by Zakes Mda
“I am sorry, Niki. My mind is full of too many things lately.”
Niki mumbled that not only had they succeeded in taking her children away, they had built an uncaring wall between them, despite the fact that the children had come from the same womb.
Once more Popi apologised. It was her war with Tjaart Cronje that was destabilising her life, she confessed to Niki. She should have remembered to tell her mother about Viliki the very day it was announced that he was indisposed. But she had been angry and flustered by Tjaart Cronje’s taunts about her hairy legs.
This was not just an excuse on her part. Indeed, since Tjaart Cronje had mentioned her hairy legs for the first time during the library debate, she had become even more conscious of her hairiness. And this had made her less vocal in the chamber lest Tjaart Cronje refer to her legs again. Tjaart Cronje, on the other hand, had every intention of exploiting this newly discovered weak spot.
Observing all this, and missing Popi’s characteristic outbursts in the chamber, Lizette de Vries had taken it upon herself to hold a private tea-break conversation with her about hair and hairiness.
“I am aware that most black women don’t have hair on their legs,” said Lizette de Vries. “But it is quite normal with white women.”
“But I am not a white woman!” screamed Popi.
All Lizette de Vries could say to this was, “Well . . . ja . . . nee . . .”
Well. Yes. No.
“I am not white,” insisted Popi. “I am a Mosotho girl.”
“All I am saying is that hair that grows on the legs is not abnormal. It is a normal thing for some people, and is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Then she explained how white women dealt with hairy legs. Mothers who wanted their daughters to have a Barbie-doll look taught their daughters to wax and shave their legs as early as the age of fifteen. But progressive mothers taught their daughters never to shave their legs or even their armpits. Shaving legs was really a city thing. But of course some rural girls in places like Excelsior did it as well, as they aspired to be like the “with it” city girls.
“As you are so ashamed of your hair, buy a razor and shave once a week,” advised Lizette de Vries. “But you must know that your hair will grow thicker and darker. If I were you, I would just let it be. Popi, you have been blessed with such beautiful legs. Be proud of them! Don’t listen to country bumpkins like Tjaart.”
After this talk, Popi had felt slightly better about herself. However, she continued to be angry with a God who had burdened her with the hairy problems of white people.
“This war between you and Tjaart is very silly,” Niki said finally after Popi had told her of her woes.
“He is the one who starts it,” said Popi. “I don’t know why he hates me so.”
“He is not a bad boy . . . Tjaart . . . he’s really not a bad boy.”
“Maybe when you looked after him . . . when he was a little boy . . . he was not a bad boy. But he has changed since then, Niki. You don’t know him now. He is a right-winger.”
Niki did not know what a right-winger was. She just looked at Popi sheepishly and said, “One day Tjaart will understand that he has to love you.”
She took a tartan shawl from her bed and draped it around her shoulders. She commanded Popi to accompany her to see her sick child. She had cooked him her special bean and tomato soup, which she put in a blue enamel bowl that had a lid.
“Let me hold it for you, Niki,” said Popi as they walked on the dirt street that was lined with RDP houses on both sides.
“So that he will think it comes from you? No thank you, I’ll hold it.”
Popi had this bad habit of opening Viliki’s door without knocking. In this instance, she did the same. As mother and daughter entered, they were greeted by a scene that left them open-mouthed. Viliki was sitting on his new red sofa bought from Ellerine’s in Thaba Nchu on a twelve-month hire-purchase instalment plan. He was wearing khaki short pants and was both shoeless and topless. The Seller of Songs was sitting on his lap, wearing only her navy blue knickers. The couple were watching the antics of the stope-workers in the television soap opera, Isidingo.
The Seller of Songs jumped up and ran into the bedroom to hide her nakedness.
“I tell you every day, Popi, that you must knock,” said Viliki, going on the attack to hide his embarrassment.
“So this is how you get sick, Viliki?” asked Niki.
“And with this girl who makes a fool of herself playing a flute,” said Popi.
“What is Maria’s daughter doing here, Viliki?” asked Niki.
“She stays here with me, Mama. I love her.”
“You stay here with someone’s daughter without even asking for her hand from her parents? How many cattle did you pay for her?” asked Niki.
“He can’t marry a girl like this, Niki. She is a disgrace, this girl,” squealed Popi.
“Why is she a disgrace, if I may ask?” demanded Viliki.
For a moment, Popi was at a loss for words. Then she asked: “Don’t you see her?”
“I see her all right,” said Viliki firmly. “And I love her.”
“Oh, this child will be the death of me,” lamented Niki. “I come here because I heard he was sick for the whole week, only to find that he is doing a vat-en-sit with Maria’s child. I spent this whole day slaving over a three-legged pot, cooking him bean and tomato soup. What are the parents of this child saying about this?”
“Nothing,” said Viliki. “They don’t care. No one came looking for her.”
This showed how cruel Sekatle was, said Viliki. He was such a wealthy man, yet his niece had to survive by busking. Although he had built Maria a glittering mansion, he was rumoured to have said, “I am not going to toil for Maria’s mixed-breed children.” Viliki vouched for the truth of this rumour. Those words looked just like Sekatle.
Viliki’s harangue about the bane of his life was interrupted by the shattering of a window in the bedroom. All three rushed in, fearing that the Seller of Songs had done harm to herself. There she was, cowering in the corner. She had covered herself with her brown blanket. The smell of petrol filled the room. On the floor next to the bed was a bottle full of the liquid. There were pieces of glass all over the floor. Someone had thrown a petrol bomb through the window. It had failed to explode.
Viliki called the police on his cellphone.
“Who do you suspect?” asked the burly Afrikaner sergeant.
Viliki did not hesitate to put the blame on Sekatle. This was the second failed petrol bomb. The first one had been thrown into his house a few weeks ago. He had been at a braai that had been organised by the private company engaged by the council to remove the Baipehi. When he got back home, he had found a broken window and the beginnings of a fire in the living room. With the help of neighbours he had managed to extinguish it, but not before his sofa was burnt to ashes. Hence his having to buy a new one from Ellerine’s. On that day too an ineptly constructed petrol bomb had been thrown into his RDP house.
It had to be Sekatle. Earlier that week, he had led a group of boys and girls in school uniforms. They had performed the toyi-toyi dance outside his house, hurling insults at his pedigree, at Niki’s escapades with white men, and at Popi’s “colouredness”.
Viliki had chosen not to say anything about this because he did not want to upset his mother and sister. But this time Sekatle had gone too far.
SERENITY RESTS ON HER
LIKE A HEAVY LOG
HE LOOKS quite different from the fruity accordion player of the glorious years of garden parties. He is of the new world. Nothing Flemish expressionist about him. The black outlines are thicker than ever. And rougher. Yet they fail to give him a robust look. He squeezes his purple and white accordion, and its folds breathe out the nostalgic wails of the mountain people of neighbouring Lesotho. The weight of the song has softened his face. He looks frail. The weight of the accordion has given his body a delicate demeanour. It is as if he will break into two. The weight of his pu
rple boots has given him a painful gait. His purple overalls fly far above the ankle, almost mid-shin. His purple conical Basotho hat is tattered and has lost its crown at the pinnacle. His sharp knees pierce the white and yellow and purple light.
The Seller of Songs infected Viliki with music. He bought an old accordion at a second-hand music shop in Bloemfontein, and she taught him how to play it. She herself had never played the accordion before. She just pressed a few keys, listened to the notes each one produced, and created her own music. It took him a while to master the keys, but she was a patient teacher. Within three months Viliki could accompany the difela poetry and famo music of the mountain people of Lesotho. She accompanied his accordion with her flute, which in itself was an innovation, as that combination of instruments was unknown in the kind of Sesotho music that they played.
Every day when Viliki returned from the council meetings and wanted to relax, they played music together. And every day they sounded better than the day before. His RDP house was filled with songs, which the Seller of Songs felt were wasted, as he forbade her to go busking ever again.
“Your songs are mine alone,” said Viliki. “I do not want you to share them with other people. The music we create cannot be wasted on people who cannot appreciate its creators . . . who call them such names as boesman.”
“Have they ever called you that?” asked the Seller of Songs.
“Of course not,” said Viliki. “I am not a coloured person. But they have called you that. And they have called my sister that.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” said the Seller of Songs. “I can handle it. I don’t need you to defend me.”
But he continued to defend her. He defended her against Popi, who had developed a new habit of bursting into his RDP house and sniffing around as if something terrible was stinking. She would sniff close to the Seller of Songs and then, without uttering a word, she would walk out. Back to Niki’s shack.
“Why does Popi hate me so?” the Seller of Songs once asked.
“Don’t worry, she will get used to the idea that we are together now,” Viliki assured her. “She will accept you just as my mother has finally accepted you.”
“Popi . . . I think she hates me because I remind her of who she really is,” observed the Seller of Songs.
Viliki gave an embarrassed chuckle.
“You should teach her that I didn’t make myself to be like this,” added the Seller of Songs. “In the same way she didn’t make herself to be a boesman either.”
Suddenly Viliki saw himself as a little boy. Knocking at Stephanus Cronje’s window. He saw Stephanus Cronje reading his mother’s note, putting money in an envelope and giving it to him. He saw himself running like the wind to Mahlatswetsa Location and giving the envelope to Niki. He saw himself that evening eating assorted biscuits with Fanta Orange. And then playing with the brand-new top and brand-new marbles that Niki could now afford to buy.
“Popi could never talk about such issues,” observed Viliki. “You are wise. Your songs have made you such a beautiful soul.”
“Enjoy my beautiful soul while it lasts,” said the Seller of Songs with a naughty twinkle in her big round eyes. “Soon Maria will come and fetch me. Or perhaps Uncle Sekatle.”
Viliki laughed. He knew that Sekatle had more important things to worry about than delinquent mixed-breed relatives. One of the issues that occupied his mind was the plight of two schoolboys and one schoolgirl who had each been sentenced to a one-year term of imprisonment for petrol-bombing Viliki’s house. Sekatle had managed to keep his hands clean. Nothing could be found to link him to the bombers. He claimed that he had never even set his eyes on them before. But for some strange reason, he was concerned that the bombers should get legal representation, to appeal against their sentences. After all, he argued, they were minors. And they were first offenders. It would have been more just to give them a suspended sentence. Or community service. The poor children were not criminals. Theirs was a political offence. A jail term would turn them into hardened criminals.
The Pule Siblings also occupied Sekatle’s mind. Especially Viliki. He wanted to see Viliki expelled or, at the very least, suspended from the Movement for bringing it into disrepute. Firstly by removing the squatters by force. And secondly, and more seriously, by falsely accusing the branch chairperson of the Movement, a disciplined and loyal member of the Movement in good standing, namely Sekatle himself, of being party to nefarious activities such as throwing petrol bombs into other people’s houses.
Sekatle’s word carried weight. Viliki was indeed suspended from the Movement while his case was being investigated. Popi decided to suspend herself by no longer playing any active role in the affairs of the Movement. Once more the Pule Siblings spoke with one voice. Same tone. Same timbre. Niki was happy that the wall that had been built between her children seemed to be crumbling.
The Pule Siblings remained on the council. They had been elected by the people and would remain town councillors until the next elections in eighteen months’ time. But Viliki had to resign from the mayoral office as he had been elected to that position by the town councillors, the majority of whom were members of the Movement.
There was tension in the chamber when the elections for Viliki’s replacement were held. The Movement would have nominated Sekatle as a candidate if he had been a member of the council, as he was now the branch chairperson. But they had to nominate one of their own council members instead. The National Party nominated Lizette de Vries. The three National Party council members voted for her. Tjaart Cronje of the Freedom Front did not abstain this time. He voted for her as well. Viliki and Popi voted for Lizette de Vries. The Movement’s candidate got only four votes from its council members. Lizette de Vries, with her six votes, became the new mayor of Excelsior.
The unthinkable had happened. A Movement-run town council had elected a National Party member as mayor. In Excelsior, erstwhile rulers and creators of the apartheid system were back in power, courtesy of the former oppressed who had overthrown them in the first place.
We had thought that the Pule Siblings would not be able to walk the streets of Mahlatswetsa Location without the people spitting at them. Or even throwing stones at them. But we were wrong. No one bothered them. Perhaps the people were tired of the squabbles of the town council. They were nonchalant about the whole matter. Some of us even commented, privately lest we be called sellouts, that maybe now that the Boers were back in power, we were going to see a better delivery of services in Excelsior. We had, of course, forgotten that when they were in power during the days of apartheid, there was no electricity in our houses. No street lights in Mahlatswetsa Location. No library.
Popi continued to debate vigorously in the council chamber—since Lizette de Vries had helped her regain some of her confidence after the incident of the hairy legs—and to needle and be needled by Tjaart Cronje. But Viliki seemed to have lost all interest in the affairs of the council. He attended its sittings fairly regularly, for he was paid a stipend to do so. He cast his vote without really participating in the debates. It was as though he was in a daze. He just watched how Popi voted and then voted the same. When the new mayor reshuffled her “cabinet”—as the councillors called the management committee that comprised all ten councillors—he was given the least taxing portfolio. He was put in charge of the parks. There was really nothing to do concerning the two parks of Excelsior. They were just there. Big tracts of land with grass and bluegum trees and nothing else. No one bothered to use the parks for anything. So Viliki’s work was really cut out for him.
His daze disappeared as soon as he got to his RDP house, where he made love and music with the Seller of Songs.
Popi, on the other hand, attacked the duties of her new portfolio with great enthusiasm. They included the new library of Mahlatswetsa Location. It had finally been built, furnished and equipped. It was an imposing brick structure with a green corrugated-iron roof. Its neat grounds were paved with bricks and concrete. Inside
, the floors were of shining tiles, made slippery by the polish that the cleaner applied every morning. There were many shelves lined with books bought with council funds and donated by the provincial government and by overseas countries. Popi took her work as the town councillor in charge of the library very seriously. She spent all her days paging through the books, smelling them and just fondling them. We even thought she was the librarian, for sometimes she stood behind the counter and assisted students who were looking for books. The real librarian took advantage of her enthusiasm, and often sneaked out to do her washing at home. Or to go shopping for groceries. She knew that Popi would take care of the patrons. And they were many, these patrons. Mostly students from the various primary and high schools in Mahlatswetsa Location. Some adults had library cards as well. Others used the library for reading newspapers and magazines.
Popi’s favourite corner was the one that had oversized glossy books on art. She paged through the colourful paintings, and read more about the European artists called Flemish expressionists who had influenced the trinity’s early work. She gained a clearer understanding of what the trinity was trying to do with his distorted figures, and was no longer bothered by the fact that they were distorted. In fact, when she came across books with figures that were not distorted, that captured life as people saw it with their eyes, she was not moved. Such works, she felt, were lacking in emotion.
The library became the new thief that stole Popi from cow-dung collecting expeditions. Niki missed her. She saw her only in the evenings when she came home to sleep. Sometimes she returned only after Niki was already asleep and left early before Niki woke up. They saw very little of each other. Yet Niki continued to loom large in Popi’s life. She felt Niki’s presence all the time. Whether she was debating in the council chamber, fondling books in the library, or singing for the dead at funerals, Niki’s aura was always with her. She could smell it. Sometimes she even felt that she was seeing everything through Niki’s eyes.
