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Authors: Zakes Mda

BOOK: Sometimes There Is a Void
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A memory that sticks out during this period is when Nelson Mandela picked us up in his car from Park Station in Johannesburg. We drove to Sophiatown because he wanted to see someone there. In front of us was an old car that looked as if it was going to fall apart any time. It was coughing along and releasing a cloud of black smoke from its exhaust pipe. Our nanny, Nontonje, broke out laughing. I joined in the laughter. So did the twins. Mandela turned to look at us at the back. His face was stern as he said:
Nihleka lemoto yalomntu, kodwa aninayo ne njalo nina
– You laugh at that man's car, yet you don't even have one like that.
That stopped our silly giggles immediately. I had not known that Mandela could be firm. The last time I had seen him was at KwaGcina when he had come for the Senoamali case. He was always smiling and wanting to know what I wanted to be when I grew up. ‘Doctor!' I said. He laughed, gave me sweets and said I was going to heal them all.
After that he left in his car with my father, and we didn't see my father for many days. Nontonje looked after us and did very strange
things to us. To me and the twins. Especially to me because the twins' bodies refused to cooperate.
When my mother was at work in Dulcie's Nek and the churning women were done for the day Nontonje took us to her room, which was separate from the main house. She told us she was going to teach us a beautiful game that we were going to enjoy very much. First she stripped the pants and underpants off Sonwabo, placed him on the bed and played with his penis. She jerked her hand in a very fast movement, but stopped when she failed to get the desired result. She did the same to Monwabisi. But fortunately for the twins their three-year-old penises stayed limp. Then it was my turn. It didn't take much effort on her part – moving her hand up and down in a fast motion – for my six-year-old penis to get an erection. She lay on her back on the bed and lifted her dress. She was not wearing any bloomers – girls wore bloomers those days, not panties. She placed me on top and guided my penis with her hand into her vagina. To this day I remember the burning sensation that made me jump up and run out of the room. I tried to pee but I could not. The burning sensation blocked me. I could see something red on the tip.
‘Let's try again,' said Nontonje. ‘You'll see, you'll enjoy it.'
We tried once more. Even though there was no longer an erection she tried to force it. Once more there was the burning sensation. Nontonje never gave up. She tried again on other occasions without success. Always the burning sensation.
I didn't tell my mother when she came back. For more than four decades I didn't tell anybody.
 
 
 
THE DRIVE TO STERKSPRUIT
on the dusty road takes us past Dulcie's Nek. I can see the clinic where my mother worked surrounded by gum trees near the road, and the house where Felicity lived. She was about my age, the first white person I ever befriended. Her mother was also a nurse at the clinic. I never saw her exchange visits with my mother, so I doubt if they ever became friends. But Felicity and I played together.
Her mother had this habit of interrupting our play by calling out from her doorstep every day at 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.: ‘Felicity, teatime!' Felicity would stop in the middle of any game we were playing, and without a word she would run to her home for the ritual of tea and biscuits. I wondered why my mother never called me for teatime, and why we only drank tea in the morning when we were having bread and peanut butter for breakfast. The only person who drank tea after every meal was my father.
‘Felicity, teatime!' the nasal voice echoes in the dust raised by my Mercedes and the minibus taxies that run to and from Sterkspruit. Another voice that echoes is that of Thandeka, the skinny girl who lived across the barbed wire fence from the clinic. She was my first crush, the girl I was playing house with when the barbed wire scarred my face.
I was marked for life chasing a girl.
I can hear her lonely voice singing while she basked in the sun on the red stoep:
Hamba wena juba lami, nguwe olithemba lami. Hamba wena juba lami, hamba juba lam. Kudala ngihlezi estupini, ngilalel'ingoma yakho, nezintsimbi ziyakhala, hamba juba lam
– Go my dove, you are my only hope, go my dove, go my dove. I have been sitting on the stoep, listening to your song, and the bells are ringing, go my dove.
The voice fades with the village behind us. I am wondering why there is no period in my life that I remember with utter joy – a time to which I would gladly return if at all there was such a possibility. I do remember some happy moments, yes, but there was always a gaping hole that could not be filled. Sometimes I am attacked by a profound pain, the cause or origin of which I cannot fathom. Sometimes there is a void.
I do not express these thoughts to Gugu.
ONCE WE SLEPT IN
a ghost hotel. We had gone to see the Bee People at Qoboshane and it was too late to drive back to Johannesburg. So we decided to cross the South African border to Lesotho at the Telle Bridge and drive on the dirt road that winds up and down among fields of withered corn, dry gullies, emaciated cattle grazing on scrappy patches of dry grass, and villages of dilapidated huts. This road soon joins a bitumen two-lane highway to the small town of Moyeni, the headquarters of Lesotho's southernmost district of Quthing.
It is a short distance of fifteen or so kilometres from eRestu, well
worth the hassle of going through the scrutiny of border police, and customs and immigration officials. We cross this border so many times that the officials on both sides know us by now and in some instances, depending on who is at the desk, no longer search our car for contraband and don't even ask us to show our passports. They all know my uncle Press because he crosses the border every day to buy groceries from wholesalers in Lesotho to stock his store; much nearer and cheaper than wholesalers in Sterkspruit.
‘Oh, you are
Ntate
Mda's visitors,' a policeman says and beckons us to cross the lifted boom barrier. Some have heard of our apiary and want to know how the bees are doing and when the next harvest of honey will be. On the Lesotho side there is always at least one official who was at one stage a student of mine, perhaps at one of the high schools I taught at over the years or at the National University of Lesotho where I was once a lecturer and the head of the English Department.
The hotel used to belong to a Lesotho minister of finance who died a few years ago from complications of morbid obesity. In its heyday it was patronised by local civil servants, businessmen and young professionals. Tourists frequented it because of its location on the crest of a mountain. Yes, this used to be a very busy place. But the first thing that struck us when we drove through the gate that day was the absence of cars in the parking lot. The rough-cast building in powder blue still looked beautiful as I remembered it in years gone by. But the whole place looked deserted, even though the reception door was open.
We stood at the front desk with our bags. There was no one there.
‘What next?' Gugu asked.
‘Maybe we should check ourselves in,' I said looking at the open register on the desk.
Just when we were about to walk out of the door a woman said,
‘Nka le thusa?'
Can I help you? She was standing behind the desk as if she had been there all along.
We checked in; she gave us a key and directions to our room.
The room was clean although it had a musty smell. I turned the television on; there was only snow. We slept with the lights on because Gugu is scared of the dark. But all of sudden there was a blackout,
accompanied by the whining sound of a lone mosquito. Gugu panicked. Darkness suffocates her. The lone whine was joined by a second, and a third, and soon the room was whining and buzzing with mosquitoes. I remembered seeing a stump of a candle on the dressing table and I lit it. We stumbled out of the room into the corridor. We knocked at the other doors but none of the rooms were occupied. We were the only guests. The candle flickered in a thin hot draught that came from nowhere. We called out but the only response we got was the echo of our own voices.
We staggered back to our room and opened the curtains, hoping that some feeble light from the stars would find its way in and relieve Gugu's phobia. We got into bed and the mosquitoes began to feast on us. They came through the vents from a swimming pool with dirty stagnant water that we could see through the window.
‘What happened to the receptionist?' Gugu asked.
‘Perhaps she was Vera the Ghost,' I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Perhaps we'll wake up in the morning only to find that we spent the night in a cemetery.'
We both grew up in Soweto at different times. Vera the Ghost is one of those stories that link our youth. I have since learnt that there are many Vera the Ghosts the world over – such as the ghost of a high school senior who burnt to death at Cottey College in Missouri. Our Vera was a beautiful girl who lived what our parents referred to as a reckless life. She was a ‘good time girl' – a party girl, that is – who was always seen in the various townships of Soweto riding in posh cars with different men. Then one day she was coming back from a shebeen in the current one-night-stand's car and there was a collision. She died on the spot. Since that night Vera the Ghost has haunted the streets of Soweto. Her modus operandi has never changed: a lone male motorist would stop in the middle of the night to give a ride to a gorgeous scantily dressed hitch-hiker. The girl would be so captivating and so open to adventure that in no time the age old question of your-place-or-mine would be answered by an open invitation to her house. Without much ado the couple would be in each other's arms in her plush bedroom. In the morning the man would wake up at Avalon Cemetery. No woman. No clothes. Not even shoes.
Gugu and I did not wake up in a cemetery, though. It was the same desolate hotel with its cold water in the bathroom and an empty reception desk. We loaded our bags in the car and fled, vowing never to return.
 
 
 
THAT IS WHY WE
are at the Hilltop Hotel in Sterkspruit tonight. Whenever we visit the Bee People we can only find accommodation in places that are a distance away from the apiary. It may be in the Lesotho town of Mafeteng where some of my relatives live – and that is ninety or so kilometres away – or in this one-street town, which is much closer but slightly out of our way to Johannesburg.
Sterkspruit is one stopover I always find evocative; on the streets of this town and its nearby township of Tienbank walk the ghosts of my past. I came to live here in 1962 after my father completed serving his articles, bought a house in this town and opened his law practice as an attorney. That brought about an end to my banishment in Qoboshane with my grandparents, and also brought back my mother and those of my siblings who lived in Johannesburg. For the first time we all lived under one roof as a family.
Even as I stand in front of the single-storey whitewashed hotel, which is on a hillock, looking down on the main road I can see myself as a spindly fourteen-year-old boy in khaki shorts and black canvas Cats shoes walking past Bhunga Hall and looking longingly at the posters for
Manana the Jazz Prophet
, a musical play by an unknown playwright, composer and choreographer called Gibson Kente. He was to become the doyen of black South African theatre in later years. The play had been produced at the famous Dorkay House in Johannesburg and was touring the whole of South Africa and neighbouring territories. For many months we read about it in such magazines as
Drum
,
Zonk
and
Bona
. We drooled over pictures of actresses dancing half-naked on the stage. We never imagined that one day such a wonderful musical would come to our little Sterkspruit.
But it did. And my father wouldn't let me go see it. He didn't see it either. Nor did my mother, although I suspect she would have loved to
attend since most of her colleagues from Empilisweni Hospital, where she worked as a nursing sister, went to see the show. But my father was always buried in his work and never took her anywhere.
I did, however, have a glimpse of the performance on a Friday afternoon on the veranda of Bhunga Hall. A six-piece band of saxophone, trumpet, guitars, and drums played the music and actors presented some scenes from the play as a way of enticing passers-by to attend the performance in the evening. The dancing girls shook their waists in a brisk routine to the howls and applause of street urchins, and then disappeared into the hall.
‘If you want to see the rest,' a man announced over a megaphone, ‘come to Bhunga Hall tonight. Eight o'clock sharp. Come one, come all!'
It was all too brief for us, but I regard
Manana the Jazz Prophet
as the first play that I ever saw, even though I only had a peek at it. I still do not have any idea what the story was about, but as I stood there staring at the posters of dancing girls plastered on the stone wall I created my own
Manana the Jazz Prophet
in my imagination.
The black elite of Sterkspruit went to the musical. I remember Uncle Owen all dressed up in black tie with a girlfriend on his arm. He had returned from Johannesburg to operate Ndzunga Restaurant and was one of the socialites of Sterkspruit, quite popular with nurses of Empilisweni Hospital, which lies on the outskirts of the town, and of Mlamli Hospital, only a few kilometres away. Mlamli, especially, had a nurses' home that was inhabited by some of the most beautiful trainee nurses from all over South Africa. On any day of the week there were cars parked outside the yard; men who had come to ‘check' their girlfriends and mistresses. It was not for nothing that the hospital and its nurses' quarters were referred to as ‘the fish pond'. Empilisweni, on the other hand, was not a training hospital and therefore did not have the rich pickings. The nursing sisters and their assistants were mature women with families. Most likely Uncle Owen's partner was from Mlamli.
After the show the socialites went to the Hilltop Hotel for drinks in the bar and the lounge. Of course at that time a boy of my age with strict parents would not witness these activities. He would be at home
tucked in bed. But Cousin Mlungisi, who was my age and lived four houses from my home, would be a secret spectator at some of them. His father, Mr Tindleni, was a director in the district education office, and was famous for having spawned many beautiful daughters. His mother was my father's distant cousin, hence she was my aunt and that's how Mlungisi got to be my cousin.
Either they were not too strict at his home or he was sneaky enough to be able to steal away at night and attend events that my mind associated only with adults. He was often caught sneaking into Bhunga Hall to watch the gentlemen of Sterkspruit – teachers, taxi drivers and policemen – and their ladies practise ballroom dancing on Saturday afternoons. The dance instructor finally got tired of shooing him away and let him watch, as long as he didn't invite other urchins into the hall.
‘We are not dancing for an audience here, you little twerp,' said the instructor, who was also a teacher at our Tapoleng Primary School.
Cousin Mlungisi was the one who came back with the report of how wonderful it was at Bhunga Hall where he had listened to the whole of
Manana the Jazz Prophet
through the window (he could not see the stage) and of how afterwards he followed the socialites to the Hilltop Hotel and saw Uncle Owen kiss his girlfriend in his blue Opel Kadett. He was close enough to observe that he had actually put his tongue in her mouth, a yucky practice Cousin Mlungisi referred to as a French kiss. He revealed to me that he himself had done it with some of his girlfriends.
I couldn't believe Cousin Mlungisi could sink that low. I knew that he was having sex already; I once caught him in a donga on the way from school on top of a girl and I averted my eyes and took a different direction. I never understood how he got the girls to agree to have sex with him. I was still a virgin, if you don't count my experience with Nontonje at KwaGcina, and such adventures with girls were the furthest thing from my mind. Secretly, I envied Cousin Mlungisi's pizzazz, which resulted in his popularity with girls, but putting your tongue in a girl's mouth was the most revolting thing imaginable.
I didn't know that only a few days later I would experience it.
 
 
 
COUSIN MLUNGISI AND I
were walking on the shoulder of the road from the town to our township of Tienbank. We were having a wonderful time infuriating white motorists with political slogans. It was before the road was tarred, but the gravel that was occasionally hurled at us by the speeding tyres did not deter us. We were too much involved in political action to be bothered even by the dust that left our heads looking like our khaki shorts. Whenever we saw a white motorist we raised our thumbs up and shouted,
Mayibuye iAfrika!
This was the slogan of the ANC – Let Africa come back! Sometimes I would add, ‘From Cape to Cairo'.
Most motorists ignored us and continued on their journey. But one day we saw a motorist who had zoomed past make a U-turn and drive back towards us. We didn't wait for the burly white man to stop but fled to the nearby eucalyptus and pine woods. The man parked the car on the roadside and got out with pompous deliberation. He didn't come after us though; he just stood there looking in our direction and then got back into his car.
I was relieved.
We could see the white man from our hiding place as he drove away.
‘Let's go back and provoke some more Boers,' said Cousin Mlungisi.
‘Oh, no,' I said. ‘I'm not going back there.'
When he laughed at me and called me a coward who would never be a freedom fighter I had to follow him back to the battlefield. Mercifully, before we got to the road we saw Kili walking back from town with a paper bag of groceries on her head. She was a tall and robust girl, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, who lived in a village beyond Tienbank.

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