VOLUME 5 NUMBER 11982 Rl.05c (inc/GST)
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IN THIS ISSUE: 1 THE PROPHETESS
J\ FASCINATING STORY BY
N JABULO S. NDEBELE 1
[POETRY: 1 KAREN PRESS
MAFIKA GWALA
1 MOKUTU MOEKETSI |
1 PHOTOS BY:
LESLEY LAWSON PETER MCKENZIE
1 J O H N WOLVERSTONE
NEW BOOKS FROM RAVAN
COMING OF THE D R Y SEASON b y Charles Mungoshi
A collection of p o i g n a n t a n d simply t o l d stories from o n e of t h e m o r e able a n d sensitive writers t o c o m e o u t of Z i m b a b w e . ' C o m i n g of t h e D r y S e a s o n ' was b a n n e d in R h o d e s i a . It has n o w b e e n p u b l i s h e d in Z i m b a b w e a n d is d i s t r i b u t e d in S o u t h Africa b y Ravan Press.
R 4 . 9 5
THE CHILDREN OF SOWETO b y Mbulelo Mzamane
J u n e ' 7 6 . . . M u n t u , a s t u d e n t leader, has b e e n killed b y gunfire. Above t h e m o u r n f u l dirges and r a n d o m obituaries e m a n a t i n g from t h e h o u s e of t h e b e r e a v e d , t h e voices of t h e old m e n are h e a r d : 'If t h e r e ' s a G o d w h y does He allow all t h i s ? ' asks o n e .
' K e e p G o d o u t of t h i s , ' says a n o t h e r .
'What m o n s t e r is this o u r children have u n l e a s h e d u p o n u s ? ' asks a t h i r d .
As t h e flames soar higher a n d higher, n o - o n e is spared a n d t h e w h o l e w o r l d l o o k s o n , aghast.
R 5 . 9 5
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ZULU KINGDOM b y Jeff Guy
C o n v e n t i o n a l w i s d o m has it t h a t Zulu warriors were inspired b y an u n c o n t r o l l a b l e urge t o 'wash their spears in b l o o d ' . After having slaughtered a few p e o p l e , m a n h o o d was c o n f e r r e d o n t h e m a n d t h e y c o u l d settle d o w n i n t o r e s p e c t a b l e savagery.
It is q u i t e clear from t h e o u t s e t t h a t J e f f G u y a u t h o r of ' T h e D e s t r u c t i o n of t h e Zulu K i n g d o m , ' despises this a p p r o a c h .
He argues in his b o o k t h a t t h e Anglo Z u l u War of 1 8 7 9 a n d t h e s u b s e q u e n t Zulu civil war were n o t t h e result of u n c h e c k e d savage impulses, b u t an integral p a r t of British imperialist strategy.
It was n o t b a r b a r i s m which was t h e issue, b u t t h e fact t h a t t h e Zulus possessed fertile land a n d l a b o u r p o w e r which t h e British coveted.
R 9 . 9 5
WORKING PAPERS IN SOUTHERN AFRICAN STUDIES V O L II
ed. Philip Bonner
A multi-disciplinary collection of p a p e r s p r e s e n t e d t o seminars of t h e African Studies I n s t i t u t e b y Shula Marks a n d Stanley T r a p i d o ( ' L o r d Milner a n d t h e S o u t h African S t a t e ' ) , T o m Lodge a n d Alf Stadler (on Bus B o y c o t t s ) , P e t e r Kallaway (on t h e t r a n s i t i o n from pre-capitalist t o capitalist m o d e s in t h e K i m b e r l e y A r e a ) . Patrick Pearson ('The R e h o - b o t h R e b e l l i o n ' ) , J o h n Lewis (on t h e S t a t e a n d t h e w h i t e Working Class in t h e D e p r e s s i o n ) , L e r o y Vail (on Malawi), J o n a t h a n Clegg (on t h e ideology of vengeance in t h e Msinga
A r e a ) , a n d J o a n n e Y a w i t c h (on w o m e n of Winterveld).
R 9 . 9 5
THE BUSH SHRIKE b y Marguerite Poland
A b o o k so evocative of an Eastern Province farm t h a t o n e sneezes in t h e d u s t y twak-coffee-germanprint smell of a farm store a n d r e m e m b e r s t h e e m b a r r a s s m e n t u n c o n v e n t i o n a l relatives caused. O n e feels t h e agony a n d t e r r o r of small animals t r a p p e d in a veld fire a n d w a t c h e s t h e u n c o n s c i o u s arrogance of y o u n g w h i t e males in their ' b a a s k a p ' .
N a r r a t e d b y A n n e , w h o stands aloofly o n t h e t h r e s h o l d of m a t u r i t y , feels t h e first pain of love and perceives t h e ambivalence of a d u l t w o r l d s a n d deeds w i t h e x a s p e r a t i o n .
This b o o k confirms Marguerite P o l a n d ' s status as a sensitive writer. F o r 12 years a n d over.
R 9 . 9 5
THEATRE AND SOCIETY IN AFRICA by Mineke Schipper
Theatre in Africa is a part of the tradition of oral literature — a 'total' performance which includes story- telling, music, drama, song and mimicry, and in which the audience is actively involved. Mineke Schipper shows that for modern African playwrights the oral tradition is still an important source of inspiration, even when they tackle contemporary themes such as the conflict of generations, corruption and westernization. This book already published in French is well as the original Dutch — is a concise introduction to a topic of interest to all students of the arts in Africa.
R5.95 NONE BUT OURSELVES: Masses vs. Media in the Making of Zimbabwe
by Julie Frederikse
Rhodesia's rulers had more than political power. They controlled the mass media. And with the press, radio, TV, books, pamphlets, posters, films and advertisements — backed up by laws that censored and suppressed — they aimed to control the minds of the people. Yet, with grassroots resources and guerilla tactics, the people defeated the technologically superior mass media. Their Chimurenga songs and clandestine mass meetings had a power and a relevance that the mass media never matched. It was through this psychological war of liberation that Rhodesia became Zimbabwe. Through the words of the com- batants in this propaganda war, and illustrated with the media weapons used by both sides, this book shows why the people of Zimbabwe could say that, 'None but ourselves have freed our minds.'
R9.95 FOR A L L RAVAN PRESS OUTLETS TURN TO THE INSIDE BACK COVER
Contents
VOLUME 5 NUMBER 1 1982
Stories
The Prophetess by Njabulo S. Ndcbcle . . . . Market Days by Jayapraga Redely
The Last Freedom Fighter by Peter Wilhelni Mamlambo by ftheki Maseko
Ajaiyi and the Witehdoetor by Amos T u t u o l a
2 , 8
16 22 28
Poetry
Damian R u t h 7 Karen Press 10 Angifi Dladla 10 M o k u t u wa Moeketsi 21
Roy J o s e p h C o t t o n 30 Karen Press, Roy J o s e p h C o t t o n , Damian Ruth 32
Chris van Wyk 36 Mafika Paseal Cwala 46
Features
TRIBUTES
Ray Nkwc by Sipho Cindi 11 J a c o b Moeketsi by Mike M a / u r k i e 11
Books By Black Writers by Richard Rive 12 BOOK REVIEWS Voices From Within
Reviewed by Peter Wilhelni 3 3 The Unbroken Song
Reviewed by T y r o n e August 34 To Every Birth Its Blood
Reviewed by J a n e Clegg 34 Reviewed by A e h m a t Dangor 3 5
RECORD REVIEWS Changes <\nd Two bad D.J.
by Owa/.iyo 38 Give It Up/District Six
by Diniwe wa R a m a i p h e p h i 39
Gallery/Graphics
( i a m a k h u l u Diniso 2 M/.wakhe 1 1 3 , 1 4 , 1 5 , 1 6 , 1 7 , 1 8 , 1 9 , 2 0 , 2 8
Caroline Cullinan 2 2 , 2 6 , 27 31 ih
Percy Sedumedi 8 , 3 7 C.arth Erasmus 4 4 , 45
Photographs
Lesley Lawson 2 4 , 25
Kevin H u m p h r e y 39 Peter McKenzie 47
Imi&m^mM^mSm. ;I11B
byNjabulo S Ndebele
The boy knocked timidly on the door, while a big fluffy dog sniffed at his ankles. That dog made him uneasy; he was afraid of strange dogs. This made him anxious to go into the house as soon as possible. But there was no answer to his knock. Should he simply turn the door knob and get in? What would The Prophetess say? Would she curse him? He was not sure now which he feared more: was it The Prophetess or the dog? If he stood longer there at the door, the dog might sooner decide that he was up to some mischief after all. If he left, the dog might decide he was running away. And The Prophetess!
What would she say when she eventually opened the door to find no one there?
She might decide someone had been fooling, and would surely send lightning after the boy. But then, leaving would also bring the boy another problem: he would have to leave without the holy water that his sick mother had sent him for.
There was something strangely intriguing about The Prophetess and holy water. All that one was to do, the boy had so many times heard in the streets of the township, was fill a bottle with water and take it to The Prophetess.
She would then lay her hands on the bottle and pray. And the water would be holy. And the water would have curing powers. That's what his mother had said too.
The boy knocked again, this time with more urgency. But he had to be careful not to annoy The Prophetess. It was getting darker and the dog continued to sniff at his ankles. The boy tightened his grip round the neck of the bottle he had just filled with water from the street tap on the other side of the street, just opposite The Prophetess' house. He would hit the dog with this bottle. What's more if the bottle broke, he would stab the dog with the sharp glass. But what would The Prophetess say? She would probably curse him.
The boy knocked again, but this time he heard the faint voice of a woman:
'Kena!' the voice said.
The boy quickly turned the knob and pushed. The door did not yield.
And the dog growled. The boy turned the knob again and pushed. This time the dog made a sharp bark, and the boy knocked frantically. Then he heard the bolt shoot back, and saw the door open to reveal darkness. Half of the
Illustrated by Gamakhulu Diniso
door seemed to have disappeared into the dark. The boy felt the fur of the dog brush past his leg as the dog hurried into the house with sudden alacrity.
'Voetsek!' the woman cursed suddenly.
The boy wondered whether the woman was The Prophetess. But as he was wondering, the dog brushed past him again, slowly this time. In spite of himself, the boy felt a pleasant, tickling sensation and a slight warmth where the fur of the dog had touched him. The warmth did not last, but the tickling sensation lingered, going up to the back of his neck and seeming to caress it.
Then he shivered for an instant, and the sensation disappeared, shaken off in the
brief involuntary tremor.
'Dog stay out!' shouted the woman, and added, 'this is not at the white man's.'
The boy heard a slow shuffle of soft leather shoes receding into the dark room. The woman must be moving away from the door, the boy thought.
He followed her into the house.
'Close the door,' ordered the woman who was still moving somewhere in the dark. But the boy had already done so.
Although it was getting dark outside, it was much lighter than in the room, and the fading day threw some of its waning light into the room. The curtains had not yet been drawn. Was it a last ditch effort to save candles? the boy
wondered. His mother had scolded him many times for lighting up before it was completely dark.
The boy looked instinctively to- wards the dull light coming in through the window. He was anxious, though, about where the woman was now, in the dark. Would she think he was afraid when she caught him looking out to the light? But the thick, dark, green leaves of vine outside, lapping lazily against the window, attracted and held him like a spell. There was no comfort in that light; it merely re- minded the boy of his fear, only a few minutes ago, when he walked under that dark tunnel of vine which arched over the path from the gate to the door. He had dared not touch that vine and its countless velvety, black, and juicy grapes that hung temptingly within reach, or rested lusciously on forked branches. Silhouetted against the darkening summer sky, the bunch- es of grapes had each looked like a cluster of small balls narrowing down to a point like cones.
'Don't touch that vine!' was the warning almost everyone in Charter- ston township knew. It was said that the vine was all coated with thick, invisible glue. And that was how The Prophetess caught all those who stole out in the night to steal her grapes.
And they would be glued there to the vine, and would be moaning for forgiveness throughout the cold night, until the morning, when The Pro- phetess would come out of the house with the first rays of the sun, raise her arms into the sky, and say: 'Away, away, sinful man; go, and sin no more!' Suddenly, the thief would be free, and would walk away feeling a great release that turned him into a new man. That vine; it was on the lips of everyone in the township every summer.
One day when the boy had played truant with two of his friends, and they were coming back from town by bus, some adults in the bus were arguing about The Prophetess' vine.
The bus was so full that it was hard for anyone to move. The three truant friends, having given their seats to adults pressed against each other in a line, in the middle of the bus and could see most of the passengers.
'Not even a cow can tear away from that glue,' said a tall, dark man who had high cheekbones. His woollen balaclava hat was a careless heap on his head. His moustache, which had been finely rolled into two semi-circular horns, made him look fierce. And when he gesticulated with his tin lunch box, he looked fiercer still.
'My question is only one,7 said a big woman whose big arms rested thickly
on a bundle of washing on her lap.
'Have you ever seen a person caught there? Just answer that one question.' She spoke with finality, and threw her defiant scepticism outside at the receding scene of men cycling home from work in single file. The bus moved so close to them that the boy had feared the men might get hit.
T have heard of a silly chap that got caught!' declared a young man at the back of the bus. He was sitting with others on the long seat at the rear of the bus. They had all along been laughing and exchanging ribald jokes.
The young man, with thick lips and red eyes, was applying, as he spoke, the final touches of saliva with his tongue, to a zol.
'When?' asked the big woman.
'Exactly when, I say? Who was that person?'
'These things really happen!' said a general chorus of women.
'That's what I know,' endorsed the man with the balaclava, and then added, 'You see, the problem with some women is that they will not listen;
they have to oppose a man. They just have to.'
'What is that man saying now?' asked another woman. 'This matter started off very well, but this road you are now taking will get us lost.'
'That's what I'm saying too,' said the big woman adjusting her bundle of washing somewhat unnecessarily. She continued: 'A person shouldn't look this way or that, or take a corner here or there. Just face me straight; I asked a question.'
It was said that the vine was all coated with thick invisible glue.
And that was how The Prophetess caught all those who stole out in the night to steal her grapes.
'These things really happen,' said the chorus again.
'That's it, good ladies, make your point; push very strongly,' shouted the young man at the back with mischief in his eyes. 'Love is having women like you,' he added much to the enjoyment of his friends. He was now smoking, and his zol looked so small between his thick fingers.
'Although you have no respect,'
said the big woman, T will let you know that this matter is no joke.'
'Of-course this is not a joke!' shouted a new contributor. He spoke firmly and in English. His eyes seemed to burn with anger. He was young and immaculately dressed, his white shirt collar resting neatly on the collar of his jacket. A young nurse in her white uniform sat next to him. 'The mother there,' he continued, 'asks you very clearly whether you have ever seen a person caught by the supposed Pro- phetess' supposed trap. Have you?'
'She didn't say that, man,' said the young man at the back, passing the zol to one of this friends. She only asked when this person was caught and who it was.' The youths all laughed. There was a lot of smoke now at the back of the bus.
'My question was,' said the big woman turning her head to glare at the young man, 'have you ever seen a person caught there? That's all.' Then she looked outside. She seemed angry now.
'Don't be angry, mother,' said the young man at the back. There was more laughter at the back. 'I was only trying to understand,' he added.
'And that's our problem,' said the immaculately dressed man, addressing the bus. His voice was sure and strong.
'We laugh at everything; just stopping short of seriousness. Is it any wonder that the white man is still sitting on us? The mother there asked a very straightforward question, but she is answered vaguely about things happen- ing. Then there is disrespectful laught- er at the back there. The truth is you have no proof. None of you. Have you ever seen anybody caught by this Prophetess? Never. It's all superstition.
And so much about this Prophetess also. Some of us are tired of her stories.'
There was a stunned silence in the bus. Only the heavy drone of an engine struggling with an overloaded bus could be heard. It was the man with the balaclava hat who broke the silence.
'Young man,' he said, 'by the look of things you must be a clever, edu- cated person, but you just note one thing, The Prophetess might just be hearing all this, so don't be surprised when a bolt of lightning strikes you on a hot sunny day. And we shall be there at your funeral, young man, to say how you brought misfortune upon your head.'
Thus had the discussion ended. But the boy had remembered how every summer, bottles of all sizes filled with liquids of all kinds of colours would dangle from vines, peach, and apricot trees in many yards in the township. No
o n e dared steal fruit from t h o s e trees.
Who w a n t e d t o be glued, in shame, t o a fruit tree. Strangely t h o u g h , only T h e P r o p h e t e s s ' trees had no b o t t l e s hanging from their b r a n c h e s .
T h e b o y t u r n e d his eyes away from t h e w i n d o w focused into t h e dark r o o m . His eyes had adjusted slowly t o t h e darkness, and he saw t h e dark form of t h e w o m e n shuffling away from him.
She p r o b a b l y wore those slippers t h a t had a fluff on t o p . Old w o m e n seem t o love t h e m . T h e n a w h i t e moving object came into focus. T h e w o m a n w o r e a w h i t e doek on her head. T h e b o y ' s eyes followed t h e d o e k . It t o o k a right- angled t u r n — p r o b a b l y r o u n d t h e table.
And t h e n t h e dark form of t h e table came into focus. T h e d o e k s t o p p e d , and t h e b o y heard t h e screech of a chair being pulled; and t h e doek descended s o m e w h a t and w a s still. T h e r e was silence in t h e room. T h e b o y w o n d e r e d w h a t t o d o . Should he g r o p e for a chair?
Or should he squat on t h e floor respect- fully? Should he greet or wait t o be greeted? O n e never knew with T h e Prophetess. Why did his m o t h e r have t o send him t o this place? T h e fascinating stories a b o u t T h e Prophetess, t o which t h e b o y would add graphic details as if he had also met T h e Prophetess, were o n e thing; b u t being in her actual presence was a n o t h e r . T h e b o y t h e n b e c a m e conscious of t h e smell of c a m p h o r . His m o t h e r always used c a m p h o r whenever she complained of pains in her j o i n t s . Was T h e Prophetess ill t h e n ? Did she pray for her own water? S u d d e n l y , t h e b o y felt at ease, as if t h e discovery t h a t a p r o p h e t e s s could also feel pain s o m e h o w m a d e her explainable.
' L u m e l a ' m e , ' he greeted. T h e n he cleared his t h r o a t .
'Ea n g o a n a k a , ' she r e s p o n d e d . After a little while she asked: 'Is t h e r e s o m e t h i n g y o u w a n t , little m a n ? '
It was a very thin voice. It would have been c o m p l e t e l y d e t a c h e d had it not been for a hint of tiredness in it.
She b r e a t h e d s o m e w h a t heavily. T h e n she c o u g h e d , cleared her t h r o a t , and coughed again. A m i x t u r e of rough d i s c o r d a n t s o u n d s filled t h e dark r o o m as if everything was coming o u t of her insides, for she seemed t o b r e a t h e o u t her cough from d e e p within her. And t h e b o y w o n d e r e d : if she coughed t o o long, w h a t would h a p p e n ? Would something come o u t ? A lung? T h e b o y saw t h e form of t h e w o m a n clearly n o w : she had b e n t forward s o m e w h a t . Did a n y t h i n g c o m e o u t of her o n t o t h e floor? T h e cough subsided. T h e w o m a n sat up and her hands fumbled with s o m e t h i n g a r o u n d her breasts. A w h i t e cloth emerged. She leaned forward again, c u p p e d her h a n d s and spat into t h e c l o t h . T h e n she s t o o d u p and
shuffled away into further darkness away from t h e b o y . A d o o r creaked, and t h e w h i t e doek disappeared. T h e b o y w o n d e r e d w h a t t o d o because t h e p r o p h e t e s s had disappeared before he could say w h a t he had c o m e for. He waited.
More objects came into focus. Three w h i t e spots on t h e table emerged. They were placed diagonally across t h e table.
Table mats. T h e r e was a small r o u n d black patch on t h e middle o n e . Because The P r o p h e t e s s was not in t h e r o o m , t h e b o y was bold enough to move near t h e table and t o u c h t h e mats. They were c r o c h e t e d mats. T h e b o y r e m e m b e r e d t h e huge lacing t h a t his m o t h e r had c r o c h e t e d for t h e church alter. A L L SAINTS C H U R C H was c r o c h e t e d all over t h e lacing. There were a n u m b e r of designs of chalices t h a t carried T h e Blood of Our Lord.
Then t h e b o y heard t h e sound of a m a t c h being struck. There were m a n y a t t e m p t s before it finally caught fire.
Soon, t h e dull, orange light of a candle came into t h e living r o o m , w h e r e t h e b o y was, t h r o u g h a half closed d o o r . More light Hushed t h e living r o o m as t h e w o m a n came in carrying a candle. She- looked r o u n d as if she w o n d e r e d where- to p u t t h e candle. Then she saw t h e ash tray on t h e middle m a t , pulled it t o w a r d s her, sat down and t u r n e d over t h e candle into t h e ash t r a y . Hot wax d r o p p e d o n t o t h e ash t r a y . Then T h e Prophetess t u r n e d t h e candle upright and pressed its b o t t o m o n t o t h e w a x .
The candle held.
The Prophetess then peered t h r o u g h t h e light of t h e candle at t h e b o y . Her thick lips p r o t r u d e d , pulling t h e wrinkled skin and caving in t h e cheeks t o form a kind of lip circle. She seemed always ready t o kiss. There was a line t a t t o e d from t h e forehead t o t h e ridge of a nose- t h a t separated small eyes t h a t were half closed by huge, d r o o p i n g eyelids. T h e w h i t e d o e k on her head was so huge t h a t it m a d e her face look even smaller.
She wore a green dress and a starched green cape t h a t had m a n y w h i t e crosses e m b r o i d e d on it. Behind her, leaning against t h e wall was a long b a m b o o cross.
'The Prophetess stood up again, and shuffled t o w a r d s t h e w i n d o w which was n o w behind t h e b o y . She closed t h e
curtains and walked back t o her chair.
The b o y saw a n o t h e r big cross em- broidered o n t h e back of her cape.
Before she sat d o w n she picked up the b a m b o o c r o s s a n d held it in front of her.
'What did you say you w a n t e d , little m a n ? ' she asked slowly.
'My m o t h e r sent me t o ask for water,' said t h e b o y p u t t i n g t h e b o t t l e of w a t e r on t h e table.
' T o ask for w a t e r ? ' she asked with mild e x c l a m a t i o n , looking u p at t h e
b a m b o o cross. "That is very strange.
You came all t h e way from h o m e to ask tor w a t e r ? '
'I m e a n ; said the b o y , 'holy w a t e r ' . ' A h h ! ' exclaimed The Prophetess, ' y o u did not say w h a t you m e a n t , little m a n . ' She coughed, just o n c e .
'Sit d o w n , little m a n , ' she said, and c o n t i n u e d : ' Y o u see, you should learn t o say w h a t you mean. Words, little m a n , are a gift from t h e Almighty, the Ktcrnal Wisdom. He gave us all a little pinch of his mind and called on us to think. That is w h y it is folly to misuse w o r d s or not to k n o w how t o use t h e m well. Now, w h o is y o u r m o t h e r ? '
'My m o t h e r ? ' asked t h e b o y , confused by t h e sudden transition. 'My m o t h e r is staff nurse Masemola.'
' A o ! ' exclaimed The Prophetess, ' Y o u are t h e son of the nurse? Does she have such a big man n o w ? ' She smiled a little and t h e lip circle o p e n e d . She smiled like a p r e t t y w o m a n w h o did not w a n t t o expose her cavities.
The b o y relaxed s o m e w h a t , vaguely feeling safe because The Prophetess knew his m o t h e r . This m a d e him look away from The P r o p h e t e s s for a while, and he saw a huge mask on t h e wall o p p o s i t e her. It was shining and black.
It grinned all t h e t i m e showing t w o canine teeth pointing u p w a r d s . A b o u t ten feet away at the far end of the wall was a picture of Jesus in which His chest was o p e n , revealing His heart which had m a n y shafts of light radiating from it.
' Y o u r m o t h e r has a heart of gold, my son,' c o n t i n u e d The Prophetess. ' Y o u are very f o r t u n a t e , indeed, t o have such a p a r e n t . R e m e m b e r , w h e n she says:
" m y b o y , t a k e this message t o t h a t h o u s e " , g o ; when she says: " m y b o y , let me send you to t h e s h o p " , go, and w h e n she says " m y b o y , pick up a b o o k and r e a d " , pick up the b o o k and read.
In all this she is actually saying t o y o u , learn and serve. T h o s e t w o things, little m a n , are t h e greatest i n h e r i t a n c e . "
Then 'The Prophetess looked up at t h e b a m b o o cross as if she saw some- thing in it that t h e boy could not see. She seemed t o lose her breath for a while. She coughed deeply again, after which she w e n t silent, her cheeks moving as if she were chewing.
'Bring t h e b o t t l e nearer,' she said finally. She put o n e hand on t h e b o t t l e while with t h e o t h e r , she held t h e b a m b o o cross. Her eyes closed, she t u r n e d her face t o w a r d s t h e ceiling. The b o y saw t h a t her face seemed to have c o n t r a c t e d into an intense c o n c e n - tration in such a way that the wrinkles seemed t o have b e c o m e d e e p gorges.
T h e n she began to speak.
' Y o u will not k n o w this h y m n , b o y , so listen. Always listen to new things.
T h e n try t o create t o o . J u s t as I have learnt never t o page through the dead leaves of h y m n b o o k s . ' And she began t o sing.
//' the fish in a river boiled by the midday sun
can iv ait for the coming of evening, we too can wait
in this wind-frosted land the spring will come the spring will come.
If the reeds in winter can dry up and seem dead and then rise
in the spring
we too will survive the fire that is coming
the fire that is coming
we too will survive the fire that is coming.
It was a long, slow song. Slowly, T h e Prophetess began t o pray.
' G o d , T h e All-powerful! When called u p o n , You always listen. We direct our hearts and t h o u g h t s to You. How else could it be? There is so m u c h evil in t h e w o r l d ; so much e m p t i n e s s in o u r h e a r t s ; so m u c h d e b a s e m e n t of the m i n d . But Y o u , God of all Power, are the wind t h a t sweeps away evil and fills our
hearts and minds with renewed strength and h o p e . R e m e m b e r S a m s o n ? Of- course You d o , O Lord. You created him, You, m a k e r of all things. You b r o u g h t him o u t of a barren w o m a n ' s w o m b , and since t h e n , we have k n o w n t h a t o u t of the desert things will g r o w , and t h a t w h a t grows o u t of the barren wastes has a strength that can never be d e s t r o y e d . '
At the shops, the boy slowed down to manoeuvre through the crowds. He lifted the bottle to his chest and supported it from below with the other hand. He must hold on to that bottle. He was going to heal his mother. He tightened the bottle cap. Not a drop was to be
S u d d e n l y , t h e candle flame w e n t d o w n . T h e light seemed to have gone into retreat as the darkness l o o m e d o u t , seemingly o u t of the very light itself, and bore down u p o n it, until there was a tiny blue flame on the table looking so vulnerable and so strong at t h e same t i m e . T h e boy s h u d d e r e d and felt the coldness of the floor going u p his bare
feet.
T h e n o u t of t h e dark, c a m e T h e P r o p h e t e s s ' laugh. It began as a giggle, t h e kind girls would m a k e when t h e b o y and his friends chased t h e m d o w n t h e street for a little kiss. T h e giggle b r o k e into t h e kind of laughter t h a t p r o d u c e d tears when one was very h a p p y . T h e r e was a kind of strange pleasurable r h y t h m t o it t h a t gave t h e boy a m o - m e n t a r y e n j o y m e n t of t h e d a r k , for s o o n , t h e laugh gave way t o a long shriek. T h e b o y w a n t e d t o rush o u t of t h e house. But s o m e t h i n g strong, yet intangible, held him fast t o w h e r e he was. It was p r o b a b l y t h e shriek itself t h a t had filled the dark r o o m and now seemed t o come o u t ot t h e mask on t h e wall. T h e boy felt like t h r o w i n g himself on t h e floor and t h e r e wriggle and roll like a snake until he became tired and fell into a long sleep at t h e end of which would be t h e kind of bliss t h e b o y would feel when he was h a p p y and his m o t h e r was h a p p y and she e m b r a c e d him, so closely.
But t h e giggle, t h e laugh, t h e shriek, all e n d e d as a b r u p t l y as t h e y had started as the darkness swiftly receded from t h e candle like the way ripples run away from where a stone has been t h r o w n in t h e water. And there was light. On the wall, t h e mask smiled silently, and the heart of Jesus sent o u t yellow light.
' L o r d , Lord, Lord,' said T h e Pro- phetess slowly in a quiet, suprisingly full voice which carried t h e same kind of c o n t e n t m e n t t h a t had been in t h e voice of t h e b o y ' s m o t h e r w h e n o n e day he had c o m e h o m e from playing in t h e street, and she was sitting on t h e chair close t o t h e kitchen d o o r , just o p p o s i t e t h e w a r m stove. And as soon as she saw him c o m e in, she e m b r a c e d him all t h e while saying: 'I've been so ill; for so long; but I've got y o u . Y o u ' r e m y son.
Y o u ' r e my son. Y o u ' r e my son.' And t h e boy had smelled t h e faint smell of c a m p h o r on her, and he t o o e m b r a c e d her, holding her firmly a l t h o u g h his arms could n o t go b e y o n d his m o t h e r ' s a r m p i t s . He r e m e m b e r e d how w a r m his hands had b e c o m e in her a r m p i t s .
' L o r d , Lord, L o r d , ' c o n t i n u e d T h e Prophetess, 'have m e r c y on t h e desert in our hearts and in o u r t h o u g h t s . Have mercy. Bless this w a t e r ; fill it with y o u r p o w e r ; and m a y it bring rebirth. Let she and whoever else will drink it, feel t h e flower of newness spring alive in t h e m ; let those w h o drink it, break t h e chains of despair, and m a y t h e y realise t h a t t h e wastes are really n o t barren, b u t t h a t t h e vast lands t h a t stretch into t h e horizon is t h e measure of t h e seed in us.'
As T h e Prophetess s t o p p e d speaking, she slowly lowered the b a m b o o cross until it rested on the floor. T h e boy w o n d e r e d if it was all over n o w . Should
he stand u p and get t h e blessed w a t e r and leave? But T h e Prophetess soon gave him direction.
' C o m e here, my son,' she said, 'and kneel before me here.' T h e boy s t o o d up and walked slowly t o w a r d s T h e Prophetess . He knelt on t h e floor, his hands hanging at his sides. T h e P r o p h e t - ess placed her hands on his head. T h e y were w a r m , and t h e w a r m t h seemed t o go t h r o u g h his hair, p e n e t r a t i n g d e e p t h r o u g h his scalp into t h e very c e n t r e of his head. Perhaps he t h o u g h t , t h a t was the soul of T h e P r o p h e t e s s going i n t o him. Wasn't it said t h a t w h e n T h e Prophetess placed her hand on o n e ' s head, she was seeing with her soul d e e p i n t o y o u ; t h a t as a result, T h e P r o p h e t - ess could never be deceived? And t h e b o y w o n d e r e d h o w his lungs looked t o her. Did she see t h e w a t e r t h a t he had d r u n k from t h e t a p just across t h e street? Where was t h e w a t e r n o w ? In t h e s t o m a c h ? In the kidneys?
Then t h e h a n d s of T h e Prophetess moved all over t h e b o y ' s head, seeming t o feel for s o m e t h i n g . T h e y w e n t down t h e neck. T h e y seemed cooler n o w , and t h e coolness seemed t o tickle the boy for his neck was colder t h a n t h o s e h a n d s . Now t h e y covered his face, and he saw, just before he closed his eyes, t h e skin folds on t h e h a n d s so close t o his eyes t h a t t h e y l o o k e d like m a n y m o u n t a i n s . Those h a n d s smelled of blue soap and candle wax. But t h e r e was no smell of snuff. T h e b o y w o n d e r e d . Perhaps T h e Prophetess did n o t t a k e snuff after all. But t h e b o y ' s grand- m o t h e r did, and her h a n d s always smelled of snuff. T h e n T h e Prophetess s p o k e :
'My son,' she said, 'we are m a d e of all t h a t is in the world. G o . Go and heal y o u r m o t h e r . ' When she removed her hands from t h e b o y ' s face, he felt his face grow cold, and t h e r e was a slight sensation of his skin shrinking. He rose from the floor, lifted t h e b o t t l e with its s n o u t and backed way from T h e Pro- phetess. He t h e n t u r n e d and walked t o w a r d s t h e d o o r . As he closed it, he saw The Prophetess shuffling away t o the b e d r o o m carrying the candle with her. He w o n d e r e d w h e n she w o u l d return t h e ash-tray t o the table. When he finally closed t h e d o o r , t h e living r o o m was dark, and t h e r e was light in t h e b e d r o o m .
It was night o u t s i d e . T h e boy s t o o d on t h e veranda for a while, w a n t i n g his eyes t o adjust t o t h e darkness. He w o n d e r e d also a b o u t the dog. But it did n o t seem to be a r o u n d . A n d t h e r e was t h a t vine a r c h w a y with its forbidden fruit and the m u l t i c o l o u r e d w o r m s t h a t always crawled all over t h e vine. As t h e boy walked u n d e r t h e t u n n e l of vine, he tensed his neck, lowering his head like people do w h e n walking in t h e rain. He
was anticipating the reflex action of shaking off a falling worm. Those worms were disgustingly huge, he thought. And there was also something terrifying about their bright colours.
In the middle of the tunnel, the boy broke into a run and was out of the gate: free. He thought of his mother waiting for the holy water; and he broke into a sprint running west up Thipe street towards home. As he got to the end of the street, he heard the hum of the noise that came from the ever crowded 'Barber Shops' and the huge Beer Hall just behind those shops. After the brief retreat in the house of The Prophetess, the noise, the people, the shops, the street-lights, the buses and the taxis all seemed new. Yet, somehow, he wanted to avoid all contact with all this activity. If he turned right at the corner, he would have to go past the shops into the lit Moshoeshoe street and its Friday night crowds. If he went left he would have to go past the now dark, ghostly Bantu-Batho post office, and then down through the huge gum trees behind the Charteston Clinic, and then past the quiet golf course. The latter way would be faster, but too dark and dangerous for a mere boy, even with the
* spirit of The Prophetess in him. And were not dead bodies found there sometimes? The boy turned left.
At the shops, the boy slowed down to manoeuvre through the crowds. He lifted the bottle to his chest and support- ed it from below with the other hand.
He must hold on to that bottle. He was going to heal his mother. He tightened the bottle cap. Not a drop was to be lost. The boy passed the shops.
Under a street lamp just a few feet from the gate into the Beer Hall was a gang of boys standing in a tight circle.
The boy slowed down to an anxious stroll. Who were they? he wondered. He would have to run past them quickly.
No, there would be no need. He recog- nized Timi and Bubu. They were with the rest of the gang from the boy's neighbourhood. Those were the bigger boys who were either in standard six or were already in secondary school or had jobs in town.
Timi recognized the boy.
'Ja, sonny boy,' greeted Timi.
'What's a piccaninny like you doing alone in the streets at night?'
'Heit, bra Timi,' said the boy, return- ing the greeting. 'Just from the shops, bra Timi,' he lied, not wanting to reveal his real mission. Somehow that would not have been appropriate.
'Come on, you!' yelled another member of the gang, glaring at Timi. It was Biza. Most of the times when the boy had seen Biza, the latter was inter- cepting a girl and talking to her. Some- times the girl would laugh. Sometimes
As soon as the boy's mother saw him come in, she embraced him all the while saying: "I've been so ill; for so long; but I've got you. You're my son. You're my son. You're my son." And the boy had smelled the faint smell of camphor on her, and he too embraced her . . .
Biza would twist her arm until she 'agreed'. In broad daylight!
'You keep on denying,' continued Biza to Timi, 'and when I try to show you some proof you turn away to greet an ant.'
'Okay then,' said another, 'what proof do you have? Everybody knows that Sonto is a hard girl to get.'
'Come closer then,' said Biza, 'and I'll show you.' The boy was closed out of the circle as the gang closed in towards Biza, who was at the centre.
The boy became curious and got closer.
The wall was impenetrable, but he could clearly hear Biza.
'You see? You can all see. I've just come from that girl. Look! See? The liquid? See? When I touch it with my finger and then leave it, it follows like a spider's web.'
'Well, my man,' said someone, 'you can't deceive anybody with that. It's the usual trick. A fellow just blows his nose and then applies the mucus there, and then emerges out of the dark saying he has just had a girl.'
'Let's look again closely,' said another, 'before we decide one way or the other.' And the gang pressed closely again.
'You see? You see?' Biza kept saying.
T think Biza has had that girl,' said someone.
'It's mucus man, and nothing else,' said another.
'But you know Biza's record in these matters, gents.'
'Another thing, how do we know it's Sonto and not some other girl. Where is it written on Biza's cigar that he has just had Sonto? Show me where it's written: "Sonto" there.'
'You're jealous you guys, that's your problem,' said Biza. Their circle went loose and there was just enough time for the boy to see Biza's penis disappear into his trousers. A thick little thing, thought the boy. It looked sad. It had first been squeezed in retreat against the fly like a concertina, before it finally disappeared. Then Biza, with a twitch of alarm across his face, saw the boy.
'What did you see, you?' screamed Biza. 'Fuck off!'
The boy took his heels wondering what Biza could have been doing with his penis under the street lamp. It was funny, whatever itVas. It was silly too.
Sinful. The boy was glad that he had got the holy water away from those boys and that none of them had touched the bottle.
And the teachers were right, thought the boy. Silliness was all those boys knew. And then they would go to school and fail test after test. Silliness and school did not go together.
The boy felt strangely superior. He had the power of The Prophetess in him. And he was going to pass that power on to his mother, thus healing her. Those boys were not healing their mothers. They just left their mothers alone at home. The boy increased his speed. He had to get home quickly. He turned right at the charge office and sped towards the clinic. He crossed the road that went to town and entered Mayaba Street. Mayaba Street was dark and the boy could not see. But he did not lower his speed. Home was near now, instinct would take him there. His eyes would adjust to the darkness as he raced along. He lowered the bottle from his chest and let it hang at the side from his hand, like a pendulum that was now moving. He looked up at the sky as if light would come from the stars high up to lead him home. But when he lowered his face, he saw something suddenly loom before him, and, almost simulta- neously, he felt a dull, yet painful
impact against his thigh. Then followed a dull explosion, and there was a grating of metal seeming to scoop up sand from the street. The boy did not remember how he fell, but on the ground, he lay clutching at his painful thigh. A few feet away, a man groaned and cursed:
'Blasted child!' he shouted. 'Shouldn't I kick you? Just running in the street as if you owned it. Shit of a child, you don't even pay tax. Fuck off home before I do more damage on you!' The man lifted his bicycle, and the boy saw him straightening the handles. And the man rode away.
The boy raised himself from the ground and began to limp home, con- scious of nothing else but the pain in his thigh. But it was not long before he felt a jab of pain at the centre of his chest and felt his heart beating fast. And he became aware of the stabbing sensa- tion of terror as he thought of the broken bottle and the spilt holy water and his mother waiting for him and the water that would help to cure her. What would his mother say? If only he had not stopped to see those silly boys he may not have been run over by a bicycle.
Should he go back to The Prophetess?
6
The Prophetess
N o . T h e r e was t h e dog, t h e r e was t h e vine, t h e r e were the w o r m s . T h e r e was T h e Prophetess herself. She would n o t let a n y o n e w h o wasted her prayers get away w i t h o u t p u n i s h m e n t . Would it be lightning? Would it be t h e fire of hell?
What w o u l d it be? T h e b o y limped h o m e t o face his m o t h e r . He would walk in t o his d o o m . He would walk i n t o his m o t h e r ' s b e d r o o m , carrying n o cure, and face t h e pain in h e r sad eyes.
But as t h e boy e n t e r e d t h e yard of his h o m e , he heard a s o u n d of b o t t l e s coming from where Rex, his dog, had its kennel. R e x had j u m p e d over t h e b o t t l e s , k n o c k i n g some stones against t h e b o t t l e s in his rush t o m e e t t h e b o y . A n d t h e b o y r e m e m b e r e d t h e pile of b o t t l e s next t o t h e kennel. He felt grateful as he e m b r a c e d t h e dog. He selected a b o t t l e from t h e h e a p . Calmly, as if he h a d k n o w n all t h e t i m e w h a t he w o u l d do in such a s i t u a t i o n , t h e b o y walked o u t t h e yard again t o w a r d s t h e street t a p on M a y a b a Street. A n d t h e r e , a l m o s t mechanically, he cleaned t h e b o t t l e , shaking it m a n y times with clean w a t e r . Finally, he filled it with w a t e r and wiped its outside clean against his t r o u s e r s . He r e t i g h t e n e d t h e cap, and
limped h o m e .
As soon as he o p e n e d t h e d o o r , he heard his m o t h e r ' s voice in t h e bed- r o o m . It seemed a visitor had c o m e while t h e b o y was away.
' I ' m telling y o u , Sisi,' his m o t h e r was saying, ' a n d t a k e it from m e , a trained nurse. Pills, medicines, and all t h o s e injections are n o t e n o u g h . I t a k e herbs t o o , and t h i n k of t h e w o n d e r s of t h e universe as our people have always d o n e . Son, is t h a t y o u ? '
'Yes, Ma,' said t h e b o y w h o had j u s t closed t h e d o o r with a deliberate bang.
' A n d did y o u get t h e w a t e r ? ' 'Yes, Ma.'
' G o o d , I k n e w y o u w o u l d . Bring t h e w a t e r and t w o cups. MaShange is h e r e . '
T h e b o y ' s eyes misted with tears. His m o t h e r ' s trust in h i m : would he repay it with such d i s h o n e s t y ? He w o u l d have t o be calm. He wiped his eyes w i t h t h e b a c k of his h a n d , and t h e n p u t t h e b o t t l e and t w o cups on a tray. He w o u l d have t o walk straight. He w o u l d have t o hide t h e pain in his thigh. He would have t o smile at his m o t h e r . He would have to smile at t h e visitor.
A n d t h e r e was his m o t h e r ! Her bed faced t h e passage, and he saw her as soon as he t u r n e d i n t o t h e passage t o go t o t h e b e d r o o m . She h a d p r o p p e d herself u p with m a n y pillows. T h e b o y
greeted t h e visitor and placed t h e t r a y o n t h e dressing chest c l o s e t o his m o t h e r ' s bed.
'I d o n ' t k n o w w h a t I would d o w i t h o u t this b o y , ' said t h e b o y ' s m o t h e r as she leaned on an elbow, lifting t h e b o t t l e with t h e o t h e r h a n d , and t u r n i n g t h e cap r a t h e r laboriously with t h e h a n d on w h o s e elbow she was resting.
T h e b o y r e t u r n e d t o t h e k i t c h e n and sat t h e r e listening t o t h e voices in t h e b e d r o o m . He w a t c h e d t h e candle flame dancing before him and felt t h e w a r m t h of t h e stove. What had T h e P r o p h e t e s s seen in him? He w o n d e r e d . Did she still feel him? Did she k n o w w h a t he had just d o n e ? Did h o l y w a t e r taste a n y differently from o r d i n a r y water? Would his m o t h e r n o t i c e t h e difference? Would he leave h o m e and walk away if she did?
Who w o u l d heal her t h e n ?
But clearly, he h e a r d his m o t h e r . ' O h , h o w I feel b e t t e r , already!' she said.
'May t h e L o r d ' s w o r k be praised,' said MaShange.
A n d t h e b o y felt t h e pain in his thigh. He had g o t t e n u p and w a l k e d . He had carried his b u r d e n .
A n d t h e b o y smiled, thinking, it had w o r k e d . #
POETRY DAMIAN RUTH
BEZUIDENHOUT We rose.
T h e orderly pulled him t o his feet.
T h e judge had said
' n o e x t e n u a t i n g circumstances' and ' n o alternative' T h e sentence was read.
T h e b o y ' s eyes sped from judge t o orderly t o his m o t h e r in t h e gallery.
His b r o t h e r had t a k e n his bicycle w i t h o u t his permission.
He had run d o w n t h e d u s t y location road, and stabbed him d e a d .
N o w his b o d y was jerking.
T h e orderly closed in.
T h e judge left t h e court q u i t e w h i t e in t h e face.
It had t a k e n him t w o days t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e story
because t h e y were c o u n t r y coloureds and spoke Afrikaans differently and witnesses c o n t r a d i c t e d each o t h e r .
His m o t h e r
leant over t h e gallery and asked 'Wat m a k e e r ? ' T h e o r d e r l y walked past, d r e w his finger across his t h r o a t , and said, ' H y k r y die t o u . ' She rose,
silent and slowly it seemed, her arms reaching o u t in t a t t e r e d coat sleeves,
t h r e w her head back a n d screamed
N E E , N E E , HY'S MY K I N D , MY L A A S T E K I N D . EK H E T NIE M E E R K I N D E R S N I E !
Her h u s b a n d s t o p p e d twisting his h a t and dragged her o u t t h e c o u r t .
I used her w o r d s t o start my n e w s p a p e r r e p o r t . But now, eight years later, w h e n I r e m e m b e r it, I t h i n k above all of
n o t a terrified jerking face n o t a scarecrow m o t h e r crucified b u t of t h e orderly, B e z u i d e n h o u t , dragging his finger across his o w n t h r o a t .
His m o t h e r shook him a w a k e . Some- where in the d e p t h s of sleep, he heard her, while floundering in a tangle o\
b e d c l o t h e s . 'Anil! Anil! Wake up! I'm ready now,' she said.
lie o p e n e d his eyes and saw her mistilv. Yes, she was ready all right. All dressed and ready to go. lie g r o a n e d , r e m e m b e r i n g that it was S a t u r d a y , and t u r n e d oxer. But she had him I irmly by the shoulder. ' N o , you can't sleep now!
d e l u p ! '
It was no use. lie would have to get up. Reluctantly he pushed aside the bed- clothes. Still muzzy with sleep, he went to the b a t h r o o m . When he had washed he r e t u r n e d t o the b e d r o o m to dress, lie looked at his brothers w h o were last asleep and w h o would remain so until nine, he thought resentfully. There was V e e r a n , his elder b r o t h e r w h o was in training college, and Subesh, the youngest, w h o was six. lie, at ten, was in the middle ami therefore ' h a n d y ' as his m o t h e r aptly t e r m e d it. lie hated S a t u r d a y s . Lor S a t u r d a y s were market days. It was unfair, he t h o u g h t indig- n a n t l y . Why couldn't he sleep on like the rest? Win c o u l d n ' t she take one o(
t h e others? Why him? Until a few years
ago it had been Veeran w h o had accom- panied her to the m a r k e t each S a t u r d a y . But t h a t had changed w h e n Veeran b e c a m e a student at the teacher's training college. But then Veeran had changed c o m p l e t e l y . He grew his hair, wore fashionable clothes and t o o k t o singing p o p songs in t h e b a t h . One S a t u r d a y when Anil had been ill and
unable t o a c c o m p a n y his m o t h e r as usual, she had asked Veeran. l i e had refused saying, ' A w , Ma, why can't you stop all this market business! Buy all y o u r things in the s u p e r m a r k e t s ! '
His m o t h e r had been t o o shocked to answer. S h o p at t h e s u p e r m a r k e t s ? Never! It was u n t h i n k a b l e ! But the t r u t h was, t h o u g h t Anil, Veeran just did not want to be seen in the m a r k e t . d o i n g t o t h e m a r k e t did not fit in with his new blest)'le.
He went to the kitchen w h e r e his m o t h e r had his tea ready in his enamel mug. She w a t c h e d him as he drank it in quick gulps. 'Want some b r e a d ? ' she asked.
He shook his head. She always asked him that. The question was as r o u t i n e as everything else a b o u t S a t u r d a y mornings.
She stood there, waiting for him patient-
ly, her sari w r a p p e d c o m f o r t a b l y a r o u n d her p l u m p arms, her baskets r e a d ) . Kvcry S a t u r d a y was the same.
She was used to his m o o d , his silent o b e d i e n c e , his wordless m u t i n y and u n s p o k e n r e s e n t m e n t at having t o get u p so early, lie put his mug d o w n and stood up. It was a q u a r t e r past six when the) boarded t h e bus d o w n the road.
The\ got off the bus and joined a stream of people all with t h e same intention, and headed t o w a r d s t h e m a r k e t . Inside t h e m a r k e t it was a different world altogether. The din, it hit o n e like something tangible. T h e smell of vegetables anil fruit, of crushed orange peel and dirt, and all a b o u t y o u , the press of h u m a n i t y . You jostled y o u r way through while watching y o u r feet, y o u r m o n e y and y o u r baskets. It was a feat that required nimbleness and quick thinking. His m o t h e r paused at o n e of t h e stalls. With a jerk of her head t o w a r d s the green beans, she asked, 'how m u c h ? '
l i e told her and she stiffened indig- nantly. 'What!' she exclaimed. 'Last week 1 b o u g h t beans from a stall that side. Such lovely beans and so c h e a p ! '
'Lad\', everything keeps going u p , '
the stall holder said patiently.
She expressed her contempt with a snort. Anil hung back bashfully. This was how it always began. The haggling would continue until she had beaten him down to a suitable price. He hoped fervently that none of his school friends would see him. The verbal battle went on. He shifted uncomfortably. His mind wandered to pleasanter things. He would have preferred playing a game of football with his friends in the vacant plot down their road. But it was not to be. Instead he was shuffling behind his mother with the crush of people about him, growing hotter and more tired. At last, she succeeded in getting her price, and she pressed forward, her expression one of smug satisfaction. The same procedure was repeated again and again.
The rapidly filling baskets grew heavier and heavier. He hung behind. It was all familiar and yet, it never failed to produce in him a shy embarrassment.
He followed her through the market, his expression outwardly patient while inwardly squirming with resentment, and boyish rebellion. Why couldn't she just buy her things and move on?
What would his friends think if they saw him with her as she argued noisily with the stall holders? He shuffled behind as she moved from stall to stall. It was a slow business getting through the press of the crowd, and she paused often to chat to friends and relatives. And now he almost bumped into her as she stopped abruptly when someone hailed her through the crowd. A woman was making her way towards them. When she reached them, she flung her arms
i Inside the market it was different world altogether. The din, it hit one like something tangible. The smell of vegetables and fruit, of crushed orange peel and dirt, and all about you, the press of humanity. You jostled your way through while watching your feet, your money and your baskets. It was a feat that required nimbleness and quick thinking. !
around his mother's neck and they kissed. He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. 'It's so long since I saw you!' the woman exclaimed with pleasure.
'Yes, very long,' his mother agreed.
'How's Veeran? He doesn't come with you now?' the woman asked.
'No, he's in traning college now. Poor
boy, he works so hard the whole week.
He must sleep late on weekends,' his mother explained proudly.
'True, true,' the woman agreed readily. 'Otherwise, how's everybody?'
'Oh they are all fine. When are you coming home?' his mother asked.
'I must come soon. I'll be bringing the wedding card,' the woman answered and glanced meaningly at her daughter who stood quietly beside her. The girl turned away with a shy smile. Anil's mother laughed and nodded knowingly.
They stood there for a long time, exchanging bits of gossip and news, forgetting the milling crowds and forming a little oasis of intimacy and familiarity.
At last, the girl gently nudged her mother and reminded her of the passsing of time. They said goodbye reluctantly and moved on. By now the market was packed and the din was intensified. It carried you forward on a tide strong and irresistible. At last their baskets were full and they made their way back to the entrance.
Outside the gate, she made him wait with the baskets while she went to buy the meat and fish. He stood there with the baskets at his feet watching a stream of humanity flow in and out of the market. A woman sailed out followed by her African maid bearing heavily laden baskets. African women with baskets balanced on their heads, moved with an enviable ease. There were trussed fowls in many of their baskets.
A few beggars straggled along and further down, a group of Hindu swamis stood in their saffron robes, holding brass trays containing ash and flowers which they handed out at random.
Occasionally a few coins were dropped in their trays. African vendors trundled their ice-cream carts along the road.
And everywhere lurked the hidden menace of the pickpockets. A market reflects the life of its people and this was just a part of the life that flowed through it daily.
He was hungry and thirsty. There were fruits in the baskets but he longed for an ice-cream or cold drink. There was an assortment of fresh fruit and vegetables in their baskets. A bunch of parrot green bananas, fresh herbs wrapped in newspaper, tomatoes, plump and firm, new potatoes, young green beans, half a jack fruit, a golden pump- kin. There were those special Indian vegetables like the okra, the calabash and the snake gourd. Carrots and peas and a bunch of crysanthemums for the vase. There were mangoes, litchis, apricots and peaches, all warm and velvety and scented, with the blush of summer on them.
It was getting hotter. His hair clung damply to his forehead, A plump
woman waddled up to him with a cry of recognition. It was one of his aunts.
She Towered her baskets and enfolded him in her arms. She kissed him enthu- siastically on both cheeks. She stood back and regarded him with an indul- gent smile. He hung his head, his cheeks burning. 'Look how shy he is!' his aunt observed teasingly. 'How you've grown
He followed her through the market, his expression outwardly patient while inwardly squirming with resentment, and boyish rebellion. Why couldn't she just buy her things and move on? What would his friends think if they saw him with her as she argued noisily with the stall holders? He shuffled behind as she moved from stall to stall. It was a slow business . . . and she paused often to chat to friends and relatives.
She plucked a banana from her basket and handed it to him. He accept- ed it wordlessly. She chuckled. 'Alright I see you don't want to talk to me. Tell mother you saw me, eh?'
And she picked up her baskets and waddled off. He stood there nibbling his fruit.
A white journalist was drifting among the crowd. He had a camera slung around his neck and a note-book and pen in his hand. 'We are doing a survey for The Mercury on the market.
We would like to know what you feel about the market,' he heard him ask a white woman.
The woman shrugged and answered briefly, 'It's the cheapest place.'
She moved on. The reporter turned to an Indian youth. 'What do you feel?
Do you think the market should remain or should there be smaller markets built in each area?'
The man straightened and made an emphatic gesture. 'The market should definitely remain! The market is a vital part of the Indian people's history. It's a colourful part of Durban.'
He went on, expressing his indigna- tion and forthright views. Passers-by paused to listen and some added their views. The reporter nodded and scrib- bled rapidly in his note-book. 'The city council should seriously think of giving the stall holders a permanent place where they can carry on their business in peace. Smaller markets in different areas would mean less competition and higher prices,' he went on.
The young man moved on. The reporter looked around. His glance came to rest on Anil. He came to him with a smile. 'Do you come to the market often?' he asked.
Anil nodded. 'Do you like coming to the market?' he asked.
Anil hesitated. He would love to have answered that question truthfully, but it was so much easier to say yes and not mean it. The reporter smiled. 'Well now, that's nice! Most boys hate going shopping with their mothers. Now, how about a picture for the paper, h'm?' he suggested coaxingly.
And he raised his camera. A click, and he lowered it with a pleasant smile.
He nodded, and with a wave, moved off.
So he would have his picture in the paper. He stood there, thinking about it, when his mother returned. When he glimpsed the sheep's head in her basket, his heart sank. Now he would have to spend the afternoon gathering fire wood.
She would insert long, flat irons into the fire and use the heated irons to singe the hair of the sheep's head. It was a lengthy process and would take the whole after- noon. Now there would be no chance for him to play. His day was ruined.
He picked up the baskets and followed her. They would have to get to their bus, but he knew from experience that there were bound to be distractions on the way.
She glanced at him and her maternal eye noted that he was tired and fed up.
He would be hungry too, she realized, and so suggested that they go to the cafe for something to eat.
The reporter turned to an Indian youth. "What do you feel? Do you think the market should remain or should there be smaller markets built in each area?"
The man straightened and made an emphatic gesture. "The market lould definitely remain! The market is a vital part of the Indian people's history. It's a colourful part of Durban." He went on, expressing his indignation and forthright views. "The city council should seriously think of giving the stall holders a permanent place where they can carry on their business in peace."
The cafe was crowded. He stood there, dipping bits of bread into the bunny-chow. The hollowed out bread filled with thick, spicy bean curry, tasted delicious. He ate shyly, standing beside his mother. When there was a lull the cafe owner, a balding man with a paunch, leant his arms on the counter and began conversationally, 'How was the market?'
'Oh the market is not what it used to be,' his mother observed. 'Those days things were so different.'
'That's true, that's true,' he agreed, nodding. 'Everything has changed.
Things used to be so different, so cheap.'
'But the market is still the cheapest place,' she conceded.
'Oh yah,' he agreed readily. 'Any time. I hear the market is going too.'
They listened in consternation. Anil sipped his cold drink and looked around. The cafe was old with the paint peeling in strips. A stale smell of fish and chips, cake and cold drinks clung to the place.
His mother sighed and reflected sadly.
'The whites took everything from us. Our homes, our farms and now the market.'
At last, they were on the bus. He looked out of the window at the teeming crowd below. Now his hunger was gone and also some of his resent- ment. Soon they would get off at their bus-stop and trudge up the hill. His mother would pack all the things she had bought and do the cooking. Then later, she would get down to the business of cleaning the sheep's head.
The bus began to move. And lulled by the motion of the bus, his mood changed as he dwelt on the games he would play tomorrow. But now another market day was over. #
POETRY KAREN PRESS, ANGIFI DLADLA
UNTITLED
We live in a cynical mode Fine thoughts and bitter smiles Turning thoughts like wine-glass stems Between our fingers
We see history
Before and after the stone flying From the Bastille past the Winter Palace To Lansdowne Road
We see the revolution of time Through the dust of bodies settling And can only smile
In our international wisdom We would be as much at home Anywhere else as we are here The world revolves once a day And with it we, and the stone.
Pity us, you who we cannot call brothers:
Our cynicism is greater than we are
And not as great as the stone that flies from your hands.
Karen Press
AUNT KHOLEKILE Mama, Mama, Ma -
(was an impulse my nerve cells had for her.) 'Your mother? — She is not!' belched a heart virus.
'She is more!' Life replied later . . . Erect was she with ever-plaited head right fuelling at all times, you wrong, she'll get you straight!
Aha, Aunt understood my existence . . . ! A lover of flower gardens —
'A botanical garden!' said people pointing at our home.
A lover of heroic poems — Tmbongi!' said
people to her.
Aha, we all loved her unique sense of humour , Nothing for her sake;
all for our sake.
We were the satellites;
she was the sun.
Angifi Dladla
TRIBUTES SIPHO CINDI, MIKE MAZURKIE
RAY NKWE
by Sipho Cindi
In the past few years a steady stream of our musicians has been passing on to the hereafter. It follows that some big band was definitely in the making. But, with the diverse types of music played by those called, some form of control and organisation was needed up there.
All the musicians called up had, at one stage or another, some dealings with Ray Thabakgolo Nkwe either as a record producer, a showbiz promoter or a TV producer.
So there was no question as to who would be the most suitable candidate for the job. And while bra Ray was on the important errand of producing a group for his TV programme, he was taken from us.
His involvement in music should be well-known by now.
He founded the Jazz Appreciation Society and to his death, was still struggling to keep it together although many who started with him took a cool stance at the proceedings.
In that Society he had hoped to have the entire jazz fraternity under one umbrella with musicians being given regular jobs by promotions done throughout the country with at least one performance a month in each major centre that was capable of supporting a big music festival.
The ordinary fans out there were to benefit in that they would get their records at reduced prices from appointed record bars in the city on presentation of membership cards.
He nearly lost his life at one stage for the Society when he was attacked by thugs while putting up posters for an intended show. One of his helpers from the same Society, Martin Sekgale was killed in the incident. Ray was hospital- ised.
Some of the most memorable shows came about through his promotions although he was personally not making much out of it. The Jazz Ministers were presented at the Newport Jazz Festival through his efforts. He also brought that group to the attention of the public through his re- cordings of them and their appearances at his shows.
May he rest in peace. #
MIKE MAZURKIE REMEMBERS JACOB MOEKETSI
Jacob Moeketsi, the pianist composer arranger, the loquacious musician, though argumentative to fellow musicians, a respectable man, died recently after a short illness.
I remember his performances. I remember 'New Direct- ions'. I remember this happening long before Abdullah Ebrahim, Ornette Coleman and . . . who were the others?
Dollar Brand came and heard Jacob's new sound. And began himself to live that new musical way of life.
Jacob had a hand in every niche of the South African jazz scene. He played with the Harlem Swingsters, the Jazz Maniacs and Shanty Town Sextet, accompanying vocalists, Manhattan Brothers, Miriam Makeba and her group Skylarks and scores of others.
He also arranged and conducted for a host of leading instrumentalists and vocal groups in the country. He was just the greatest, always behind the scenes, the driving force behind so much that is now musical history. He is mourned by his wife, and children who are themselves musicians;
altoists and pianists.
Rest in peace, Jacob. #
