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on her face.
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Button it up, I said!
Don t be silly, Martin.
All of a sudden I was blind with rage. I jumped up and pulled her
from her chair by the arm. Her wineglass fell on the floor and rolled
along the soft carpet. When I grabbed her open blouse to close it with
force, it tore. And then I became wild, with a violence I d never
suspected in myself. Grabbing the thin muslin blouse again, I went
on tugging and tearing until I d ripped it completely off her; and then,
throwing her to the ground, I took her forcibly, raping her. Only after
some time it slowly dawned on me that she hadn t put up any resist-
ance, that she d yielded quite passively to whatever I wanted to do to
her. For a moment the discovery made me even more furious than
before. Suddenly, as I climaxed, she began to cry. The only time she d
ever cried in my presence. Not loudly: deep, smothered sobs shud-
dering through her while she lay biting on the second joint of her fore-
finger trying to control it.
Withdrawing from her I turned away to readjust my clothes. I
went to the bathroom. From the door I looked back. She was lying
motionless on the carpet, her knees still drawn up and wide open.
Like, once before, Bernard s wife Reinette.
In the bathroom I scrubbed myself as if to rid me of every sign
and stigma of her. But I knew it was useless. I was addicted to her
more totally than to any other woman in my life: with the exception
of Elise in those early days of our love, before our marriage.
Later I went back to her, and took her to the bedroom. Until deep
in the night we lay together, talking, in a close embrace without any
sexual overtones. The storm had subsided. In the deep desolation
following it we were able to discuss everything down to the very bone.
It was the critical moment of our relationship. She made it very
clear, but without any bitterness or insistence; with weary compassion
only. I had to choose. I had to go back to Elise the next morning and
talk it out with her. And then I would have to either get divorced or
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leave Bea. In the defenseless, small hours of the night it all appeared
so clear, so simple, so obvious. I would make a decisive move. And then
we would start anew, together.
But when I came home the next morning, Elise awaited me with
the news that Dad was dying. In a strange way that suspended every-
thing. When I came back after the funeral, each of us seemed to be
waiting for the other to refer to the matter again. But neither of us
did. The one moment when it had been possible, had passed. Now
we allowed it to go on as before. Perhaps each of us secretly blamed
the other for it. At the same time we were grateful for the reprieve.
One cannot live with high drama day after day.
If I think back now, remembering the disconcerting old man in
the wood on the farm that weekend, I find it easier to understand his
fantastic story: how he d followed the Momlambo and received the
decorated stick from her. And her message. If you really want the
Momlambo to come to you, and if you want her to sleep with you under one
kaross and remove her inciyo for you, you must first kill your father in your
own heart.
That night I d spent with Bea: and Dad died.
Every man has his own Momlambo. You must wait for your own
whirlwind.
Shortly after eleven the police van stopped in the farmyard in a cloud
of dust. The Black constable went round to let Mandisi out; then
returned to the front where he sat waiting beside the White driver.
Unmanacled, Mandisi went up the hill to the small enclosure of
aloes. Ma and Louis and I followed at a distance. She was walking as
erect and as fast as always, but when we reached the top she was too
breathless to speak; and I d never seen her look so old.
From the huts two rows of people approached, men and women
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separately. There were no children. ( Nor virgins, Ma explained, since
death was still taboo to their eyes.) They were singing as they came,
those men and women in their separate rows, deep and clear voices
like earth and water. And all the time the wind was blowing, more
violently than before.
Inside the aloe hedge Mandisi was waiting on a rock close to the
raw dry mound of the newly dug hole, his back turned to the others
who crowded together on the far side of the grave. We stood farther
back, in the entrance to the kraal, as we didn t really have any part
in what was happening.
All the time the ceremony lasted, Mandisi remained sitting with
his back to his people, looking far away to the hills where the clouds
were beginning to gather; apparently unconcerned with whatever was
taking place behind him. And while the hole was being filled up, he
walked off alone, first to the huts to take leave of his children; then
down to the yard and the waiting van. By the time we came back the
van had already left with him. The line of dust was still visible up the
side of the hill, beyond the flamboyants; soon scattered by the wind.
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4
UNCH WAS SERVED EARLY. As usual, the table was overloaded.
It s impossible to eat so much, Ma! I protested as she
Lhanded round the heaped plates.
There s a long road ahead, sonny. And one never knows when
we ll all be sitting down to a meal together again.
As it turned out, it was the last meal we ever had together on the
farm. (A month later, when Ma had to be fetched, I was in the mid-
dle of an important transaction and couldn t leave, so Elise had to go
to the farm to help Ma with the final arrangements and the packing
and to bring her home.) Inevitably, there was a sense of ritual about
it, although I deliberately tried not to weigh the atmosphere down with
references either to past or future. For the matter was concluded and
we owed it to ourselves to make as little fuss as possible over it.
But dishing up the dumplings (Ma always knew exactly what to
prepare for me) she said: If I knew a month ago what I know now,
it would have knocked me out on the spot.
In the final analysis it s for the good of the country, Ma, I tried
to mollify her. We must be prepared to make sacrifices.
You re fortunate, said Ma quietly, a malicious glint in her blue
eyes. You get other people to make your sacrifices for you.
Is that what you think?
The plates were removed; coffee was served.
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And when do you want me to pack up my caboodle? she asked.
I ll let you know. There s no great hurry. I tested the coffee
with my lips; it was scalding. But of course one can t postpone it
indefinitely either.
Louis pushed away his chair. I ll go and load the car while you
finish your coffee.
Ma and I remained at the table. Only banalities remained to be
said. But behind our banter and our irrelevancies lay the weight of
lives and generations, fear, bewilderment and silence. Everything we
would never be able to pack up and cart away.
When Louis returned from outside at last, loitering very obviously
on the doorstep, I also got up.
My goodness, said Ma. We haven t even said grace.
Ag, it doesn t matter.
From the bedroom I collected my few odds and ends. Wallet,
keys, the pistol. On an impulse I stopped in the passage and took the
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