The Madonna of Excelsior (21 page)

“That's not a local issue,” Captain Klein-Jan Lombard tried to reason. “Is has nothing to do with the police of Excelsior.”

“It has everything to do with the police of South Africa in every square inch of this country,” yelled Viliki. “And you want a local issue, do you? We demand that Adam de Vries be removed as the Administrator of our township. Get the Conservative Party out of our affairs!”

The party that was ruling Excelsior at the time was the Conservative Party—another splinter group from the National Party. Unlike the Herstigte Nasionale Party, it was a strong group, which even had significant representation in Parliament. Hence Adam de Vries, who continued to be the leading light of the National Party, was no longer the mayor of Excelsior. The mayoral chain was now worn by the arch-right-winger, Gys Uys. Tjaart Cronje and Johannes Smit were now members of the town council, as representatives of the Conservative Party, in addition to their self-appointed task of policing Excelsior as police reservists. Although Adam de Vries was no longer mayor, and his National Party no longer had power in Excelsior, they let him run Mahlatswetsa Location as Administrator as he professed superior knowledge of
“these people”, knowledge gained from his anthropology courses at university.

The police reservists were getting impatient with the official police. One could not reason with these people. There was only one language they understood. Tjaart Cronje opened fire. Johannes Smit followed with his own fire. The crowd screamed and ran in different directions. The policemen and their reservists ran after them, hitting them with the butts of their guns.

Popi was not going to run. She had not been part of the crowd. She was on her way home from the bank. Home, where Niki was waiting for the money in order to buy maize-meal and candles from Sekatle's shop. Which would make Viliki angry.

Why do you spend my money at that sellout's shop? Why do you enrich the dog that has made his money from selling our people to the enemy? He is already rich, Viliki. Tour buying at his store or not buying at his store will not make a dent in his wealth. Will not stop him from driving around the location, playing loud music, blowing his hooter for everyone to know Sekatle is driving by. In any case, Viliki, you do not expect us to go all the way to town just to buy a packet of candles, do you? And those shops in town, are they not owned by the enemy? Like your Volkskas Bank?

Something hit Popi on the back of her head. She fell to the ground. She saw a police boot connecting with her face. She felt another crashing into her ribcage. She went numb. She could hear as if from a distance sounds of whips lashing on her body. But she felt no pain. Her body was dead. Even the blood that was spurting out of her nose came from someone else's body. Not her dead body. She went to sleep next to her dead body.

When she woke up, she was in the back of a rattling bakkie. With many other bleeding bodies piled together. Her body was no longer dead. It ached all over.

The van stopped. Roadblock. Tjaart Cronje, Johannes Smit and a group of police reservists were manning it. Some of them waving red flags with three black sevens forming a swastika that someone had forgotten to complete.

“Where do you think you are going, ntate?” Tjaart Cronje asked in Sesotho. Calling the man “sir” or even “father”. Polite, even in anger. Niki would have been proud of his upbringing.

“I am taking these people to hospital,” responded the driver.

“Are you an ambulance, then?” Johannes Smit asked, also in Sesotho.

“We called the ambulance, but the town council refused to send it,” said the driver.

“You are not an ambulance, ntate,” said Tjaart Cronje firmly. “You'll have to turn back.”

“Some of these people are terribly injured,” protested the driver. “They might die.”

Tjaart Cronje switched to Afrikaans. He told the man that if he did not want to join the corpses in the back of his bakkie, it would be wise for him to turn back. The man drove back to Mahlatswetsa Location.

All the vehicles that carried the injured were turned back in a similar manner.

A child died.

P
OPI LAY
on the bed while Niki washed her wounds. The hot water with Dettol antiseptic exacerbated the pain. Niki cleaned the caked blood with a wet sponge. Soon the white water was red. Now Popi could see exactly what Viliki had been talking about. The Boers knew nothing about fair play. She was no longer going to be a bystander. Or a sidewalker who minded her own business. A sidewalker who had done no wrong and would therefore not run away.

The pain. The pain. Why wouldn't Niki mix the hot water with the cold?

Popi chuckled. Niki stood back and looked at her in amazement. Popi laughed.

“The honey,” she said. “Put honey on the wounds. They say honey kills germs.”

The honey. Only that morning, life had been so sweet. She had gone to gather cow-dung with Niki. She had been laughing in the veld. She reserved her laughter for Niki. She could afford to be carefree when she was with Niki. She became a child again. Replaying the childhood that she missed. She had laughed because Niki had screamed when a blade of grass had touched her calf. They had just been talking about snakes. Niki had mistaken the grass for a snake. Popi's silly guffaws had not amused Niki.

Popi had laughed until she rolled on the grass. She had rolled down a slope, gathering momentum as she left Niki far behind. She had rolled until a pile of rocks halted her progress. And it had been a good thing that she had not rolled onto the rocks, for bees had built their hive underneath them. She would have been stung to death if she had disturbed their peace.

“Niki, quick, come and see!” shouted Popi.

The rocks formed a small picturesque cave. Honeycombs were hanging from the roof of the shelter like black icicles. Sweet stalactites.

“Let's get the honey,” Popi had said, when Niki arrived.

They had lit a cow-dung fire next to the hive. They had used their mouths like bellows to blow the smoke in the direction of the hive. Soon the bees were dazed. They had buzzed drunkenly around the women, perching on them without stinging them. Popi had put her hand into the grotto, drawing it out again with a dark chunk. White brood in the comb.

“Put that back, Popi,” Niki had said. “It is a waste. All those young ones will die.”

Popi had put the big black chunk with white grubs peeping in the hexagons aside. Her hand went in again and came back with a golden honeycomb. The inebriated bees that covered her arm did not bother her. She shook it in swift vibrations and the bees fell onto the grass. She sunk her teeth into the comb, swallowing the golden syrup and chewing the wax, and then spitting it out. Honey ran down her arms and dripped to the ground from her elbows. Some of it ran down her mouth into a number of streams on
her yellow blouse. Her hands were sticky, but that did not bother her.

“Popi, you know that gluttony is a sin?” Niki had asked.

“Have some,” Popi had said with a full mouth. “It is very sweet.”

“Leave some for the bees, Popi,” Niki had pleaded. “If you take everything, what do you think the bees will eat?”

“They can always make some more.”

“If you take everything, they will move somewhere else. Leave something, they will stay and you can always come to harvest honey again next time,” Niki had advised.

“What's the use, Niki? If you leave something, someone else will find the hive and take everything.”

Niki had taken a small bite of a honeycomb. Honey and wax together. The women had then taken some honeycombs home. As they had no container, Popi had piled the combs into a mountain in her hands, while Niki carried the cow-dung in a sack on her head. The combs had leaked all the way, tracing a golden path that quickly turned black where the honey seeped into the soil.

The morning had begun with such sweetness.

Niki got the honey from the pot, and was rubbing some of it onto Popi's wounds when Viliki arrived. His injuries were fortunately only slight.

“These are the last wriggles of the tail of a dying lizard,” said Viliki as he hobbled into the shack.

“More like the deadly kicks of a dying horse,” Popi corrected him. “The tail of a dying lizard is harmless, Viliki. It wriggles and dies alone. See what happened to me?”

“Don't talk, Popi,” said Niki. “You will only make the pain worse.”

Viliki looked at his sister. She was lying on the bed, wearing only panties. Parts of her body covered with sticky honey. Her face was unrecognisable. Both eyes swollen. Eyelids glued together in swollen red balls. Niki spreading more honey on her body. And cleaning more caked blood from her mouth.

“I am sorry, Popi,” said Viliki, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You shouldn't have gone to that demonstration.”

“I didn't go to that demonstration, Viliki,” said Popi chirpily, as if her body was not racked with pain. “That demonstration came to me. But from now on, I will go to every demonstration.”

“They want to take away all my children,” said Niki softly.

T
HE BROWN IMPASTO WOMAN IS
naked. She squats on her heels in the dark blue of the night. Her hanging stomach rests on her fat thighs. Her hanging breasts rest on her fat stomach. She has raised her thick hands to ward off the ugly spirits that haunt her dreams, turning them into nightmares.

Popi sat in a nightmare. Daymare. The light from the window shone in her eyes, almost blinding her. She shifted uncomfortably on her chair. She squinted her eyes in order to take a good look at those sitting opposite her. And on both sides of her. Imprisoning her with their heavy presence. And their strong odours. Pipe tobacco. Cologne. Sweat. There was no escape. There could be no escape. It was all of her own making. She would face the consequences without complaint.

The fan hanging from the ceiling was whirling and droning at the same time, which irritated her immensely. But the people sitting around the big brown-varnished table did not seem to mind it. Most were listening attentively to what Angela van der Walt, town clerk of Excelsior, was saying. Others had a bored look. They already
knew everything she was talking about. Even more so than the town clerk herself. They had sat around this table for years. And so had their fathers before them. And their fathers' fathers.

The dirty walls were closing in on Popi. Suffocating her. Walls mapped with black streams of rain that had seeped through the ceiling to the floor. Black smudges on parts of the ceiling. Musty ceiling so high that it made the people sitting under it insignificant. The walls were moving closer, in rhythm to Angela van der Walt's brittle voice.

The town clerk was explaining the rudiments of procedure in Afrikaans, the language of the town council. The language of the black and white citizens of Excelsior. For the benefit of those who had never been in the council chamber before, she was going on at length about how to address fellow members of the council, when to raise a point of order, how the debates should be conducted, and how voting was done. She would always be at hand, she said, to assist those who needed her assistance. To guide them through the maze of rules and regulations that governed procedure in the council chamber. And through the files of the town's by-laws. It was incumbent on the members of the town council to be well versed in the by-laws, so that they might participate intelligently in the chamber.

Popi wondered why the hallowed room was called a chamber.
Chamber
in English too, when everything else was in Afrikaans. A chamber was the pot into which Niki peed at night. The thought of the chamber-pot reminded Popi that she had been suppressing her own urge to pee for the past half-hour. She did not know how to take leave of the august company around the table. Should she just stand up and rush out of the double doors, down the corridor in search of a toilet? Would she use the same toilet that the white people used? Should she raise her hand and ask, as in class, “Please, madam, may I go out”? What would happen if her urine flowed down her legs, and made a thin stream across the grey wall-to-wall carpet to the other side of the room? What would the town
clerk say? What would the august members of the council say? Would they kick her out of the chamber? Pee belonged in the chamber, didn't it?

Out, Popi! You don't belong here! You are out of your league here! Out!

They would not dare. She had earned the right to belong here. Her only foolishness had been to choose a seat that faced the window. She had been the first to arrive. She had had a choice of ten seats. Ten empty chairs and she had selected the most inconvenient one. The glare of the sun was playing havoc with her eyes. The voluminous pink and violet curtains hanging on one side of the wall covered the big windows, but left a gap on just this one window opposite her. A source of light. And of irritation.

Popi did not like the idea that where she was sitting, she was directly facing Tjaart Cronje. And that she was facing a row of old Afrikaner men and women sitting on red chairs against the wall behind him. From one corner of the room to the next. Blending with the curtains behind them. Grave citizens of Excelsior who comprised the gallery. Concerned citizens who had come to witness the wonder of wonders. For the first time in the history of Excelsior, the town council had black members. And they were in the majority!