10

MA PHILO’S WISHES

WHEN SWEETNESS REACHED HOME IT WAS DARK AND the alley eddied with coal smoke from the evening cooking fires: coils of thick brown smog that reared and wove like ghost cobras. She shivered, remembering the dried snake skins that hung in the muti shop among bunches of leaves and bark and twisted seed pods, and the wall-eyed muti man who lived in the rustling shadows.

She thrust the scary image away and unlocked the security gate with the key hanging on a string round her neck, ready to shout her news.

‘We should grab that choekie and do her now. Me first.’

The Lucky Boys were lounging in the doorway of the opposite shack, where they met and stored their plunder in a wall of cardboard cartons. Many people in the settlement knew what was concealed there – stolen goods, drugs, trophy panties, homemade guns and their leader’s 9-mill, a z88 semi-automatic Parabellum that held fifteen rounds – but fear kept them silent. The Lucky Boys struck like mambas at the families of impimpis.

‘No,’ Smart Fikile grunted.

‘Why not? Her ma’s not home yet. Only the kid.’

‘Forget it. Things to do.’

‘Like what? I’m hot for a cherry.’ The speaker rubbed his bulging crotch.

‘Opstoker!’ The back of Smart’s hand crashed across his mouth. ‘We’ve got plans. No shit.’

‘Sorry-sorry.’

As he cringed away, the leader swung round to the others. ‘You know the target: that honky in the Outspan. Before the whole place closes down.’

‘The bottle store’s closing too? Who says?’

‘Our cop schemes the new commander is bad news too. So we hit the Outspan early Sunday morning when both tills are full. Okay?’

‘Okay, sharp.’

‘And you must be ready. Guns checked. Numbers filed. Knives sharpened.’

‘Sharp.’

‘Sharp.’

‘Sharp.’

The Lucky Boys still standing raised their fists and barked the word as he challenged them one by one with his torch beam, its yellow light sliding across slick faces. The leader was particular about weapons.

There was no one inside when the front door banged shut behind Sweetness, not even Gogo in her usual corner under her blankets. The candlesticks and oil lamp stood in a row on the table, unlit. The wooden chairs were empty, the paraffin stove cold. The bedding was piled where the family had stacked it that morning.

She felt her excitement wane. Surely Tsietsi should be home by now? Usually by this time Ma would be stirring phuthu and chopping vegetables and cutting up meat for the evening stew. And Gogo would be grumbling about being alone all day and nagging Tsietsi to do his homework at the table before it had to be cleared for supper. Where was everybody?

Then she heard the sound of splintering wood and went into the small back yard where Tsietsi was struggling to chop firewood in his school shorts. Tonight was a bath night when they heated water in a half-drum on the outside fire and took turns washing in the oval tin tub behind a screen of blankets. Should she tell her news to Tsietsi first?

When he saw her, his thin shoulders hunched as he whined, ‘Why are you late, sisi? I’m having trouble here. Ma is going to be mad with me.’

‘Something happened on the way home.’ The words gushed out. ‘You won’t believe what—’

‘I’m having trouble.’ He was crying. ‘It’s too hard for me, this work. I’m hungry. Where is Ntate?’

He stood sniffling with the axe dangling next to scabby knees. She felt a surge of anger against her father for abandoning them, and in particular this anxious boy who was now expected to be the man of the house. The axe was heavy and blunt, and he was always coughing; tonight there were globs of yellow snot on his upper lip. She saw his tongue go up to lick them and said, ‘Don’t do that. Remember what Ma said? You must blow all the bad stuff out.’

He bent down to blow his nose into his fingers, flicking the snot away into the darkness. When he stood up again, tears glistened.

Shelving her wonderful news for the moment, she said, ‘I’ll chop the firewood tonight. You light the lamp and the candles for when Ma and Gogo come.’

‘Okay, sisi. Thanks.’ He scuttled inside as she took the axe.

By the time Philomena got home, the shack was lit up and a pot of phuthu sat blooping on the paraffin stove. She swung the bucket of offal down outside the doorway, carried it inside, covered it with the sacking that had cushioned it on her head, and massaged her neck saying, ‘Eish, I’m so late. I was worried about supper.’

Sweetness knew by the weight of the bucket that it was more than half full. But all she said was, ‘It’s okay, I’ve made the supper. Where’s Gogo?’

‘Gone to Auntie Nandi’s for a few days. I need a break.’

Auntie Nandi lived on the far side of the settlement, in an even smaller and more crowded shack than theirs. Gogo only went to stay with her in dire emergencies. There was trouble coming, Sweetness judged by the look on her mother’s face. She said, ‘Sit down, Ma. I’ll make you some tea.’

Philomena collapsed into one of the chairs by the table with a grateful sigh. ‘Thanks, Sweetie. My back’s been sore all day.’

‘Ma shouldn’t have to work so hard.’ Sweetness tried to keep the anger against her father out of her voice, knowing it would upset Philomena. ‘Maybe you should stop working for that drunk old white guy.’

Philomena shook her head. ‘He’s good to me.’

‘I’d never work for such a guy.’ Sweetness stirred the cooking phuthu again with the wooden spoon.

‘But I can’t leave now when things are so bad.’

‘Now is a good time. My friends say Mr Eddie’s finished and he’ll have to sell to the coolies or Mrs Ming.’ Sweetness made a throat-cutting gesture with her forefinger.

‘Don’t use that word.’ Philomena was unwrapping her doek and fluffing out the compressed hair underneath.

‘Everyone says coolies.’ Sweetness’s lower lip jutted.

‘That doesn’t make it right.’

‘So? Things have changed now, Ma. We can say what we like.’

Philomena looked up at her daughter, surprised at the unusual flare of rebellion. ‘Freedom doesn’t mean we can insult people with bad names.’

‘I suppose.’

‘I mean it. We’ll have no talk of coolies in this house.’

Her daughter shrugged. ‘If you say, Ma.’

‘I do say. Where’s Tsietsi?’

‘Crying outside. He got blisters from trying to cut the firewood with that stupid axe. He’s too small to be doing heavy work.’

‘I know. I must go and comfort him.’ Philomena eased off the cheap plastic shoes which made her feet ache and sweat.

Sweetness blurted, ‘This life is too hard. Why doesn’t Ntate come home or even write to us?’

‘Your father – aaai. I’m afraid he has found another wife.’

‘The homeboys told you?’ Dread clutched her throat.

‘No news, nothing. I’m just afraid. It’s too long now. I think he doesn’t want us any more.’ Her head drooped. ‘I think I’m too old.’

‘No, Ma,’ Sweetness protested. Though her mother’s face was sad and drawn, she looked beautiful in the lamplight. Just like – and Sweetness remembered her news. She burst out, ‘You know who I saw on the way home from school?’

Her mother didn’t seem to hear. She was saying, ‘I thought things would change, but the mines still swallow men. If Mr Eddie goes, what will happen to us?’

Sweetness felt her heart swelling with pity. There was such sorrow in this dusty, smoky, smelly, dangerous place where they lived. She must tell her mother about the vision before it faded in what Sister Immaculata called the grim reality.

She went and knelt on the lino by the chair and took Philomena’s hands. ‘Listen to me, please. I saw Ma-Jesu today.’

‘You were in the nuns’ dining room? What for?’

‘Not the statue. The real Ma-Jesu.’

‘This is a story, nè?’ Her mother was frowning.

‘No, Ma. I saw a lady in a long blue dress, not so young any more. She’s from Africa – Somalia maybe. Tall and brown and high in the cheeks. She made the Sign of the Cross over me. That’s how I know.’

Her mother’s hand came down to stroke her shoulder. ‘Shame, Sweetie. You shouldn’t tell such stories.’

‘Nyaniso, it’s true!’

‘Lovey, a lie is a lie, even if it’s meant for a good purpose.’

‘But I did see her, in that burnt-out hut on the road from school. She was standing in the ashes and looking at me straight.’ Sweetness went rushing on, breathless with the need to tell her marvel exactly as it happened. ‘So I kneel down with my face in my hands, like so. For respect, you know? Then she comes close to me and touches my cheek, and I smell peach flowers and cupcakes. When I look up again, she’s gone. But the lovely smell is still there. Truly, it was Ma-Jesu. I know this.’

Philomena moved her hand under her daughter’s chin and lifted it. ‘My child, the nuns are filling your head with holy dreams.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I think you have a good imagination. I think you are trying to make me feel better by saying these things.’

Sweetness felt a surge of anger sweep her up onto her feet until she was towering over her mother. ‘I saw her! Our Holy Mother is African like us. I’m not dreaming, Ma. She came here, to Crocodile Flats. S’true s’true!’

Tsietsi came running in because of the shouting. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Ma thinks I’m crazy. She won’t listen, nothing.’

‘No, my darling girl.’ Philomena sat in the chair shaking her head and repeating, ‘I wish with all my heart it was true. Oh, I wish.’

Mad Zizwe heard the shouting as he went down the alley with his dogs. They stopped, bristling, outside the door of the shack where the Lucky Boys crouched, smoking and making plans, but Mad Zizwe chivvied the dogs on. He had marked the places in the settlement where the amagents and the bad boys hung out, but had no more interest in their activities. Prison had almost broken him. Now he kept himself to himself and trained his hunting dogs for their higher purpose.