Do you think if I closed my eyes real tight and held them that way for a forever amount of time, that when I tried to open them again, they would refuse, because they’d gotten comfortable being that way? Because maybe then I wouldn’t have to see, and then I wouldn’t have to feel so sad. I do not like to watch what you do to yourself, little black girl. I do not like to see you sell your soul for a silver skin. Why do you pull at your button nose? Do you not see that it is beautiful that way? I do not know how to fix you, little black girl, so I will shut my eyes as tight as I can.
I hate my ears, for they are the greatest liars I have ever known. They lie to me every day. As soon as I speak a word they play it back to me in an accent that is not my own. Perhaps my ears are thieves too. “Whose accent is this?” I demand to know. They are not intimidated by my rage. “Whose accent did you steal, you lying thieves?”
Oh, sometimes I want to cut my toes, just one and then another, until I cannot cut them anymore. If I had no toes, it would be so difficult to walk. Then everybody would say, “Sit down, poor little black girl. Sit down, and do not wear yourself out so.” Right there I would sit and not take another step. That would be OK, too: I do not know where I am going anyway.
We are now finally on our way back home. Mama uses facial wipes to prepare her skin for the Deep Velvet that she will apply to her eyelids. The Tender Plum that was modestly brushed onto the apples of her cheeks this morning will not match the Indigo chiffon skirt she must change into as soon as we get home. It is the second Sunday of the month, time again for Mama, mama Julia, mama Caroline and mama Peggy to meet. These three ladies are Mama’s closest friends from a larger group of thirteen women. In another era, in a different land with a less controversial history, none of these thirteen women would be friends because no two of them have anything in common. Except, of course, the one thing that they do have in common, the thing that is significant enough to be sufficient reason to keep thirteen conflicting characters as the best of buddies. All of these women are trying to forget.
I move closer to the window so that I can see Mama’s reflection in the side mirror. I wonder if she can see me watching her and what she thinks of it if she can. She pulls the visor down and dabs a little bit of Zambuck on her eyebrows, tinted slightly lighter to match the colour of her beaded cornrows, then arches them up high. Our eyes cross as Mama looks down to search for another one of her Essential Handbag Cosmetics in her glittery sequin clutch purse; I immediately pull away and stare out of the window, creasing my forehead tight so as to appear as if I am deep in thought.
The Benedicts have a ‘We start together and end together’ policy. Well not policy, because that makes it sound too much like a rule, but rather tradition. It’s hilarious because there are six of them in the family, a mother and father, three daughters and little Jimmy, the only boy, and each morning, before they officially awake, all four kids sluggishly head for the parents’ bedroom to what they call the Start/Finish bed for the daily Benedicts Family Team Huddle. It’s a scramble to see who can get into the bed first and secure themselves the warmest spot, even if it means stepping on mom’s head or jabbing dad in the stomach in the process. The show always begins with somebody falling out of the bed and ends with mom hysterically dragging everybody, sometimes even dad, out of the room! Of course that kind of stuff only happens on TV. In real life people have to go to work.
I call this symphony ‘Unfinished’ because that is the only word I remember being able to pronounce when I read the title on the back of the CD cover. Tshepo once danced to this piece at one of his ballet concerts at the clubhouse. This is the only CD Daddy has ever bought and the one that perpetually howls in his car when he is not listening to the news. I find this kind of music invasive and not a taste I think I would like to acquire, as Daddy describes it. I wonder if it is really a taste in classical music that Daddy acquired or rather a taste of money that has led to his desire for all things that insinuate wealth and stability.
Mama does not like to be touched. I personally have never seen it happen but she tells me that her skin is sensitive and breaks out in rashes if it is in contact with human flesh for a prolonged period of time. Children’s hands are especially lethal and cause her a ghastly amount of discomfort when and after she comes into contact with them. Mama suspects it is because children by nature are filthy and thus exacerbate her fussy skin’s response to touch.
Mama appears to be content with her creation. She puts her sunglasses on and sits back in the seat. I am impressed. With a few handbag essentials and the help of the vehicle side mirror and front-seat visor, Mama has within minutes transformed herself from unassuming proud mother of two and grateful housewife to cosmopolitan woman-on-the-move. She will be in the house only long enough to swiftly change out of her pure white Sunday dress. Then she will be on the road again, off to swap scandals with the ladies over crushed ice and olives.
I wish I could have danced for Mama, but Lady Gertrude would not have me in her class. I was all angles: elbows and knees prodding out of every corner of my pre-pubescent square-shaped body. I should have been Tshepo and Tshepo me. Mama’s Tshepi. I don’t know if Tshepo ever really enjoyed the Pliés and Pas de Chats, or the baby-blue leotard and white lace on the satin slippers. I suppose it made no difference whether he did or not.
Tshepo was magnificent. His slight frame, sustained arms and legs, deft chin, precise nose, easy shoulders and delicate manner in which he swirled all across the portable stage and behind the curtains had the audience of doting mothers, envious sisters and well-meaning neighbours mesmerised. Tshepo had everything that made Mama beautiful and the one thing that would have made her perfect: Daddy’s fair skin. Tshepo always knew how to make Mama gleeful.
I had thought back then that if I could give my nose a name, then it would be easier to combat. At the end of grade five we went on a three-day school camp to Pilanesberg. On our first night we played a game called Mud Wars. I remember it was Bush Babies against The Dolphins. I was one of The Dolphins, but do not remember having anything to do with the inappropriate name of the group. We had been told to pack old clothing prior to our departure, and that is what we were wearing when our camp leaders collected us from our dormitories to direct us to the lake where the game would be held. Each team member was instructed to fetch a long stick from a pile that had been previously assembled by the camp leaders. The sticks were swirled in the gooey mud that formed the lake’s boundaries, until a ball of wet sand, held together by pieces of grass, slime and insect remains, formed on the end. The objective was to hit as many of the opposition with mud balls as possible until all their men were down before ours were. I remember swinging my stick, aiming for a Bush Baby I had spotted hiding behind a heap of broken branches, and hitting the wall behind them instead. The mud ball hit the wall and stuck right there. While I stood there waiting for it to slide down, thinking that it looked a lot like my nose fixed stubbornly against the camp wall, I was hit by a Bush Baby in the back. So that is what I named my nose: Mud War.
“I bumped into Belinda Johnson outside the pharmacy,” I say, stealing the spotlight from Symphony No. 8’s piano piece, provoking one of them to respond.
“That’s lovely, dear, we have not seen Belinda in a long while. Did you invite her over for lunch?”
“No, Daddy.” That is a nonsensical question. Daddy knows very well that there will be no Sunday lunch today because Mama will be elsewhere. And I cannot cook, Tshepo will not cook and Old Virginia is not allowed to cook. Besides, is today not golf day, like every other day of the week?
“I have told you before, Daddy, Belinda and I are no longer friends.” It is important that I focus on my objective and not allow Daddy’s play-play world to annoy me.
“Those are good news, Ofilwe,” Mama speaks at last.
“Good news? That is a terrible thing, Ofilwe.”
“It is about time, my darling girl. Did not I say those people she were no good for you, Ofilwe?” Mama makes as if
she cannot hear Daddy.
“It is careless to throw away a useful relationship such as yours and Belinda’s, Ofilwe, without even giving it any thought. Those Johnsons are fine people.”
“Fine people? If I is not forbidden you from accepting food from those so-called fine people, Ofilwe, you would be dead now, wouldn’t you, Ofilwe? I am sure, my girl, you are old now and now you can see yourself and be glad me, your Mama, she protected you from that rubbish that goes on at that farm, nê Ofilwe?”
“Those people are mighty intelligent, Ofilwe. You see white people, my child, they know how to utilise their money. Mr Johnson knows that it is wise to invest in property. Why do you think they live on such a large piece of land?”
“Sies! And that dirty house of theirs is a disgust. Remember, Ofilwe? Do you remember how dirty you is when you came back home, Ofilwe? No wonder you is always sick. Those people, they is made you sick, my child.”
“Were you ever sick, Ofilwe? Nonsense! Those Johnsons are open-minded people, Ofilwe. Those are the kind of white people we need in our country. They treated you well, did they not, Ofilwe? How often was Belinda here to help you with your school work, Ofilwe?”
“That Belinda is fat and ugly, my child, and he is only your friend because nobody wants her. Her own people don’t want him and now she wants to come to you? Hayi!”
“As soon as we get home you must call Belinda, Ofilwe, and sort out your differences. She is a reasonable young lady, I am certain she will be willing to put all of this behind her.”
“Ofilwe, you just leave this thing alone. If she wants you come back, she must be the one who is making amends, and it will be no loss to you if he does not. You hear me, my girl? No loss. You must now be starting to be can surrounding yourself with the right kind of people, Ofilwe. Like that Melissa du Toit, Ofilwe, where is he now? What a charming girl.”
I do not enjoy the bickering, but it is the only way to get Mama and Daddy to speak. The drive home seems longer than normal today and the wail of Daddy’s music is anguish, this is my only deliverance. It may not sound like they are speaking to each other, but they are. I am like a telephone operator. I connect them, except instead of using a dialling tone I instigate an argument to do so. The ‘Belinda and I are no longer friends’ line always works well, because they both feel extremely muscular about it, and because it is not directly related to either of their own lives. It keeps things from being personal and hurtful. These conversations they think they are having with me are really arguments that they are having between themselves. Aside from them, Mama and Daddy do not speak very much at all. It is good to speak right?
So I reckon I am doing them a favour by inciting quarrels. I suppose I benefit, too. Sitting here silently at the back, listening to them ask me questions they answer for me, I use their debates to collect words for my Sepedi vocabulary list. Although their arguments follow the same pattern each time they have them, sometimes they use a word they did not use the last time, a word I mouth repeatedly so as to master the pronunciation. I fix the words in my brain so that they can be added to my vocabulary list when I get home. I figure, if all else fails, if I achieve nothing else, at least someday I will be able to argue in Sepedi.
Residents of Little Valley Country Estate use a hand sensor to enter through the booms at the main gatehouse. Guests use a separate entrance. Guests are only allowed in after their visit has been telephonically verified by the guards, with those whom they are there to see. Daddy greets the security guard who is writing down the number plates of the vehicles lined up at the Visitors to the Estate Admissions Gate with his left hand while his right hand commands the striped red-and-white poles to rise.
When Daddy’s company, IT Instantly, won the Post Office tender in which Daddy had invested numerous golf balls, a thousand glasses of JC, endless swipes on the Diner’s Club card and a professionally gift-wrapped ten diamonds and steel limited-edition Mitchell bracelet in, Koko advised that a thanksgiving ceremony would be fitting. That was the same year Mama cashed in her nursing retirement package and suggested we celebrate Christmas Day in Disneyland, Florida.
The day of the thanksgiving ceremony is the last memory I have of Daddy’s family, the Tlous, and Mama’s family, the Ledwabas, all being in the same space at the same time. Grandmother Tlou, her partner Pat and Aunty Sophia arrived first in Grandmother Tlou’s 380SE gold Mercedes-Benz. Koko had spent the night at our house helping Mama and Tshepo prepare the traditional beer that Koko reminded Daddy needed to be offered, together with the blood of an animal and motsoko, to our ancestors as a token of our appreciation for the good fortune that had fallen on our family. The rest of the Ledwabas arrived in dribs and drabs, some of them having to change taxis thrice to get to the cumbersomely located Little Valley Country Estate.
Despite Koko’s counsel that it was wiser to organise the cow a day before the ceremony at the very latest, Daddy was still out, apparently having difficulty finding a suitable cow, when the last of the Ledwabas arrived. Mama’s older brother, Malome Arthur, and his son Benjamin, sensing the tension in the house, laid out a towel on the lawn and explored the copious amount of alcohol Daddy had bought the day before. Ous Desire, Malome Arthur’s girlfriend, and cousin Dukie quickly busied themselves with pots and spices in the kitchen, escaping the interrogation that Malome Arthur’s daughters from a previous marriage, Kagiso and Portia, were being subjected to by Grandmother Tlou and Aunty Sophia over Romany Creams and Rooibos tea.
It was already 4pm when Daddy arrived with Bra Alex and Uncle Max, Daddy’s business partners, and a young white man, probably no older than twenty, whom I had never seen before. At the end of the driveway stood a bakkie that held a subdued chicken in an unnecessary cage. Daddy carried in his hand a large blue refuse bag that dripped blood into the house and onto Mama’s peach Persian carpet, making her scream. Daddy’s eyes were wide and red, suggesting that he had been drinking, and Uncle Max had unbuttoned his shirt, allowing his large belly to protrude out unapologetically.
Daddy, detecting the growing unease in the room, explained that he was unable to locate a live cow that was purchasable, and had instead opted to buy a chicken from the young white man who had been so kind as to offer to drop it off at the house. Daddy went on to say that he did, however, remember that Koko had stressed the importance of a cow, so Bra Alex had suggested that they buy a slaughtered one at the butcher and had requested that its blood be collected in a Tupperware dish so that it could be used for the ceremony.
Koko and Mama were silently washing the dishes when the Little Valley Country Estate security guards drove up our driveway in their Jeep vans. Daddy, Bra Alex and Uncle Max had left shortly after Malome Arthur slit the disturbingly willing chicken’s neck open, allowed its blood to seep into the soil and mumbled a brief prayer that nobody heard. Tshepo was thus the one who received the letter of warning from the two security guards that explained that the couple in No. 2042 behind us had alerted them that we were sacrificing animals after they spotted a chicken hung up on our washing line. The letter warned that we were liable to be heavily fined because we had breached rules no. 12.3 and 15.1 in the Little Valley Country Estate Code of Conduct Handbook.
12.3 Residents of Little Valley Country Estate may not keep any wild animals, livestock, poultry, reptiles or aviaries or any other animals of the sort on the Estate grounds.
15.1 Residents of Little Valley Country Estate must avoid installing visible laundry lines, Wendy houses, tool sheds, pet accommodation and the like in areas that are visible from public view and must ensure that the above are screened from neighbouring properties.
Kicking aside the traditional beer that lay forgotten in a bucket on the floor collecting flying peanuts and bits of carpet, Grandmother Tlou and Pat excused themselves, saying that they had other engagements to get to. Aunty Sophia, as usual, followed them out. Once they had left, Mama dropped the household cleaner and goldilocks she had been futilely using to try to remove the blotches of a now-brown
colour from her carpet and turned to Koko:
“You happy now, ma? Now that you was embarrassing me in front of the eyes of my in-laws and my neighbours. Now that you cover my carpet with blood, fill my kitchen with dirty flies and chased my husband away from her home. You had to make your presence be felt, nê ma? Everybody must know Koko is here. You could not just let a good thing be. No ma, you must insist that this witchcraft be performed. You must be reminding all of us of our backward ways. Did Arthur’s drunked prayer of thanks please the gods, ma? Is the gods now happy? Or now must we perform another ceremony to find that out?”
Little Valley Country Estate sells itself as ‘your rustic escape from the rat race.’ Daddy says that there were many such developments coming up in the city when he bought our house because South Africans were attracted to the idea of a residential area right in the melting pot of the country but even more so to ones that also assured the 24-hour a day maximum security mandatory for survival in Johannesburg. Daddy, however, said that he fell for Little Valley because they had created the most captivating horse-riding trails within their estate, and although he did not ride, he said that they were reason enough to learn to.
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