CONSTANTIA WAS IMPRESSED. The Mayor’s staff had covered the round oak table in his office with a linen tablecloth and a white tea service bearing the shield of the old Northridge Municipality. He didn’t even do that when he met the councillors. Silver platters overflowed with crème donuts, vetkoek and slices of Madeira cake with half cherries inside. This meeting with the Sivuyile branch delegation was serious business.
The Mayor apologised for the Northridge shield on the cups and saucers. ‘We have ordered the new china but there is a delay,’ the Mayor told them. ‘A signature was missing from the purchase order. It has been rectified.’
Nobatana said he once had a dream on the Island in which someone placed a plate holding a dozen crème donuts in front of him. ‘That dream has almost come true today,’ he said. ‘The platter there holds eleven. My doctor will not be happy.’ The old man put three of the donuts on his plate and sat down on the sofa with the others.
‘We are following the national framework,’ the Mayor said. ‘We must provide lifelines, but those with debts must pay. Otherwise, there is no money for development.’
The Mayor paused to refill his tea, pulling out a small plastic bottle of NutraSweet from his coat pocket and adding three of the tiny pills to his cup. ‘BP,’ said the Mayor. ‘Better to take away the sugar from my tea than the Johnnie Walker from my weekends.’
‘You must watch your pressure, Comrade Mayor,’ said Nobatana as he licked some crème from his fingers.
Constantia reminded the Mayor that forgiveness of past debts was part of the ANC’s election platform.
‘Non-payment was a political act,’ added Monwabisi, ‘essential to the collapse of the Boers.’ Constantia reached for a piece of Madeira cake as her husband spoke. A little sugar seemed to calm her fears, though she was worried about her weight. She’d never been concerned about gaining a few kgs before, but she couldn’t afford to buy a new wardrobe just to accommodate a growing waistline.
‘Times are different now,’ said the Mayor. ‘We didn’t understand certain things when we weren’t in power. National tells us we must practise fiscal discipline. It is out of our hands.’
‘Practise what?’ asked Nobatana. ‘Physical discipline? We had enough of that on the Island. All those years of breaking up stones.’ The old man sized up the three donuts on his plate and finally grabbed the one with the most crème.
‘No, comrade,’ said the Mayor. ‘Fiscal. It means we must spend our money more carefully.’
‘Common sense,’ said Nobatana. ‘Why does it need a confusing name? If we were as good at bringing water to people as we are at inventing new words, we wouldn’t need this meeting.’
Constantia bit into one of the cherries in the Madeira cake. She sucked on it for a moment. She loved the syrupy flavour.
‘Fiscal discipline is part of GEAR,’ said Monwabisi. ‘The World Bank doesn’t want government to spend too much on the people. That way they can lower taxes for the rich.’
Constantia could feel her husband getting ready for one of his tirades. The Mayor would have no patience for such talk. He liked to call it ‘excessive verbiage’.
‘The crème on this one is a little bit sour, Comrade Mayor,’ said Nobatana. ‘A crème donut is not amasi.’ He wiped his fingers on a serviette, then licked the crème off the paper.
‘The baker is a holdover from the days of the whites,’ said the Mayor. ‘We’ll do better next time.’ He wrote something in a small notebook, then went back to his tea.
‘If the government doesn’t pay off what Botha borrowed,’ said Ntoni, ‘the Western countries will strangle us, just like what they did to the apartheid regime.’
‘The capitalists want their money,’ said Monwabisi, ‘even if it was used to pay the salaries of the troops that occupied our townships.’
‘We can’t afford to once again become a pariah among nations,’ said Constantia. She rose to get the teapot and refill the cups.
‘Please, Lord,’ she thought as she filled Nobatana’s cup, ‘don’t let my husband make one of those long speeches in the Mayor’s office.’
‘We are here about water,’ said the Mayor. ‘Let us stick to the agenda.’
‘I agree,’ said Monwabisi, ‘but I want to remind Comrade Ntoni that sometimes our leaders are a little too quick to agree to the demands of the West.’
Constantia kept circulating with the tea, trying to ignore her husband’s words. Surely someone would silence him before he humiliated their delegation. ‘Water,’ she said. ‘Let us talk about water as Comrade Mayor has asked.’
‘It’s all connected,’ said Monwabisi. He held up his cup to indicate he wanted more tea. ‘You have missed me,’ he said.
‘Shame,’ she said and moved slowly towards his seat to pour the refill.
‘Actually,’ said the Mayor, ‘I have found a solution. We can exempt people by order of council. We will need to do it on a monthly basis.’
One of his aides had told him there was a process by which people could be declared ‘indigent’ – unable to pay.
‘It’s from the days of the Boers,’ added the Mayor. ‘To become indigent a family must fill out some forms plus submit a statement of income or show they are unemployed or pensioners.’
‘We have illiterate people in our community,’ said Constantia, ‘especially among the elderly.’ She put the teapot down and went back to her chair. Sometimes the Mayor’s solutions weren’t really solutions at all. Not everyone who spent time on Robben Island was a Madiba.
‘We don’t need a bureaucratic solution,’ said Monwabisi. ‘What of the people who just sell mealies or do piece jobs?’
‘A letter from a pastor or social worker will do as proof of unemployment,’ said the Mayor. ‘We are prepared to be flexible.’ The Mayor told his secretary through the intercom that he wanted the boxes delivered.
A minute later a messenger in a beige uniform brought two boxes of yellow indigent forms and set them next to the half-empty platter of donuts. The Mayor gave a form to each of his visitors.
‘As easy as eating pap,’ said the Mayor.
Monwabisi began to read the form. ‘Why must the council know the birthdates of the applicant’s parents?’ he asked.
‘We can waive certain non-essential information,’ said the Mayor. ‘We need only basic details.’
‘We will make it work,’ said Constantia. ‘Our people need water.’
‘It says “Republic of Ciskei Form 366A” at the top of each page,’ said Monwabisi.
‘I told you the forms were old,’ said the Mayor, ‘but they will do. Just like the teacups. They say Northridge but they still hold tea.’
‘No need to reinvent the wheel,’ said Ntoni.
Monwabisi laid his copy of the form down on the table and reached for a piece of cake. ‘It’s time to go,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Nobatana, taking a last look at the three remaining donuts.
‘We can get you a bag,’ the Mayor told the old man.
‘Maybe better to leave them,’ said Nobatana. ‘I must watch my blood sugar. My doctor will scold me until the cows come home.’
The Mayor winked at Nobatana as he called his secretary on the intercom again and asked her to bring a bag for takeaways.
‘I’m counting on you to see that the paperwork is done properly,’ said the Mayor, turning towards Constantia. ‘I wish there was an easier way, comrades, but there isn’t. We have to follow procedures.’
Constantia picked up one box of the forms and put it on her head. She asked Monwabisi to take the other one.
‘I won’t dirty my hands with the paperwork of the Boers,’ he said. ‘Let me carry the old man’s donuts.’
‘I hope you’re not planning another demonstration,’ said Constantia. ‘We’ve had enough of those for awhile. It’s time to roll up our sleeves.’
Monwabisi unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and began to roll them up. ‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘Roll them back down,’ she said, ‘and stop mocking me.’ The Mayor told the messenger to carry the other box of forms.
While Nobatana stopped to make sure they hadn’t left the donuts behind, Monwabisi raced off towards the car park. Constantia figured he was already thinking of slogans for the next march on the municipal offices. He had a one-track mind.