Tandia (72 page)

With fifteen seconds to go in the eighth Mandoma positioned Geldenhuis with his back to the front row of black ringside seats, working him onto the ropes. Then he hit the helpless policeman with a straight left, knocking him backwards hard into the ropes so that his shoulders and arse opened up the top and middle rung. Gideon followed with a looping right hand which caught Geldenhuis on the left underside of his jaw, knocking him completely through the ropes. 'That's for me!' he hissed.

Then Gideon did something for which he would never be forgiven by the whites; he spat at the sprawling Geldenhuis. For a split second there was complete disbelief in the crowd, both black and white; then the roar rose on the black side of the rope. They'd witnessed the impossible; black had openly shown its contempt for white. The ants had defied the dung beetle.

The policeman landed backwards on his arse, skidding with the momentum and coming to rest at Tandia's feet in the front row. His head jerked violently and blood from his nose arched towards her in slow motion, splashing over the skirt of her white gown, like a Japanese brush-drawing of a sprig of cherry blossom. Though unconscious, his eyes were open and he appeared to be looking directly up at her.

Tandia screamed as a roaring panic filled her head. She didn't see Geldenhuis at her feet, instead her mind exploded into a vision of a pink room where she knelt naked, bent over the edge of a bed covered with pink satin. She fainted, slumping against Mama Tequila.

Both Captain Smit and Gert had witnessed Gideon Mandoma's head come back and move forward again in what was unmistakably a spitting action directed at the fallen Geldenhuis. Smit had to bring his mouth up to Gert's ear and shout to be heard above the roar of the black crowd. 'That fokken kaffir has "the power". Somebody is going to have to kill him or he's going to be big trouble!' Gert nodded, hearing but not attempting to reply.

The black crowd was on its feet, their fists raised.
'Amandlar Amandla!
Power! Power!' they chanted. The white police drew their revolvers and the black constables, trained in crowd control, suddenly appeared holding riot shields, which had been resting all the while at their feet. They raised their fighting sticks in readiness to charge.
'Amandla! Amandla!'
the black crowd chanted, oblivious to the danger they faced from the police. Some of the white crowd had risen, ready to move out in a hurry.

Gideon stood in a neutral corner as the referee commenced to count Geldenhuis out, finally crossing his arms and scissoring the air with his open palms to indicate that the fight was over.

It was the traditional moment in boxing when the winner leaps into the air and holds his hands high in victory as he circles the ring, and all hell breaks loose in the crowd. But Gideon Mandoma did no such thing. Instead he took three steps to the centre of the ring where he stood at rigid attention with his head bowed, as if in sorrow, his gloves brought together over his scrotum.

The effect on the black crowd was instantaneous. By some sort of osmosis his will imposed itself on the crowd and they grew silent almost in the time it took to catch a breath. Then the young Zulu chief's voice rang out clear and sharp, echoing through the giant stadium,
'ukuBekezela abakowethu!
Patience my brothers!'

The crisis was over. Moments later, the referee from Cuba raised Gideon's right hand and the ecstatic black crowd acknowledged him with waves and waves of roared approval, their aggression of a moment before turned to a fierce and benign love for the new leader who had been revealed to them.

General Van Breeden leaned over to Captain Smit on his left. 'Wragtig! Did you see that, hey? Tonight a new Dingane is born, you mark my words!'

Geldenhuis was back on his feet, his arms around the necks of two of his seconds who helped him back into the ring. This brought a spontaneous cheer from the white crowd as well as steady applause from the black. He moved jerkily towards Mandoma, his legs dearly unsteady; they started to give way again just as he reached the black boxer. Gideon grabbed him, preventing him from going down. Flashlights popped everywhere as the black man held the white in a macabre embrace.

After the Mandoma win, the preliminaries to the title bout were close to magical. The black crowd, buoyed by Gideon's brilliant victory, were in the mood for more. Jackson had come out first, carrying a huge American flag and followed by his entourage. This had caused terrific excitement and the crowd had been generous in their applause. Things American were popular in the African townships and, against any other white opponent, the American would undoubtedly have been the black favourite.

When Peekay, accompanied by Hymie, walked out onto the field from the entrance under the members' stand, the tension was almost unbearable. The huge black crowd, unwilling to wait for the opening wail of the great Gwigwi's clarinet to lead them, broke into spontaneous song. Seventeen thousand voices lifted in harmonious greeting as the Chant to the Tadpole Angel rose like thunder into the evening air.

It was spine-chilling stuff and many of the whites would later swear they'd felt the hair standing up on the back of their necks. The Chant continued until Peekay climbed into the ring and sat on the pot in his corner.

'Christ, Peekay, stop bawling,' Hymie said into the sudden silence as the voices rose one last time and" then suddenly cut dead. It was obvious that he too was enormously moved.

Almost immediately the obese figure of Jam Jar rose up on the white side of the ringside audience. The opening strains of his violin carried over the loudspeakers and twenty-eight Odd Bodleians, led by the small, neat figure of Aunt Tom, stood over half-a-dozen microphones as they commenced to sing the
Concerto for the Great Southland.

The beautiful voices of the Oxford men rose in chorus and almost immediately the blacks came in. First the Xhosa; the concerto rising higher and higher under the huge stadium seemed to expand with the sound. The same was true of the Sotho, Ndebele and Swazi as they picked up the theme and the audience went with it. Finally, when the great chorus of the Zulus came, the huge stadium filled with the fulminous sound as five thousand Zulu men rose to stamp their feet as they took the great tribal song into their chests and wound it upwards into the heavens itself. The thunder rolled over the stadium and surrounded the people, lifted them up, rose high and crashed down on them as the impi of Shaka and Dingane swept down from the hills like wind in the grass.

For one moment, all of South Africa stood together united in the storm of love, both black and white drenched until no colour or creed or worthwhile difference existed. All, for a few moments, felt
the possibility,
the possibility of one land and one purpose and the perfect harmony of one people.

General Van Breeden, seated beside Captain Smit, wept openly; and directly opposite them, on the black side of the rope, Mama Tequila, Madam Flame Flo and Tandia did the same. The bitter, sad land paused from the hating and reached up and touched the face of God who, for a few moments, stayed His vengeance and stilled His wrath.

When the opening chords of the Star-Spangled Banner played for Jackson and immediately after it,
Die Stem
for Peekay, they came almost as a relief to an emotion which, if it had been allowed to endure, would have burst the hearts of the huge crowd. Peekay seemed to be in a daze, even when the Mexican referee called the stats for both fighters and brought the fighters together into the centre of the ring, where Jackson, taking advantage of the ref's poor English, spat out, 'I'm gonna whup your ass, whitey'. Peekay appeared not to hear him as he returned to his corner. With a huge roar from the crowd the bell sounded for the opening round and Peekay moved almost casually to meet a fiercely advancing Jackson.

Jackson came at him hard and Peekay prepared to snap his concentration into focus. There was a diamond-hard pin of light that seemed to move around his head as though spotlighting the next move, reading his opponent's mind. But this time all he could hear was his mother's voice, 'I am not mocked, saith the Lord'. Jackson hit him hard with a straight left, surprised that he'd made it through his opponent's defences so easily. He followed with a lightning right which connected high on Peekay's head but which nevertheless knocked him backwards. Peekay didn't seem able to focus; he was boxing blind, not reading Jackson. It was like lifting your hand and finding your fingers don't work any more. He moved frantically on the back foot, trying to stay out of trouble, his mind a blank, instinct alone defending him. The end of the round came and Jackson was clearly on top.

'What the hell's the matter?' Hymie shouted.

'I don't know, I'm not seeing it, it's not flowing.'

'For Christ's sake, Peekay, you know it backwards, every rhythm, every combination, they're pre-programmed in your head, they have to happen!'

'Stay on the back foot son, stay outta trouble till it starts to come,' Dutch said calmly, but he was worried. He'd never seen Peekay like this.

The next two rounds were the same. Jackson was clearly starting to move in on Peekay, getting through his defences. Peekay's timing was way out and it was all he could do to stay out of trouble.

In the fourth round the voice in his head started again. First it was Mrs Schoemann's voice speaking in tongues, the weird cacophony of words that made no sense. Jackson was beginning to hit him almost at will; it was only Peekay's instinctive skill that was minimizing the effect of the punches. He saw the right hand coming but there was nothing he could do about it; it landed on the point of his jaw and he went down, the voices reaching a crescendo. He lay there, the voices going faster and faster in his head like a tape recorder speeded up. At eight, the number was the only thing he could make out in the gabble of sound in his head. He stood. Somehow he managed to get through the round.

Hymie was shaking him. 'Peekay! What's the matter, what's happened?' Peekay didn't answer. 'Christ, he's out on his feet we better throw in the towel,' he heard Dutch say, 'The lad's going to get hurt bad.'

'No!' was all Peekay could manage. His head seemed to be clearing; the bell went and he went out to meet a Jackson who now wore a tight grin on his face.

The American stalked Peekay and put him down in the fifth round. The voices were back, this time his mother's.
The devil is black and has a tongue of fire and leaps to destroy the children of the lamb. His number is seven and with his hands he will destroy you, tearing at the flesh of our flesh and the bones of our bones.
Jackson was going to take him in the seventh. When was that? The next round. Peekay danced, trying to stay out of trouble. Jackson's glove kept coming. Like a steam shovel, like a piston, bang, bang, bang, but it wouldn't be until seven.
The Lord is not mocked…With his right hand he will smite our firstborn and with his left also. His colour is black and his tongue is the fire of hate and he will triumph over the flesh of our flesh and he will vanquish him.
Jackson hit Peekay with a right, an insult; he hit him leading with a right and then followed with a left upper-cut, and as Peekay hit the floor the bell went for the end of the round. Hymie and Togger rushed to bring him back to his corner, but by the time they reached the corner Peekay's legs were beginning to return to him. He hadn't laid a decent punch on Jackson for three rounds, the fight was a fiasco. Dutch held the smelling salts under his nose and Peekay came to, shaking his head violently. There was a stillness in the crowd that was awesome; they were seeing their man demolished, destroyed by the furious black American.

Tandia couldn't watch any more and had her head buried in Mama Tequila's huge breasts. Peekay was Gideon's friend, Gideon idolized him and she was seeing the black American do to him what in her imagination she had seen Geldenhuis do to Gideon. Madam Flame Flo was shaking her head. 'He was so marvellous, that first time in Sophiatown, he was so marvellous!' There were tears in her eyes.

Now Peekay waited for the bell to go for the seventh.

Dutch had worked hard to close a small cut above his eye. 'Son, what's on your mind? We're fighting for a world title! Wake up, you're taking a hiding, you have to lift your work rate! Watch his left, it's setting you up too often for a straight right; use your feet, don't let him set you up!' He was trying to stay calm and not show the edge of panic in his voice.

Peekay spat into the bucket Togger held out to him and handed the water bottle back to him. He was still breathing hard as he looked up at Hymie. His face, which so few boxers had ever managed to hit, was a mess, the flesh puffy and raw with the eye Dutch had worked on starting to close. 'I can't see it, I can't see the fight in my head, Hymie. I'm blacked out, just voices, my mother's voice, it's as though a light in my head has gone out.'

The bell sounded and Peekay rose to see the bull-like Jackson coming at him, his shoulder muscles polished with sweat, hunched to get the most power from the punches he was beginning to throw almost at will. The negro's face was virtually untouched and there was kill in his eyes, like a predator certain he has his quarry cornered.

Peekay managed to parry his left lead and move out of the way of the right which followed. He spent most of the round on the back foot trying to slip Jackson's punches and when the black boxer grew frustrated and attempted to move him onto the ropes he tied him up. Nevertheless the American managed to hurt him with two beautiful punches under the heart. Somehow, though both punches were capable of putting him down, Peekay stayed on his feet. But the voice was back.
'I am not mocked! His colour is black and his tongue is fire…flesh of our flesh…with his right hand he will smile…he will be utterly destroyed, utterly destroyed!'

The lad is finished, Hymie, he could take a terrible hiding, you
must
use the towel!'

'No, Dutch! No way! We're not stopping the fight, not unless he says so!' Hymie had never seen Peekay like this, he'd never before witnessed him humiliated in the ring, a feeling which he knew would be infinitely worse for Peekay than the physical damage he'd endured in the first fight with Jackson. The black boxer was making a fool of him and Hymie wanted to scream at him to stop, to take the title and go away and never come back again. He felt devastated, as though he found himself caught in a nightmare from which he couldn't wake and seemed helpless to control.

'He's fightin' like a zombie, Hymie,' Solly Goldman hissed. 'It's gotta stop, son!'

Hymie looked at Togger, who had no say in the matter anyway. 'Don't, Hymie, please don't!' The little fighter's blind trust in Peekay was still miraculously intact. 'He'll come out of it, just give him a chance!' Togger was crying.

'Peekay decides!' Hymie shouted again; it was as though by repeating his denial he could shout down an inner voice which urged him to throw in the towel. 'That is, if he makes it through this round!'

The bell went for the end of the round. Peekay dragged himself back and slumped wearily into his corner. Dutch massaged his shoulders as Togger handed him the water bottle. It was pointless offering Peekay advice, he was finished. He only hoped Jackson wasn't going to toy with him, make him eat crow. 'Easy now lad, Hymie wants to talk to you,' he said, knowing that he and Peekay had come to the end of the road, that Peekay would never fight again. Hymie scowled, hating Dutch Holland. 'Peekay, how are you? What do you reckon?'

Peekay, spitting the water he'd taken from Togger into the bucket, shook his head. 'I can't…get my mother's voice…out of my head…she…she said things…bad things about this fight.' His chest was heaving and the words came out between gasps like a small boy who's been running away from a bully and finds the safety of a grownup he knows.

Suddenly a black arm pushed Togger's bucket aside and Mandoma looked into Peekay's face. The Zulu's eyes blazed and he was shaking as he started to talk, spitting venom in Zulu. 'You white bastard! I shit in your mouth. You want to take it from me! You want to stop me from being
the one!
If
you
lose this fight, I lose my chance!' He grabbed Peekay by the throat. 'You coward, you are not
uMamba,
the great snake, you are a worm who feeds on dead flesh! I spit on your shadows!'

Togger and Dutch grabbed at Gideon and pulled the black fighter away. Peekay hadn't moved. Even when Mandoma grabbed at his throat his eyes remained fixed, as though he was in a trance. As if triggered by the word
'uMamba'
the giant black snake rose up in his vision, the flat wedgeshaped head so close he. expected its darting, flicking tongue to touch the bridge of his nose, the tiny, flat, remorseless eyes looking into his own. The sudden highpitched cackle in Peekay's head was the voice of Inkosi-Inkosikazi.
The head, bring the head down slowly to the ground, release your left hand, you must take away his eyes, the poison is all in your right hand.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the snake's head dipped below Peekay's line of sight. There was a sudden rush of wind through the leaves of the giant yellowwood tree above the forest canopy and then the bell for the eighth round sounded. Peekay rose. He could see Jackson coming towards him, he could see the hate in his eyes. The light in Peekay's head went on and the shape of the fight yet to come was clearly etched in his mind. He could handle the hate. The fear had gone as he moved towards his dancing opponent, who was wearing a huge malicious smile.

Jackson held the smile, dancing round Peekay, waiting to plant a combination that would put him down. He'd lost all respect for him but for one thing. Peekay should have stayed down long ago, he was a tough sonofabitch. And then Peekay's beautifully timed left hand came out like a jab of lightning, smashing through the smile on Jackson's face and sending his mouthguard flying, breaking three teeth. Peekay was back in the fight.