Thula-Thula (English Edition), page 20
‘Gertruidah, Gertruidah … Why are you crying?’
She drops the lid of the suitcase and clicks the lock shut. She doesn’t want to dig any more or read Auntie Lyla’s letters. Why had Sarah kept these things? Who had she been? Did she lie in her grave with a weakened sphincter muscle? Were the handfuls of headache tablets supposed to silence the pain of remembering?
She carries the little suitcase to the cast-iron table outside. Places it beside the blue forget-me-nots. Goes back inside and starts emptying the guest toilet. Listlessly, because she can’t get the disturbing image of the girl-woman on top of the flour chest out of her head.
◊◊◊
After breakfast I doze in the weak sun outside our house. Mabel woke me early this morning and said I must get dressed. She wanted to hook her arm through mine and walk me around the outside of the house; for the stiffness in my knees. When the sun gets warmer, she is going to wash and braid my hair.
‘I’m going to carry the chair outside, so the sun can get on Mama’s skin.’
The rocking chair was a present from Abel and Missus Sarah when I turned seventy. I become sleepy when the chair rocks me. Back and forth, just like the cradle where Mabel slept when she was a little baby.
Sometimes when Abel came this side of the kissing gate with a pocket of potatoes on his shoulder, or a butternut squash or a bowl of grapes, he would fetch a chair from the kitchen and sit down beside me. Then he would place one foot on the base of my rocking chair and gently rock me. Talking of this and that. A new Bonsmara calf, or getting contract workers to help out for a couple of days while the calves were weaned. You needed extra hands during weaning time because that’s when the cows went mad. Or he would tell me what the mfundisi had said in his sermon on Sunday. The summer flu that had gone to Missus Margie’s stomach. Baboons that stole all the pomegranates off the trees.
He came here often. Never forgot how I used to rub his bottom with Zambuk ointment when the old man laid into him with his belt so there were welts all over his backside. Or how I always gave him a handful of dates and sent him to go lie on his stomach under the pepper tree so the balm could do its work.
We never talked about our day of sin.
I am tired from looking for stars nearly all of last night. The sleep didn’t find me until just before dawn when I pulled the blanket over my head. Today Mabel wants to put the chicken in the pot and make yellow rice with raisins and gravy potatoes. Ginger pudding and custard. Air the blankets. Beat the carpets. I don’t know where she finds the strength to do it all, when her heart must still be raw about her white mama. She as good as grew up under Missus Sarah’s feet.
We have a fine house, Mabel and I. Inside plumbing. Lights. A sponge mattress for my gouty body to lie on, underneath a soft duvet. Lined curtains Missus Sarah made so the sun won’t shine into the house early in the morning. A tiled bathroom with a shower, so I don’t have to heave my sickly old body in and out of a tin bath.
Money we have enough. Every year Abel puts the first little Bonsmara heifer aside for the church. Then it is Missus Sarah and Gertruidah’s turn, then Mabel and me, and Johnnie. Every third year or so, there is even one for Littlejohn. Probably because he helped Missus Sarah in the garden all those years ago, and because when Anthony got lost in the fog all those years ago, it was Littlejohn who found him asleep in a dassie crevice.
When the auction is over Abel counts out the Bonsmara money on the kitchen table. I make tea in my blue Christmas cups. Abel eats his ash bread with blackberry jam and goat’s milk butter and explains how much money he will put in the bank for Mabel and me.
Twice a year we get the chickens that hatch in the bank. Then Missus Sarah takes us to the big town to buy things for the house. Even a hairdryer and hot curlers and a cellphone for Mabel. So she can type out a list to send to Missus Margie, so the groceries will be ready when she gets to the shop. The only trouble is that the cellphone doesn’t always work. They have to put up a higher tower, Mabel says.
It’s no use Mabel pretending that she hates Abel. The things we buy with the heifer money she likes well enough. Her own heifer money is the reason she doesn’t take a husband and have children. Sometimes a woman takes a husband because she has no money or education, and she has to live on what he gives her. Even if he beats her black and blue or shoves her hand into the fire, there is no place she can go. It makes no difference if she is white or black or brown or yellow, she has to put up or shut up.
Mabel won’t shut up. Between Missus Sarah and Missus Margie and me, we saw to it that Mabel’s got class. Pretty tunes inside her head.
As I sit here growing drowsy in my rocking chair, I call to each and every papa and mama in the world. Their spirits must fly here and come sit at my feet, with their ears turned towards me. So they can hear what is on my mind. I want to say to them: Abazali, hlalani phantsi, phulaphulani. Mamas and papas, please sit and listen well. So you won’t make bad tunes inside the heads of your children, and one day weep into your pillow over everything that is rolling downhill.
One day, years ago, Missus Margie came over from Sweetwater on a school visit. She had a plan to visit every house once a year to see where the children lived who went to her school. Where they slept and if they sat at a table to eat their meals. If there was a lavatory and lavatory paper, or if the children had to squat in the veld. If there was a Bible in the house. If the yard was swept; if the dog was fat. Children didn’t all grow up the same, she said, and she wanted to understand how each child’s head worked, so she could speak to him in a language he could understand. So Missus Sarah gave me the afternoon off and Missus Margie came here to our house for the first time.
‘My goodness, Thandeka,’ she said, ‘what a fine house you have!’
Small thing that she was back then, Mabel stood in front of the gas stove and made flapjacks the way Missus Sarah had taught her in the kitchen on Umbrella Tree Farm. I could see Mabel straighten her back because of what Missus Margie said. I watched her turn around and open and close the fridge. For no reason, she didn’t take anything out. It was just so Missus Margie would notice the fridge.
When Mabel put down our tea tray, complete with a tea cloth and the ears of the cups all pointing the same way, I saw a beautiful light in Missus Margie’s eyes. ‘Go play with Gertruidah in the tree house,’ she told Mabel. ‘Your mother and I want to talk alone.’
Then I wish you could see Mabel open her little umbrella just as if to show that the sun could not shine on her head, hang her pink handbag over her arm and put on the sunglasses Gertruidah gave her for Christmas. Even put on her slip-on sandals.
There was a little pot with white verbenas on the tea tray and Missus Margie pointed to it. ‘You see there, Thandeka,’ she said. ‘That is the reason I don’t want Mabel to say “tisha” and “bleck” and “zey”. It’s not because I want to make Mabel something she’s not. It’s because I can tell she’s going to go far.’
‘It’s true,’ I said.
‘It’s in her blood, Thandeka. Some people can be taught to have style, others have it in their blood.’
‘It’s true,’ I said again, trying not to show my fright.
‘Mabel simply has to finish matric, Thandeka. I’m convinced it’s what Samuel would also have wanted for his child. Abel will support her if she goes to university. You must think ahead, Thandeka, think way ahead …’
After Missus Margie left, I stared at the pot of verbenas and thought about what Mabel had said when she brought the little bunch of flowers home. ‘Mama, Missus Sarah says white verbenas mean: “Pray for me”.’
Right there at the table I closed my eyes and said thank you for all the mothers Mabel had been given. Missus Margie who was giving her an education. Missus Sarah who was teaching her all the finer things. And me, who watched over her spirit. With my eyes still shut, I remembered a starry night around the fire with Samuel, even before Mabel’s navel cord had dried and gone.
Samuel was in a devil of a temper about what had gone on behind his back while he was walking in the mountain searching for cattle. He wanted to pack up our donkey cart there and then and get the hell away from here. But Samuel wasn’t a man with a heart of stone. On the inside he must have known that every woman longed to have a child, even if she never talked about it.
The night Mabel was born in the town hospital, the sister handed him the almost-white little bundle in the white blanket to hold.
He took her. He cried. It’s alright, Thandeka, he said, this is our child now.
One evening shortly afterwards we sat by the fire. Mabel was asleep in the cradle Missus Sarah had bought and covered in white netting. With a separate net to throw over the cradle, so the flies wouldn’t bother the baby.
Thandeka, Samuel said, you must never carry our child on your back.
Now he’s gone crazy in his head, I thought, how could I not tie my child to my back? She must hear my lungs when I sing; she must smell my skin and feel my warmth.
Carry her on your hip, he said. I will sell a Bonsmara and see that she gets a pushchair. And one of those baby carriers that hang on your stomach for the times when you need to use both your hands. When she learns to walk, you must take her hand when the two of you walk somewhere.
Samuel, I said, have you become senile? Since when can a mama not …
The things Samuel said that night shook me. They stayed before my eyes like the naked truth, no matter how I tried to look the other way.
Our child is small, he said. She was born without knowledge and there are many things she must learn. And the way she will learn is with her eyes. If you carry her on your back everywhere the two of you go, tied in a blanket with only her little head sticking out, the only thing she will see is your back, Thandeka. When there is a tree way up ahead in the road she cannot look at that tree as it gets closer. She only sees the tree when it is next to her. Then it is not a tree, it is a thing. She cannot talk, so she can’t tell you to stand still so she can look at the thing. When you keep walking she can’t turn around and look at the thing as you walk away – the blanket is too tight. There’s a bird flying towards you. A car coming up the road. She sees your back and she doesn’t see the bird. She hears the car but she doesn’t know where it is coming from or how far away it is. And whoosh, gone is the bird. Gone is the car.
You don’t think of telling her that there’s a bird or a car on the way. You forget that the child can’t look around to see what that thing was. She doesn’t start noticing things properly until the day you untie her and take her off your back. When your back is no longer in her way. When she can turn her head the way she wants, and look behind her as many times as she likes.
I could think of nothing to say. I could only stare at the way the flames played on Samuel’s face. His words became like the first words in a book full of cleverness that was opening in front of me.
I know your Xhosa people do things differently, Thandeka, he said. And to see a mother and her child together like that, is beautiful. But remember, Thandeka, these days when it is education that counts, you cannot wait to start noticing the world around you until the day you’re taken off your mama’s back. By then you are already used to your mama’s back being the only thing you see. Our child must grow up with eyes that can see far. She must see everything that is coming towards her, and she must be able to turn around and look at the things she is leaving behind.
I listened carefully while Samuel spoke. I thought about my almost-white little baby asleep in her cradle and my heart was very full. Because he was talking about ‘our’ child.
But there were times when Samuel worked elsewhere, or when he was away fixing fences in the taaibos camp so the jackals couldn’t get through. Then I waited until Mabel’s head was starting to droop. I fetched a towel and tied her close to my lungs. I felt the drums of my tata in the soles of my feet. I heard my mama sing and felt the tune vibrate through her back.
I started rocking on my feet, with my hands underneath my baby’s buttocks. I longed for people whom I had forgotten. And whom I would always remember. And then I sang like my mama. Thula thu, thula baba, thula sana. Thula umamuzobuya ekuseni … Be still, be still, be still, my child … Tomorrow morning your mama will come …
Terrible things have happened in the house on Umbrella Tree Farm, but they didn’t happen for no reason. The tunes inside your head don’t get mixed up all by themselves. Yes, it is true that Abel will have to explain before Nkosi about the bad things he did to Gertruidah. But perhaps Nkosi will remember the evil things the old man did to Abel.
The question that turns my stomach is how I myself will answer when Nkosi asks why I said nothing when it was my time to talk. All those times when Abel sat at my table and I wanted to talk about Gertruidah but my tongue lay flat inside my mouth. When Abel ate his crackling and asked what to do about Sarah’s shadows. A woman’s shadows stayed dark for a long time, I told him; he had to be patient. But about Gertruidah’s shadows I didn’t mention a word and they kept getting darker and darker.
It was my duty to be the angel that held up the lantern so Abel would see where to walk. But I was a worthless angel. I chose to keep quiet and put out the light.
So here I sit with all the spirits of the papas and mamas around me, and a heart filled with regret. Because my silence was as good as consent. In my mind I see Abel coming through the kissing gate once more, carrying a pocket of potatoes. And in my mind I say: Sit down, Abel, and let us talk. About a terrible business that needs fixing.
But all I can do is tell the spirits the story of a child whose tunes got mixed up inside his head so there’d never be a beautiful song again. It is a story I must tell Gertruidah too; perhaps it will help soothe the anger inside her.
Not long after Samuel and I came to live on Umbrella Tree Farm, the cobra bit Abel’s mama. The old man was a hard man. He must have been troubled, knowing there were three children he had to raise on his own. But I never saw him cry a single tear for his poor dead wife.
The two brothers were older than Abel; there was a lot they and the old man could share. Drive the tractor, hunt geese, cull sheep, odd jobs around the shed. Abel was just five years old. Too big to be a baby and too small to walk around with a gun over his shoulder and a penknife in his pocket. He trailed after his brothers but they kept chasing him home, back to me. Abel wanted to help his papa feed the chickens, empty the hens’ nests, carry milk pails. With his mama gone he wanted to be certain his papa loved him. But his papa also chased him away, back to me.
The trouble was, Abel wanted to do everything with his left hand. It made the old man angry because he only knew the tools and the guns with his right hand. He knocked the porridge spoon out of Abel’s left hand. Tossed the picture he had made with his left hand into the stove. The worst was when they were together in the shed because the child couldn’t hit a nail or saw a plank with his right hand. Then the old man shouted that he was stupid. If Abel started to cry, the old man called him a crybaby and chased him home.
Every little boy longs to sit on a strong, upright chair inside his papa’s heart. Abel did too. He tried hard. He did his best to be like his father: rich and clever and strong. But all the time he had to hear that he was an idiot. All over his body the tiny bones started to break all by themselves. And the more he limped along, struggling to walk, the further his papa pushed him away.
Then he would come to me with lips that trembled. What did I know about raising a child? I did what I thought my mama would do. I gave him a piece of chocolate cake, let him help me make meatballs, grind the coffee. Sent him outside to scrape out the leftover porridge for the chickens. I could tell he was getting worse. I didn’t know if it was the longing for his mama, or the wishing that his papa would love him.
When he started at the town school I thought now Abel would have friends and everything would get better. Every week I packed biscuits and grapes and oranges for Abel and his brothers to take to the hostel. Abel came home and said his brothers finished their food parcels on Monday and then they took his. When I talked to the old man about it he told me to keep my flat nose out of his business. And who would look after Abel then, I wanted to ask. But I said nothing, or he would call me a cheeky black baboon.
This one time he was grumbling that I was too nosy and scratching around in everything, even in his late wife’s sewing basket. And how am I supposed to sew on buttons and darn holes without a needle and thread? I asked. Don’t be so forward, he said, ask my permission. So the next time there was mending to do, I took it to his office and put it on the desk and said all right, I am asking. Now will you kindly fix everything before Monday? He got so angry, his false teeth almost fell out.
Some weekends and holidays I had to stand Abel’s mattress behind the outhouse to dry in the sun. I smelt his laundry bag, but there wasn’t pee on his hostel clothes. I knew it was here on Umbrella Tree Farm that the fear grabbed hold of him. Sometimes I looked at the old man and I thought: You old bastard.
When Abel was about seven years old his brothers shot a female baboon among the almond trees. With a baby that was still clinging to her and suckling on her after she was dead. Big ears sticking out, barely a hair on its tiny pink face. They could raise it in the yard, the old man said. When they carried the baby home, it shat all over their arms and legs. Up in the mountains the troop was going crazy – they’d heard the baby’s screams. Probably heard the gunshot too.
Why I couldn’t say, but when the little baboon saw Abel it broke free and ran straight for him. Before Abel even had time to be scared, the baby baboon was clinging to him, with its little head on Abel’s chest and an arm wrapped around his neck. Not a drop of shit on Abel. It was plain to see that the little baboon had set its heart on Abel.
But it is one thing to bring a baby baboon into the yard and another thing to care for it. I had to beg the old man to let Samuel take the truck and drive to the store on Sweetwater for a bottle and teats.
