58

AFTERMATH

THE MONDAY TABLOIDS WENT TO TOWN ON THE BROWN Madonna and the gathering that escalated into bedlam: banner headlines about prophets and virgins and the feast where the food ran out. One reporter invented the public sacrifice of goats. Another had Violet’s stalls selling lizard fats, baboon testicles, dried crocodile liver and lion lard.

The serious newspapers had sober headlines about Crocodile Flats as a nexus for the new wave of independent African churches, epitomised by the indigenous Madonna and the Prophet Hallelujah’s ethos of biblical ubuntu with traditional choirs and drumming. Right-wing newspapers harped on African disorganisation epitomised by the chaos at the gathering, but (as usual) they were ignored by the vast majority of readers, who were uplifted by the thought that God and his family had not abandoned them. For two mornings, Africa had starred again on the world stage, and not only as a place ravaged by violence and war. It was a nice change to read about a vision and gospel songs and a feast (however chaotic) rather than drought, starving babies and genocide.

At noon the clean-up along the roads and their gravel verges and in the football ground was still in progress, a massive task involving shop owners, unemployed people from the settlement who were pleased to have a day’s work, and a squadron of Van der Linde farm trailers. So it was easy enough for Captain Ngobese to pass the word: ‘Many more visitors will be coming. As a community, we need to have a strategy for dealing with them. Let’s meet at lunchtime tomorrow and talk about it.’

Benjamin offered to hold the meeting in the Outspan dining room. The next morning he and Raylene pushed the tables against the walls and lined up the chairs in rows. At the kitchen end was a table for the main speakers: the captain as chairman, Sis’ Diliza representing the chief, who was indisposed, Father Liam and the prophet representing both extremes of the godly, Girlie Ming speaking for the shop owners and Tannie Charmaine for the Van der Lindes, having reported that Swart Barend was also indisposed. In fact, he was refusing to leave his gun room or even look at his son and daughters when they brought his coffee and kos, swearing that they were traitors.

‘Never mind, the old donkey will come around,’ Tannie Charmaine assured them.

‘Ma!’ The older daughter was scandalised. The younger cast a glance at Dirkie Steenbok, who was hunched over his notes at the kitchen table, munching through a plate of boerebeskuit.

‘Your father’s had his own way for too long. I’m the moer in. It’s about time he joined the modern world.’ Tannie Charmaine forged off down the passage past the mounted trophy buck horns and kruithorings to change into her best church dress with matching hat and gloves in honour of the occasion.

‘Your ma is a fine woman.’ Dirkie had biscuit crumbs on his chin when he looked up. ‘The very soul of the Afrikaner nation.’

Which profound insight he repeated in his next despatch to Beeld, headlined: INSPIRASIE IS ’N VROUMENS. His observations did not, alas, extend to hopeful daughters arrayed in their dresses run up on the electric Bernina that could do one hundred and twenty fancy stitches.

Father Alboreto had returned in the Lancia earlier that morning to fetch Mother Esmé, Sweetness and Philomena. On the way back to Joburg, Sweetness sat in front next to him with a single butterfly twisted into the lapel of her new denim jacket. Sister Immaculata had insisted that she leave the rest behind, saying that hair butterflies were definitely not suitable for interviews with important priests. Sweetness tried to make her mother promise not to leave her alone with them, but Mother Esmé had intervened to say that she would be her protector. Philomena would be going at once to see Esau.

‘Are you nervous about seeing your ’usband, my dear?’ Mother Esmé asked in her direct way.

‘Not so. I’m just glad he’s alive and not—’ She could not discuss her apprehension about a town wife with a nun.

Mother Esmé took her hand and held it in her gnarled ones. ‘I am told ’e won’t be able to work again. But there will be an excellent pension and repayment of stolen monnaie, so your family will be okay now.’

‘How do you know all this, Mother?’ Philomena’s anxious eyes searched the wise old ones, which had never lost the glint of fire.

‘Because I ’ave been talking with Monsieur Greyling. A nurse aide was arrested last night for theft.’

‘How can I ever thank him?’ Philomena had been worrying about this too.

‘An exclusive interview will be enough. Journalists adore good stories.’

‘I thought that Sweetness seeing the brown Madonna was a story at first,’ Philomena said, ‘or at least, that she was making it up to please me. But I don’t think so any more.’

‘Nor do I. But the Church will not be so easily satisfied. Nothing might come of your daughter’s vision. Will she be sorry?’

‘Oh no. She doesn’t want to leave home. And so much has happened! People are happy that Ma-Jesu came to our poor village. And she helped to find my Esau. That is enough, Mother Esmé.’

The old nun thought, Our Lady has already wrought a miracle. My life has been one too … Settling back, she remembered again the girl in Martinique who danced the limbo for lounging tourists. Still at the age of flirting with boyfriends, she had not realised the allure of a young sweating female body by torchlight jerking and slithering under a pole, or that there were insatiable men. After her gang rape in a side alley near the tourist hotel, she had fled to a convent in terror and rage, and found her life’s work.

It would not last much longer, she knew. This wonderful visitation was a fitting climax. What a pity she could never share her joke about starting off in limbo. Nobody would believe that she had been that young, or that desperate.

In the Outspan dining room, Raylene laid a table with rows of cups and glasses and tea things, then had to line up a second table to hold the contributions people brought to the meeting. Captain Ngobese had asked his second-in-command to appeal to a few suppliers to bring snacks, and word had spread.

Winifred came with a large jug of lemon cordial, having sneaked out of the house so she wouldn’t have to drag Dulcie along. Khanya and Jo donated a box of Ma Philo’s biscuits. Tex brought two trays of fresh vanilla cupcakes. Girlie Ming carried in a dish of chicken pies. Queenie had sent Baptist into town for snacks and arrived with packets of chips and peanuts. Una brought the remaining half of the granadilla cake. The nuns brought brown bread and Marmite sandwiches. Tinkie Harmse – who had got home very late the previous night because of the traffic jam – brought the magnificent fruit cake she had baked for the next wedding.

Pastor Nazaret and Hester did not come, being nervous of what Dr Ulrich might reveal about the castor oil debacle. Nor did Cassie and Greg, still locked in enchantment over their new son. Or Salomie, who had been woken out of a post-coital sleep by the freckled desk clerk shouting at her to get a move on cleaning the motel toilets for the next arrivals.

Tannie Charmaine and Rooi Barend arrived with platters of mosbolletjies, several of which had been swiped by Dirkie Steenbok when he heard that journalists would not be welcome at the meeting.

‘It’s for residents only, sorry,’ Benjamin kept saying at the hotel door. ‘A village meeting. Village council, actually.’

Thulazi Ngobese and Rejoice stood behind the protesting journalists, bearing large pots of oxtail soup as requested by the captain, who knew from experience that meetings go better if participants aren’t hungry.

‘Welcome.’ Benjamin ushered them in and whispered to Raylene to put out soup plates and spoons.

‘Trying to outdo yesterday’s feast?’ Dr Ulrich surveyed the variegated spread. ‘But I’m glad of a decent bite. Expect there’ll be fireworks too.’

As if to live up to the prediction, the prophet bore down on him from the speakers’ table where he had been arguing about who would talk first. ‘What do you mean, banning some of our food yesterday? We ran out because of you.’

‘Nice try, your gorgeousness.’ Dr Ulrich included Violet in his derision. ‘But you ran out because there wasn’t enough for the rampaging mob. Damn poor planning. I thought you Bible-thumpers were experts.’

‘We are. No wonder they call you Dr Ugh. All you do is ridicule people. Where’s my full explanation?’ she demanded.

‘I told you. Substandard sunflower oil.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘Scout’s honour.’ He gave his two-finger salute. ‘The Lord’s mysterious ways are hard at work in Crocodile Flats.’

At that moment, Captain Ngobese rapped on the speakers’ table. ‘Thank you all for coming and your generous contributions. Shall we eat together before we get down to business?’

‘To the trough,’ muttered Dr Ulrich. ‘The human imperative.’