to overlook children here.
“We’re going with those on th
e move, Aunty.” He makes a joke, bouncing his right hand, and then laughs.
My mum struggles to get in: she’s obese, and her knee hasn’t completely recovered from Daisy’s kick when she was milking her – that’s Baas’ cow. The step is too high for my Mum. Eugene comes around to help, and holds her hand as she steps into the bus. As she does this, she drops her handbag.
“Oh, I’ve dropped my handbag!” my mum yells hysterically.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Eugene, bending over to pick it up. “Here you are, Aunty,” he says softly, handing Mum her bag. “Huh, it’s heavy. Have you got loads of cash in here?” he asks, pointing at it.
“Thank you, son,” Mum says, panting - as if she is running short of breath. Getting into the bus is always a big struggle for her. There’s nothing that could be done about it. She says, “May God bless you, son,” and continues chewing. She does this because her gums itch due to uncomfortable false teeth.
“May God bless me too, for all the hard work I do on this farm,” I mumble to myself.
I push through behind my mum. She can’t go any further because the bus is completely full. We can only stand by the driver. Poor Eugene stands on the lowest bus step, right by the door.
That’s very kind of him, having to put up with this. I wonder what could happen if the door opens accidentally? No doubt he would be thrown out and perhaps break his legs, or even die. I can’t believe that he has to put himself through this risky business for the sake of earning money. Suddenly, the bus pulls out of the bus stop. As it moves forward, Eugene shouts:
“Get your tickets everybody! Your tickets, please.”
One and a half tickets,” Mum says.
Eugene receives the coins, and checks them out. He puts the money in his satchel hanging from his neck before issuing a ticket. But my mum paid for both of us. Why does he give us one ticket? I wonder.
Starlight in the Ring Page 7
