Thula-Thula (English Edition), page 21
That was how Abel found someone who loved him even though he was left-handed.
What is a little baboon in your language, Mama Thandeka? he asked.
Mfenana, I said.
So the tiny thing was christened Mfenana. At night it slept on top of an old ironing blanket in the wood shed. By day it was chained to the wild olive tree at the bottom of the stairs. There was no garden back then, just a few trees and an empty yard. That was long before Missus Sarah came and planted a garden that looked like a picture from a magazine.
When the truck pulled up at the house on Fridays Abel ran straight for Mfenana. The little baboon was so glad to see him, it did somersaults and talked to Abel. All you could see was teeth; you could swear it was laughing. Abel spent all his pocket money on sweets and bananas for Mfenana. He walked around on all fours with Mfenana on his back, or with the little creature hanging upside down, gripping Abel’s shirt with its tiny hands. I watched them through the kitchen window. Abel was sitting against the wild olive tree while Mfenana walked around him, scratching in Abel’s hair and ears. As if it was pulling off lice and biting them. While the little hands were busy, Abel sat quietly, his eyes closed from pleasure. Then it was the baboon’s turn. It pretended to be asleep while Abel turned and tumbled the slack little body.
The gap between Abel and his papa grew wider. Abel stopped following his papa and his brothers around. Stopped trying to write with his right hand. Held his knife and fork properly only when the old man was at the table. Samuel taught Abel baboon rhymes he remembered from his years at school. Abel said the rhymes over and over, while the baboon listened with its head cocked to one side and made noises that sounded like talking.
A great bear in the woods wants all he sees
From the snakes in the grass to the chimpanzees
We all know it ain’t fair
It’s a jungle out there
So go bang your drum, Mr Big Baboon
What monkey see monkey will do
Boom boom boom boom, Mr Big Baboon
His mattress stayed dry. He and the baboon were like twins joined together the day they were born. The baboon grew and became too heavy to carry. At night it slept under the wild olive tree. If it was cold Abel dressed it in a jersey, and the baboon didn’t take the jersey off. With his pocket money Abel bought Mfenana a hand-mirror at Missus Margie’s store. That was something to see, the way the baboon tried to see if there was another baboon behind that mirror. But when Abel put shoes on the baboon it wouldn’t walk in them. It lay down on the ground and played dead.
When the two of them walked into the veld or over to the fig tree, they held hands and the baboon walked upright like a human being. While Abel talked, Mfenana moved his lips as if he understood every word. I wondered what Abel was saying to the baboon. If he was telling it about his mama. Or about the time he got full marks for arithmetic and his papa said nothing. My heart felt so sorry for him, then. I made him a small rice pudding from the leftover rice, because I knew rice pudding was his favourite. It was his arithmetic pudding, I said. He asked if he could share the pudding with Mfenana and carried two spoons outside. Eating with a spoon was an old trick for Mfenana, but a baboon eating rice pudding? That was something I never thought I would see.
On Mondays when the hostel bags were loaded onto the back of the truck, Mfenana climbed into the wild olive and wouldn’t get down or touch his food. Just sat there all day long, hugging Abel’s shoe until he got too hungry.
There is going to be trouble over that baboon, I said one evening when Samuel and I were roasting sweet potatoes over the fire. I had seen it stiffen its forelegs and scratch at the ground whenever the old man walked past. Or pull back its scalp and show the whites of its eyes as if to say, I don’t see you. Samuel said he had seen the baboon turn its back on the old man and pelt him with berries.
One morning, it was just before Christmas, Abel walked to the store on Sweetwater to buy sweets for Mfenana. While he was away his brothers stole the old man’s liquor. They fed the baboon half a bottle of brandy and lots of wine berries. When Abel came back with the sweets, the baboon lay sprawled on the ground under the wild olive, its mouth hanging open. Abel thought his little brother was dead and ran towards him, screaming. He lay with his head on Mfenana’s stomach, clinging to the baboon.
There’s nothing the matter with him, he’s just drunk, I said. He’ll be right as rain by evening. But there was something in the child’s eyes that scared me. Something dark and hard. All day long he stayed with the baboon. By late afternoon the baboon showed signs of sobering up. It struggled into the tree. Dropped down again like a bag of oats. Abel gave it a little mug of water from the outside tap and went inside to fetch the sweets.
Right then the old man walked across the yard to the milking kraal and when he reached the tree, that was when the wine berries started working. The baboon let go when the old man was directly below him. Covered him in runny black baboon shit from his hat down to his shoes. I was emptying the coffee bag at the tap near the corner of the house and I thought to myself, if a baboon can throw a stone on purpose, it can shit on you on purpose too.
I watched the old man slip his gun belt from his shoulder and my throat went dry with fear. Because I could see a terrible sadness coming our way. When he pointed the gun into the wild olive, I dropped the coffee bag and ran. Right at that moment Abel came down the stairs with the sweets. ‘Don’t!’ he screamed and charged towards the old man.
But we were both too late.
The gunshot echoed across Umbrella Tree Farm.
Mfenana dropped out of the tree and landed at Abel’s feet. Blood running from its ears, red stains on its teeth.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ I shouted. The sound died in my throat when the old man pointed the gun at me.
Sometimes the earth stops turning and time stands still.
Abel was crying and hitting at his papa; he flung himself onto the ground next to his little brother. I watched the old man remove his belt and heard him yell at Abel, something about hitting your father. I called softly to Nkosi. I could see Abel’s pants were wet.
‘Take this crybaby away,’ the old man roared through the shit covering his lips, ‘and lock him in the outside lavatory. I want to drag this bloody baboon away!’
‘You’re a pig, Pa! A bloody pig!’ Abel cried through his own snot.
When the belt struck Abel’s back, I took a step forward so I could stand between them. Then I gathered up the child and walked away from the yard, tearing a pair of pants off the washing line as I went. I carried him past the outhouse and the pepper tree to the back of the cement dam. There I took off the wet pants and helped him put his legs into the dry ones.
We were both red with baboon blood.
Nkosi, tell me what to do, tell me … Nkosi didn’t answer.
I held the trembling child. Or maybe I was the one who was trembling. I rocked him and sang a song I remembered from my tata’s church. Sendiya vuma, Sendiya vuma, Somandla … Send us Lord, send us Lord, in thy Name … I didn’t know what I was asking the Lord to send us or if maybe it was us He wanted to send some place. I just sang. Sendiya vuma … Send us Lord …
We heard the roar of the tractor. I thought Abel would have a fit. I held him tight and sang.
When it was dark Samuel came to find us. Abel must go inside, his papa said it was time for evening prayers. Now it was my turn to have a fit. Evening prayers? When he had just shot his child’s heart to pieces?
Let’s go, Thandeka, Samuel said.
Abel didn’t want to walk, his legs buckled. So Samuel picked him up and carried him on his back. I walked like someone who had rocks tied to her feet. And I listened to Samuel sing to the child on his back.
The stars are twinkling in the sky,
Fly to your nest, sweet birdie,
The moon will be here by and by
Fly to your nest, sweet birdie.
Mist swam before my eyes because Samuel wasn’t a man for singing except at night when we sat by our fire. When we got to the back door, Abel clung to Samuel. Go inside, Samuel said. I will fetch you tomorrow, then you and I will go gather sheep in the vygie camp.
We didn’t light a fire that night.
Candle stub on the table. A piece of bread. To bed.
In the middle of the night Samuel woke me. I can’t sleep, Thandeka, he said, the pain is too great inside me …
Then I lay awake too. Because my head couldn’t let go of the song Samuel had sung to the child.
There’s no more time tonight to play,
The morning sun is dreams away,
Tomorrow is another day,
Fly to your nest, sweet birdie.
So listen carefully, all the spirits of the mamas and papas … A day comes when you have to take your sickle to harvest what you have sown. And you cannot raise lucerne from seed oats.
I washed and washed the pants Abel peed in but he never wanted to wear them again. The pants reminded him of the time he peed on himself from heartache. If you mix tears and piss together you get a strong poison. A boy child of ten becomes poisoned by shame if he pees on himself in front of other people. And he doesn’t stay ten years old forever. He grows up and becomes a man. With a big spear. His manhood sits inside that spear. And if he thinks his spear is blunt he will sharpen it everywhere he sees something that looks like a grindstone.
One day when Gertruidah had disappeared to the stone house I sat alone by the evening fire. I looked up at the stars and I asked Samuel’s star: Samuel, how does a man cry?
Samuel’s answer came out of the black night: A man only cries a little, with his face turned away from other people’s eyes. Or he goes behind a tree or a rock to cry.
That’s not true, Samuel, I said. A man doesn’t cry through his eyes; he cries through his spear.
That Christmas Abel got his .22 gun. But unlike his brothers he didn’t shoot at tins and bottle tops. He shot at living things. Dung beetles, swallows, lizards. Even green pomegranates and tomatoes on the vine. Never went to pick up the dead thing either, as if he didn’t care.
One day I was in the laundry folding the ironing. The old man and the two older boys had gone to Sweetwater to help with the slaughtering and the biltong. Abel stayed at home and wandered around the yard with his gun. I looked out the window and couldn’t believe my eyes. Abel walked straight to where the yard cat was lying in the sun. She rolled over heavily, her body swollen with kittens. He pushed the barrel to the cat’s head. At first I thought he was playing. Then the shot rang out. The cat went rigid. Abel held the gun to the cat’s head and fired four more times. Then he put the gun over his shoulder and dragged the cat by its tail to the outhouse. Closed the door behind him.
I stood with the half-folded sheet in my hands. My legs had turned into jelly.
He stayed in the outhouse a long time. When he came out he was wiping his knife on his pants. Then he covered the blood with sand, and brushed away the drag marks with a wild-olive twig. I drank water from the tap in the laundry. Nkosi, did Abel cut open the cat? Why? Because he wanted to see where life came from? Because he was angry over his own mama? Or because he knew how much his papa loved that yard cat?
Before a man learns how to cry through his spear, he cries through the barrel of his gun.
The tunes in his head get jumbled up.
Years later he sharpens his spear on Gertruidah.
And I who saw everything, I said nothing.
Now fly back to where you came from, the spirits of all the papas and mamas. I am tired of looking over my shoulder. I want to sleep with the sun on my face. And until the sleep finds me, I will sing softly.
To myself.
To Abel’s departed spirit that was heavy with guilt.
To all the papas and mamas who act without thinking.
But most of all to Gertruidah.
Sendiya vuma, Somandla … Send us Lord, in thy Name …
◊◊◊
Working mechanically, she clears out the guest toilet. Moves across to the left of the stoep to find more room for the things she throws away. Among the Kingston Blue agapanthuses that always flower at Christmas time.
Drinks water at the tank. Takes down the washing and folds it away inside her white linen cupboard. Walks over to where Johnnie is digging in the vegetable garden, to tell him to bury the stuff from the fridge down by the river.
‘Missy,’ and he plants the spade in the soil, ‘can we talk about the mattress in the front garden …’
‘No, I don’t want to talk about it.’
He wiggles the spade. ‘My body can’t get comfortable on the lumpy old mattress at night, and then I lie awake and worry about what will become of Littlejohn when I …’
‘I’ll buy you a new mattress for Christmas, Johnnie. Sheets and blankets and pillows too.’
He drops the spade. ‘Word of honour, Missy? Everything brand new?’
‘Word of honour, Johnnie. But if I catch you taking anything from in front of the stoep, I’m going back on my word. And you don’t have to lie awake about Littlejohn a single night. I will take care of him.’
‘Thank you, Missy, for everything. The day I pass on, Missy must look inside the Mazawattee tea tin for the money I’m saving for my coffin. At the Antique Shop in town they say they will pay for the tin, too, if it isn’t enough for …’
‘Use the tin money to buy clothes for Littlejohn and yourself, or anything else you want. I will pay for your coffin and your funeral, the whole lot. But you’re going to live past a hundred, Johnnie. The Lord knows your troubles and He will call Littlejohn to Him before He takes you.’
‘Missy reckon He will? Really and truly?’
‘Really and truly, Johnnie.’
He walks away on rickety legs; she knows his time on earth is nearly spent. It’s time he stopped working and spent the rest of his days dozing in the sun outside his house. But first he must chop out the prickly-pear trees around his house so from his front yard he can gaze out across Umbrella Tree Farm. Between the new farm workers’ children and herself, they’ll see to it that he has all the prickly pears he can eat.
She washes her face. Brushes her teeth. Combs her hair. Uses her white toilet.
The telephone rings again. Braham, maybe. She doesn’t want to talk to him.
She walks through Abel and Sarah’s bedroom to their bathroom. There are cabbage leaves spilling out of the dustbin, green stains in the shower. So Abel did shower before church. He took no part of her to his grave.
She slips the Dutch lace curtains off their copper rods. Wraps everything that’s made of cloth inside two bath towels along with last week’s laundry. Tosses the bundles among the blue lilies. Goes back for the dustbin, toilet paper basket, magazine rack. Toiletries go into the laundry bin. She picks up the nail brush with disgust. Facecloths, razors, pumice stone, hair brushes. Everything in the cupboards above and below the basin. She drags the bin down the passage. It’s too heavy to lift onto the stoep wall. Throw out a few things to make it lighter. Tube of toothpaste. She unscrews the cap, squeezes the toothpaste onto the half-moon table. Squirts a jet of yellow shampoo over the visitors’ book. White body lotion onto the wall stand where Anthony’s picture used to be. Hair conditioner drips from the wardrobe. A sticky puddle of light purple lavender foam bath lands among the stains on the mattress.
She hates the smell of lavender. Whenever Sarah wasn’t home she had to bath the frog prince in lavender foam.
Sarah went away often, for many reasons.
Painting lessons. She bought an easel, canvas, paint, brushes. Painted nothing. A course in aromatherapy. The oils abandoned on a shelf in the pantry. While she was away expressing her creative urges Gertruidah stayed behind on the farm.
‘So attached to her dad and her tree house and Bamba,’ her mother used to say, so often that it came to seem like the truth. ‘She gets bored and niggly if she comes along to town.’
In town no one knew that she cried to go along every time. Or that she went to hide under her bed or inside her cupboard when Mama Thandeka went home. It was pointless to try and hide; he always found her. Then he said she was the princess and he the frog; she had to bath him in lavender foam. Although it made her shudder, the princess knelt beside the bath and washed him fast and hard. She felt sorry for him when he cried. Thick white tears that splashed from his single misshapen eye.
Sometimes they held a concert, like at the music society, with the song Auntie Margie taught them at playschool.
Splish splash splish splash splosh,
a frog comes hopping by:
he wears a suit that’s very posh
and a bright green tie.
She didn’t like jumping like a frog while she was naked, especially when it was cold.
… his name is Principal du Pond,
master of frog school.
She didn’t like the schoolmaster either.
When the concert ended, she lay still until the tired throbbing went away. Then she took Lulu to the river and taught her to read the words she wrote in the sand. She was Principal du Pond. If Lulu made a mistake, she took off her nappy and smacked her petermouse with a reed. Lulu didn’t have a real petermouse, so she drew one on with her mother’s black koki pen and cut a tiny hole down there with the kitchen scissors. With her finger inside the hole, she could feel the woolly stuff inside Lulu. But when Lulu was wearing her nappy no one could see the hole.
Lulu read carefully because she didn’t want a hiding from Principal du Pond.
Hat. Hut. Hit. Had. Red. Get. Eat. Ate.
Cream-coloured hand soap spurts from the dispenser. Disgusted, she hurls the bottle against Grandma Strydom’s dressing table so hard her shoulder hurts.
She squirts the shaving cream over the lavender bush. It turns into a foam bush. Then she raises the bin above her head and scatters its remaining contents among the blue lilies.
And her thoughts swirl away, all the way to the end of the dark moon year in which Braham arrived at the school.
Final exam, grade ten. The English language paper.
