Thula-Thula (English Edition), page 7
I went outside to shake out the coffee bag on the steps and when I came back into the kitchen he was crying. That was when I took him into my mama’s arms and held him to me the way I used to when he was a little boy. I stroked his back, and he placed his head against the pillow of my bosom.
Afterwards you can blame the devil and say he got you in his clutches, but the devil had nothing to do with it. It was our own fault. And you will never hear me say this to another living being, but in the back of my mind there was the longing to have a child. Doesn’t every mama long for a child?
Samuel’s anger made his heart grow cold towards me. But from time to time I placed my warm hand on him, until his snow melted.
No one knew about the snow inside my own heart. About the nights I went outside while Samuel slept to kneel down before Nkosi. Because He had made me Abel’s mama and it is wrong for a mama to lie with her own child. One time or many times, it doesn’t matter. It is just as wrong as Abel lying with Gertruidah. There are times even now when I must scrape the snow from my heart, because being old doesn’t stop the snow from coming back. How can a woman get with child when she lies with a man just once? What if I didn’t take, and never had Mabel? The snow melts, and the same snow comes back again. That is just the way it works.
But the snow in a woman’s heart is different from a man’s, because she is a woman. A woman doesn’t wait until her whole heart is covered in ice. Little by little she melts the snow with her woman’s tears.
Maybe Gertruidah’s anger will grow less if she melts it with her woman’s tears. But that is just the thing: she doesn’t want to be a woman. She wears khaki pants and lace-up shoes; carries a gun and shoots almost better than a man. She works like a man. Curses like a man. Drives the tractor and milks like one. Mabel says Gertruidah doesn’t even have a little nail polish or a lipstick. Not a single dress or skirt or petticoat in her cupboard. Or high-heeled shoes or a pair of stockings. And she wears ugly, old woman’s panties.
Nkosi, what has Abel done to his little girl?
Why did he never talk to me about the thing with him and his little girl? We always talked about everything. Except for the time we sinned, I was the only mama he knew. But about Gertruidah we stayed thula, because it is a hush-hush thing of the dark; a night adder that strikes like lightning. You mustn’t go barefoot in the dark. Put on your shoes, let the night adder sleep.
Now, when I try to understand why Abel never came to talk to me, my head tells me there are things a man won’t even tell Nkosi, let alone his mama.
The last person he will tell is himself. That is the way it is with men. Us women, we cry and curse. Smash cups against the floor. Beat the wall with a piece of firewood so chunks of plaster fall to the ground. But we soon get better because the anger doesn’t rot inside us.
Men are different.
They swallow the anger, one spoonful at a time. Then it sinks down to their man spears, and a spear filled with anger is like a hyena that will feast on any rotten old thing. That is why the prisons are crammed full of men. The Bible says that a snake came to trouble and tempt Eve. I say the very same snake is among us today; he has made himself at home between a man’s legs. If you ask me, peace will only come if you chop off the snake of every man in the world. Even if it means Nkosi has to remake women’s bodies so that our undersides grow closed, and to get with child we must swallow a river frog or a bumble bee. Even if it means our babies must be born through our throats.
Abel’s poison was too much for his stomach.
The time he came back from his four years in the army, I could see big trouble brewing because his head wasn’t right. His eyes were wild. He jumped when someone spoke behind him. One evening Johnnie came to sit by the fire with Samuel and me. He told us when Abel was milking and the cow kicked the bucket over, Abel punched the cow in the ribs. Kept hitting her and cursing until Johnnie said he could feel that cow’s pain.
Not long afterwards the old man went to Hermanus to visit his cousin in the old-age home. Seemed there was another old woman he was after, who didn’t want him in the end. While he was gone Samuel went into the mountains to look for a cow; in the plantain field, among the taaibos, in the fountain camp, or the old man would say the workers slaughtered his cattle the minute his back was turned. Samuel found Abel in the patch of basket grass on the far side of the vygie camp. He was sitting on an anthill drinking from a bottle of brandy.
‘I kept my distance, Thandeka,’ he said while we were looking at the stars that night. ‘Because if a white man sits alone on an anthill and gets drunk, then the shit is going to fly.’
My mind carries me down far-off roads today. But let it go. Let it ask the questions that must be asked, or I will never have peace in my mind.
There were many workers living on the farm back then and every house had a chicken coop and a fatted pig. In the morning before school the children went out with sickles to cut little bundles of lucerne for the chickens and the handful of milk cows. Then the old man picked them up in the truck and drove them to Miss Margie’s school on Sweetwater.
She was still a young teacher then, full of clever plans to fill the children’s heads with education. She used peach pips to teach them arithmetic. Showed them how to paint pictures with berry juice and crushed pollen, then glue crushed egg shells around the picture to make a frame. She even put up a netball ring to stop the children fighting with each other during break.
And the old man took good care of his people. The same hand he used to go at them with his sjambok, was the hand he held open to give. Work shoes and overalls. Our food didn’t come from the shop in town the way it does now. There was milk for every household, and vegetables grown on the farm. Pumpkin, onions and potatoes. Cabbage, tomatoes, sweet potatoes and gem squash. After the grape harvest we made raisins and brewed spirits. The brew ended up being the reason Abel destroyed the vineyard later on.
Those were good years. There were always voices in the yard and children playing and washing flapping on the wire fence. People gathered around fires at night. Not like now when there seems to be nothing but silence and idleness on Umbrella Tree Farm. Like Abel always says, on a cattle farm these days no one works except the windmills and the cocks and the bulls.
Back then the clinic bus was here like clockwork, for sickness and to give the children their shots. Checked everyone for ringworm and head lice and even brought milk formula and bottle teats for the babies. They took good care of Littlejohn too. Always made him sing for them before they gave him the ointment for his scabies. He would start singing as soon as the clinic bus appeared at the top of the hill, all the songs Missus Sarah taught him while he was helping her in the garden. ‘What a friend we have in Jeeeesus …’
Every month there was a sheep for every household, and when it was Christmas the old man slaughtered an ox. But one year Samuel came home empty-handed. Gave his meat away, he said.
‘Give our Christmas meat away, have you gone mad?’
‘I couldn’t eat that meat, Thandeka,’ he said, and tossed a wild plum log onto the fire. ‘The way Abel was slashing left and right, if I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn this was a man who’d never slaughtered an animal before.’
Early one evening Abel came over with a bag of naartjies. Samuel was still at the dairy, busy with the separator. The old man had gone to a church meeting, Abel said. I could smell brandy on his breath and spread a griddle cake with berry jam in case his stomach was empty.
‘Abel,’ I asked, ‘what is weighing on your heart? And what did you go and punch that cow for?’
He waited too long before he spoke. ‘It’s the army and those bloody terrorists, they’ve messed up my head. Four years on the Border isn’t for sissies.’
The things I heard that night still make my stomach turn. Army things. When Samuel came back from the dairy Abel told him he had been a recce. At first I didn’t know what it meant, that a recce was like a scout or a spy. In a war, Abel explained, they were the ones who went in first, to clear the way for the other army men.
‘I parachute from a helicopter,’ he said, ‘anywhere in the bush. Then I spy on the terrorists at night, check out everything and listen to their conversations. During the day I sleep so they won’t see me. When it gets dark I run. I’ve got two to three weeks to get back to my own soldiers to tell them what the terrorists are planning.’
There was mealie rice and stewed lamb’s liver for our supper and Abel ate some too.
‘Many times I was so scared I shat myself.’ Abel looked from Samuel to me and back again, as if he wanted to make sure we believed him. ‘Many recces shit themselves from fear. Then I’d take off my pants and run naked because if the runny shit dries on your pants, it chafes till your heels and the back of your knees are covered in blisters.’
‘Don’t lie, Abel,’ Samuel said.
Abel put down his plate and said he’d be back soon, there was something he wanted to show us. Samuel and I waited by the fire; we looked at each other and said nothing. Then Abel came back carrying a torch and a photo.
‘Look,’ he said and shone the torch on the photo. ‘See how many terrorists we shot in a single day.’
I thought my heart would stop beating. A tangled mass of black people tossed in a heap. A row of Abel’s soldier friends stood with their right feet on the heap of dead people, as if they meant to stamp on them. And next to the heap stood Abel. He held a thick branch in one hand and at the end of the branch was a man’s head.
The tender lamb’s liver stuck in my throat.
Then Abel took a small plastic bag from his pocket. ‘These are the ears we cut off that day. We kept telling them: that’s what you get for not listening …’
‘Good heavens, Abel,’ Samuel also pushed his plate away. ‘These look like prunes. Are you sure they’re human ears?’
‘Not human ears, no; they’re terrorist ears. These are my keepsakes. My other keepsake is an R1 cartridge.’ Recces were almost like disciples, Abel said. Only the toughest and strongest and smartest were chosen. ‘One day I almost died of thirst. It was hot as hell and I was stark naked and looking for a water hole …’
While he told us this story Abel seemed to disappear from his body. His eyes grew dull and his hands shook. He had almost reached a dried-up river when he saw a terrorist digging for water in the middle of the riverbed. The terrorist didn’t know someone was stalking him until Abel was right beside him.
‘I held the gun barrel an inch away from his head. You cunt, I hissed, today I’ll blow your fucking brains to hell and gone.’
‘Abel,’ Samuel’s voice rose a pitch. ‘Don’t tell me you …’
‘War isn’t a game of cowboys and crooks. One of us was going to get his brains shot to hell and it wasn’t going to be me. I’m a recce, Samuel, and recces are recces because they’re not afraid to pull the trigger.’ Abel drew his plate towards him and carried on eating. ‘I blew away the top of his head before he could even start begging for his life. I left him lying right there in the riverbed and took the cartridge as a keepsake. His ears are also in this bag …’
I stayed outside in the dark long after Abel was gone and the old man was back from town. I remembered the way Abel’s eyes shone in the firelight when he talked about how proud his father was that a recce was holding the reins on Umbrella Tree Farm.
So that’s what you have to do to make your papa proud? Blow away a man’s head and carry a bag around with dead men’s ears?
Shame upon shame.
And in the end it was little Gertruidah who had to pay the price.
The lump of wax from the honeycomb has turned into soft clay in my mouth.
I imagine I still see Abel coming through the lucerne paddock with the enamel bucket filled with honeycomb. ‘I brought some winter honey, Mama Thandeka,’ I hear him say. ‘It’s a little wild because the field is dry and the bees will suck on any flower.’
A great wave of pity washed over me when I saw his shoulders drawn skew by the heavy bucket. He had a good heart, even though inside it there were many rooms filled with rotten skins. They are in all our hearts, rotten skins of our own.
It is better that he is dead. Because nothing would have changed even if he had lived a hundred years. A man whose keepsakes are dried ears and an empty cartridge doesn’t know the strength of his own poison. But now that he has gone to the Other Side, maybe the snow will melt in Gertruidah’s heart.
◊◊◊
The outburst of rage has left her throat raw.
She’s never been one to shout or talk loudly. Whispering, playing dumb, these were her survival tactics. Keeping to yourself, pretending not to understand. That brought the least pain.
Once in grade six her teacher sent her to the school secretary with the class register. She could hear the secretary talking in the principal’s office. While she waited a pack of envelopes printed with the school’s crest caught her eye. She grabbed them and shoved them under her dress. Then she placed the class register on the counter and left before the secretary reappeared. From then on she could tear open the letters that were sent home from school and read them. She copied their contents, so she could look up the difficult words, then placed the letter inside one of the stolen envelopes to give to her mother.
Gertruidah has difficulty with verbal communication. Gertruidah withdraws from social interaction. She seems unaware that a response is expected from her. Gertruidah reacts to instructions with either apathy or aggression. She shows no respect for boundaries. Gertruidah daydreams in class. Gertruidah’s team spirit must be developed; she’s reluctant to take part in netball. Her June exam results are a cause for concern. She should receive psychological therapy straight away, because she may suffer from attention deficit disorder.
She was shocked by how close they sometimes came to the truth. She defended herself against no one; she just coiled up tighter. Like a tiny hedgehog. Let them think and speculate what they will.
The sun has broken free of the mountain ridge. The telephone rings and rings.
It’s time to go inside, there are things that must be done. But just once more, before she goes inside, she wants to return to the day it all began. Turn back the pages of her memory and think it through again. Perhaps she remembers it wrong. What if Sarah was right all along, and she really did make it all up?
It was noisy in The Copper Kettle. Braham tore open two sugar sachets and poured the sugar in her tea. She stopped him when he reached for the milk jug.
‘Of course. You don’t take milk. Sorry, I forgot.’
‘Braham, how does one learn to forget something?’
He stirred his coffee. ‘One never forgets, Gertruidah, the brain is a sponge. Yes, it’s possible to remember less intensely, with longer intervals. But it’s impossible to forget.’
That was what the psychologist said when she was hiding at Auntie Lyla’s. At times she regretted ever going to see him. Sometimes it’s better not to understand. And yet, if she could choose again, she’d still go.
‘There are so many things I’ve forgotten. What my fifth or tenth birthday cake looked like. The toys and clothes I had as a child …’
‘That’s selective memory. It’s not just you who suffers from it; we all do.’
‘Can one have selective memory loss as well?’
‘Yes, it’s a kind of protective mechanism.’
‘Against what?’
‘Pain. Feelings of guilt. Loss. Atrocities. The list is endless.’
‘Is it likely that someone would twist a beautiful memory into something they’d rather forget?’
The waitress brought his cheesecake and her cupcakes.
‘I’m not a psychologist, Gertruidah, but I do believe that people cling instinctively to that which is beautiful.’ She looked away when he took a bite of the cheesecake. ‘I’ve never heard of someone receiving therapy because they had beautiful memories. Why do you ask? What is it you want to forget, or is it something you want to remember?’
This was something she couldn’t share. ‘It’s nothing specific; I’m just asking, that’s all.’ She waited until he’d finished his cheesecake. ‘Braham, can I ask you a big favour?’
‘You so seldom ask for anything, Gertruidah, you can ask me for ten big ones.’
‘Please don’t order cheesecake when I’m with you. Just looking at it makes me feel nauseous.’ Quick, say something more, before he asks the reason why. ‘Once when I was small I gorged myself on it until I was sick.’
‘Deal. There’s something I want to ask you too … May I place my hand on yours for twenty seconds without you squirming?’
She reached her hands towards him across the table. When he’d counted to fifteen she placed her other hand on top of his. With her thumb she stroked the little dark hairs on the back of his hand. Then she withdrew her hands. And took her leave before she’d start crying over everything she’d never be able to forget.
Because her birthday is on New Year’s Day she doesn’t remember if she got the red tricycle with the yellow handlebars for Christmas or her fourth birthday.
It was a cold day. She told Mama Thandeka she wanted to wear her red corduroy pants and yellow jersey to match her red and yellow tricycle. Then Mama Thandeka made her a soft-boiled egg and placed it in a red egg cup. Next to it, a small plate with strips of toast to dip in the runny yolk.
‘Isinye, isibini, isithathu, isine, isihlanu, isithandathu,’ was how Mama Thandeka taught her to count while she cut the toast into six strips. ‘Just three more months and you’ll be five years old. Look,’ Mama Thandeka said and counted on her fingers. ‘Isinye, isibini, isithathu, isine, isihlanu …’
‘How long is three months?’
‘It will be full moon three more times, then three months will have gone.’
‘Will there be a blue moon again tomorrow, Mama Thandeka?’
‘No, there was a blue moon in July. Now it’ll be a long time before …’
‘I saw it myself and it wasn’t blue. Do you also get a red moon and a purple moon?’
