The Innocence of Roast Chicken Page 13

  But I can see he won’t listen to any more of my comments. My isolation feels more intense for the tiny leak of fellow-feeling we briefly had between us, and that earlier moment of solidarity we shared.

  Ahmed Kathrada continues the process of drawing us all into the presence of good, and of solidifying the force of unity. And he, who has seen the devil, is so good at identifying him for all those at the furthest extent of his beckoning reach.

  ‘We have to persuade our white compatriots that the greatest dangers facing them, their children and their future are not the black people, are not the ANC or the South African Communist Party, not Archbishop Desmond Tutu or Dr Allan Boesak. Their greatest enemy is apartheid, the Nationalist Party, the Conservative Party and all those who still propagate under different names the policy of white separateness and white supremacy.

  ‘White South Africans must know that we are aware of the fears that exist among them. We want to assure them that it has never been in the past, it certainly is not at present and will never be in future, the policy of the ANC to drive the whites into the sea.

  ‘We firmly believe that fundamental human rights, including the language, religion and cultural heritage of all our people, will only be adequately guaranteed by firmly entrenching individual human rights.’

  Very clever oratory, I have to admit. Very comforting for the softly-smiling whites among us to see his vision of heaven, so mistily portrayed and deftly described.

  The speeches keep coming, on through the fading afternoon. Yet through them all runs the love-thy-neighbour thread. The crowds grasp at the message and hold it to the end.

  The sun is a dusty, tan glow beyond the stadium when we stretch and stir to collect our belongings. The stands are a mess of papers, bones, cans and crushed polystyrene cups as we file, shoulder to shoulder with our many-shaded compatriots, down the stairs and along endless concrete walkways to the shadowed car park.

  Joe is silent during the shuffling surge. I’m not going to break his mood this time. We open the car with a beep of disarming alarms and slide into its lung-burning heat. Joe starts the car, sits with glazed eyes aimed at the dashboard and then switches it off again. His head turns.

  ‘I know you felt it, you know. You can deny, you can mock, you can jeer as much as you like. But you experienced it. I wanted you to come, and you did. That’s important to me. But more than that, I know you felt the awesomeness of what’s happening in the country. Now you’ll have some idea why it’s so important to me. Why we have to do something about you; about your fears and your refusal to open up. And why we have to do something about us.’

  1966 … Nine days to Christmas

  ‘Our Father, on this day of our Covenant with Thee, we thank Thee for Thy deliverance of Thy people from the Zulu hordes. We thank Thee for our victory against the godless at Blood River.’

  Through one slitted eye I could see Ouma, her portrait-like composure framed by my eyelashes. Her hands were pressed to her beige bodice as she prayed aloud.

  ‘We ask Thee today, O Lord, to deliver Thy people once again. In this time of trouble for South Africa, we beseech Thee to bring about a victory against the godless and the troublemakers. Help Thy people, O Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ repeated Mom and Oupa. My father cleared his throat. A gruff, mumbled ‘amen’ escaped the imprisoning hands before his mouth. Michael and I, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, held our grubby-nailed hands flat against our eyes, squeezing them closed. We snuffled a giggled response into our hands, embarrassed by this once-a-year prayerfulness of our parents. Neil, sitting beside Ouma on the couch, said nothing. His hands rested at his sides and his eyes showed none of the squinted blinking of those just opened around the room.

  There was silence as we all shook off the solemn prayer and wriggled into our social morning-tea demeanour. I was yearning after the white-capped Christmas cake standing beside the teacups on the coffee table.

  A fly trapped between the closed window and the fly screen, buzzed and rested. In two brisk steps, Ouma flung the screen up and silenced it with her wire-mesh swatter. Sliding the sash open to its fullest extent, she abruptly brought the farm into the silent room. The twittering of birds in the wild fig, the grate of the generator and the faint grumble of a tractor sounded through the screen, which she slammed with a sharp zzz-clunk.

  ‘Let’s have our tea,’ she said, turning with a smile to Michael and me.

  ‘But Ouma, why did we have to say grace before tea today?’ asked Michael. I, who had been present at Ouma’s early morning prayers, already knew and sighed exaggeratedly at him, rolling my eyes at his ignorance.

  ‘It’s a special day today.’ Ouma was pouring and handing out cups. ‘If we weren’t here on the farm, we would have gone to church today. Since we can’t thank God in His own house, we must maar be content with saying prayers in our own place.’

  ‘But Dad, when we were swimming, you said this is Dingaan’s Day. Why must we pray for his day? I don’t remember praying for him last year.’

  ‘We always pray for people who don’t know God,’ said Ouma. ‘But in actual fact, Dingaan’s Day is just what you English inappropriately call it.’

  She gave her rough, gravelly chuckle as she lifted the cake knife and brushed a curl aside with the back of her hand. She lifted her head to look at Michael and I could see her laugh pushing her cheekbones into high-planed relief against her plump face.

  ‘I don’t suppose it was really his day at all. There was a great battle and they say the river ran with the blood of his people. I don’t suppose he thought it much of a day at all.’ She paused while she cut a large slice of the damp, loamy cake and slid it on to a plate.

  ‘You don’t remember praying last year because we didn’t bother to include you. But now you and Kati’re both old enough to join in. You’re not babies any more. I know you people don’t care much for this tradition at home. But while you’re here you’ll learn to respect the ways of your forefathers.’ Her face fell easily into its usual unsoftened seriousness as she looked around the room, holding her gaze briefly on my mother whose eyes were examining her hands in her lap.

  Her gaze completed its circle and rested again on the two of us on the floor, our crossed bare feet and raised knees echoing each other. ‘Today we thanked God for listening to the prayers of His people and letting them win the battle. In return, we promised to remember this day each year. That’s called a covenant, and that’s really what this day is called – the Day of the Covenant.’

  ‘But now, Ma,’ said my father suddenly, ‘who are these people of His that you’re praying for today? All of us, or just your people?’ His voice was gruff, but he was smiling.

  Mom’s head shot up from regarding her nails as she heard his voice. In that instant I caught her air-shivering fear as it arced from her eyes to his.

  Ouma looked at him for a moment from under repressive dark eyebrows. But her mouth quirked as she replied: ‘Well, I suppose anyone who wants to consider themselves part of His people. It’s up to you.’

  My mother’s shoulders relaxed. She took a deep breath and reached for her tea and cake.

  ‘But Ouma, why did you tell God it was a time of trouble now?’ asked Michael. He never did know when to stop, when to shut up and eat his cake.

  ‘Bantu troubles, that’s what I meant. It’s not like before. There was a time when, if you treated your people well, you got loyalty and hard work. But now, magtig, with these native troublemakers in the Transvaal, trouble has spread to the Eastern Cape. I can see the signs of it, even here in the District.

  ‘Nowadays it doesn’t seem to matter how well you treat your boys. If the troublemakers get to them, you’ll see trouble. So much anger and hatred, it’s hard to know what to do … Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t maar better to be harsh from the start like some farmers.’

  ‘You mean like the man on the n
ew farm?’ asked Michael. ‘Kati said he beat Albert’s son.’ As he spoke he kept his eyes on his plate, where he was removing every scrap of marzipan and white sugar icing from his cake. I withdrew myself from the gathering, fearful of this conversation which, it seemed to me, skirted dangerously near the rank depths of awfulness. Dreaming of dogs and sunlit exploration, I unearthed the cherries from my cake and sucked at them voluptuously. For once my mother, her eyes on Michael’s face, ignored our grubby fingering.

  ‘New farmers have new ways,’ Ouma replied. Then she sighed. ‘But the Lord says people must work. Nowhere in the Bible does it say it should be easy for any of us. It’s also very hard to run a farm in these times of trouble. I feel sorry for the next-door boys but then, this is their lot. They must sommer grit their teeth and work hard. No one would beat a person for nothing. If they keep their noses clean and keep away from the troublemakers, they’ll manage all right.’

  I looked up to see Michael struggling to swallow a mouthful of cake and, at the same time, take a breath to continue. Across the room, Neil’s face was wrestling with his desire to argue. He took a breath to speak but let it escape harmlessly. My mother aimed her tautly strung look and as it caught him, she pulled it tight, binding him into immobility. Coiling it in, she tried to use it on Michael. Missing and re-throwing, the tension in her hunched shoulders grew as Michael avoided her eyes and refused to be captured. Unable to bear it at last, she dropped from the chair to her knees and reached across the floor to pat Michael’s thigh. But I saw that her red nails were clawed.

  ‘That’s enough, Michael.’ Her tone was light but a slight quaver caused her to pause and swallow, as she said his name.

  Oupa puffed silently, as he had throughout the teetering blade-walk we’d all been on. Tapping his pipe into his ashtray, as though for attention, he smiled briefly around the listening faces before clearing his throat and composing his face: ‘Did any of you hear on the wireless this morning that Walt Disney died?’

  Dearest Oupa, always the peacemaker, always the one who stood fearless in the storm and calmed it with his hands and his voice.

  ‘Ah no,’ I said. ‘Does that mean there won’t be any more pictures made after Cinderella?’

  ‘No, my darling Kati,’ he said, his chuckle bouncing the face-down book on his chest. ‘It’s a company that makes them now. It’ll continue without him, I promise you.’

  ‘And did you hear, Dad,’ Michael broke in, his eyes fired with excitement, ‘they say South Africa’s developed a new weapon. They said on the radio this morning that Defence man – Botha I think they said – isn’t that right, Dad? Anyway, he won’t say what it is but he says it’s been made from research right here and he says it’ll prepare us for the future like they were prepared before Blood River.’

  Neil smothered a derisive snort with his teacup, which he held high, draining the last of the tea into his tilted mouth. Dad cleared his throat, his thoughts gathering behind his already moving lips.

  ‘Well, Michael, it is important for any country to have a strong defence force. Especially South Africa. She has a lot of enemies. But you know, new weapons won’t solve all our problems, Michael. I just wish the government would spend a bit more of its time dealing with the African problem.’

  ‘Michael, let’s go,’ I muttered, giving him a ‘boney’ on the arm with a quick jabbed finger. ‘Let’s go outside.’ With a slight wheedle I added: ‘I’ll show you the new farm.’

  ‘OK … We’re going. Me and Kati’re going outside. OK, Ouma?’

  ‘Don’t be late for lunch,’ Mom added over Ouma’s nod. ‘It’s roast today.’

  ‘Yay yay,’ we sang, scattering dark crumbs as we ran from the room.

  The sunlight was a warm hand of benediction on my head as my pent-up energy burst from me in sideways gallops and competitive cartwheels with Michael. We went a different way this time, plundering through rough bush with a crackle of dry bundu-bashing. Michael clambered in front, arching his skinny body under bushes. His bony elbows winged skyward as he pressed his hands down and slung his lanky legs over the rough bark of low branches. I followed more tentatively, my toes always curling in fearful search of snakes.

  A deeply carved path carried us from the edge of the bush in a winding upward movement through dusty grassland. The anthills stood as tall as my shoulder under the dry tan of thorn trees. The sun glared off their long white thorns, which made my eyes water and tingle in fear of their merciless thrust. I covered my eyes with my hands as the path wound too near the reaching, scratching branches.

  And then I was bowled into the soft dust of the path by a yelling Michael, who had crept up on me while my eyes were closed. Sitting on my stomach, he howled, prising my fingers from my face. I squealed and fought to turn my face into the dust as he laughed and jousted with two thorns he had snapped from an overhanging branch.

  ‘Stop it, Michael,’ I shrieked, my squeals turning to dusty tears. He dropped the thorns then.

  ‘Baby, baby,’ he taunted. ‘Scared of a little thorn.’

  He tickled me, but desultorily, as if bored by my unchallenging response. He leapt from my stomach in one supple movement and trotted off along the path.

  ‘C’mon, let’s go see the farm.’

  I snuffled myself upright, smearing my face with the flat of my hand. My nose I wiped on my T-shirt sleeve.

  I ran then, following Michael who was making for the boundary fence. With his big toe balanced on the top wire, he teetered a moment on the poised, shivering strand before vaulting his legs over the top.

  ‘Michael, no, you can’t go over there,’ I stage-whispered in awe. Indecisively I clung to the fence, watching his ragged lope across the grass. ‘Michael,’ I called, louder this time. There was no one to be seen on the other side, but the stillness seemed eerie to me and probably added to my panicky grils. I was fearful of being left alone on my side of the fence and of what would happen to Michael, should he go on without me. But my stomach coiled and shrank at the thought of the unknown on the other side. Our farm, our heart-warming soul sanctuary, no longer reached across that sinister stretch of diamond mesh.

  The anxiety – for Michael, for me – drove me to clamber the fence and race after him. I had to get him back, to pull him away before he could meet anyone, before he could do any harm.

  ‘M-i-chael.’ It was a breathless cry which wavered as my feet pounded and slapped the rising dust. He stopped suddenly, just ahead of me, and laughed as my driving momentum flung my body against his.

  ‘What’s the matter, idiot? Are you scared? D’you think the neighbours are witches?’ He lifted clawed hands to his hideously pulled face. With his forefingers, he exposed the raw redness beneath his lower eyelids.

  ‘Stop it, Michael. You look ugly. Stop it,’ I repeated as he brought his red-eyed grimace closer to my face.

  ‘And I’m not scared of them. I just think we could get into trouble.’

  ‘Cowardy custard!’ he sung. ‘Nyeah nyeah nah neh neh. Scared of a li-ttle trou-ble. The neighbours make you skr-i-ik. Yellow, yellow b-e-lly, ching chong Chinaman, born in a b-a-a-th …’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ I broke in. ‘I just don’t want to get into trouble for what you go and do. What do you want here?’

  ‘I’m just looking around, that’s all. C’mon, let’s explore. No one’ll catch us. It’s OK.’

  Ahead, Michael’s intent eyes were fixed on a pair of wind-blown gum trees, exposed in their ragged solitude, somehow painful in their peeling raw trunks and alien height.

  The trees screened a huddle of corrugated iron pondoks, not from wind, which whined gently from the side, but from view. The shanties – squat, unwilling structures, forced into a semblance of huts – were imprisoned from wind-borne escape by the rocks which balanced on their flat roofs. Windows were small severed squares in the rusted sides. Patching their gap-edged corners were flattened
cardboard boxes and the startling red of Coca-Cola signs. Doors stood to one side of jagged openings – sharp-toothed metal sheets whose drag marks showed their purpose in the dirt.

  Plastic bags and paper scraps danced lazily along the ground in the desolate breeze. I could hear a wailing sound, that scary relentless wailing of a baby that can’t be comforted. And beyond that, silence. I looked up at the gum trees and thought that they were wrong, they gave no comfort to the people who had to live in their shade. Not even the birds, greedy for trees and bushes to perch in, were clamouring to sit in their lonely, swishing branches.

  ‘Where are the children?’ I whispered to Michael. ‘Where do they play?’

  ‘Dunno, but it’s not here.’

  The doeked head of a woman bent to peer at us through the ragged hole which served as her door. Clinging to her skirt was a large-eyed child, about Michael’s age, I thought. They stared at us a moment before the woman pulled the child back into the pitch dark of the hut.

  ‘Molo,’ called Michael. There was no reply.

  I felt a thread of fear snaking through my stomach at the thought of approaching these huts, whose harshness held nothing homely or clean, or decent. Deep down I knew it wasn’t their fault, and that maybe it was temporary – maybe, just maybe, the new farmer would still build nice warm mud-packed huts, and perhaps they could still paper the walls with magazine pages and cover the floor with mats.

  But none the less I feared these people and their sinister silence. Who were they, these people who could live in this coarse and inhospitable place? I couldn’t then understand or work out for myself why those cave-like interiors filled me with dread. But years later, when I was awkwardly almost grown, I remembered unwillingly the day I saw those huts. And then, as if in image association, my mind moved on and played back all those tales I had heard of our city boegieman, the Valley bush-dweller. And I remembered the imagined dread of what he would do to small girls found wandering near his ragged, dark shelter.