Its funny how life turns on itself. I was about to find out just how much , as I sat oblivious to the future, sipping a coffee and waiting for the woman to arrive.
She had seen my interview on the morning show and wanted to chat with me about my new book. It sat proudly in front of me on the table and I slowly paged through it again as I had done a thousand times before. I had written a recipe book with a twist, “A brave glimpse into the collective sin of a nation†as one critic had put it. The book was written through the eyes of a child growing up during apartheid, on the white side of the fence. I was that child. And I am this woman, because of someone named Mavis, a maid to my mother, a mother to me.
My finger traced the dedication I had written for her on the front page and I wondered where she was or if she ever thought of me. My mind picked over memories of her, most of them wonderful, and skittered over those that weren’t.
I sat back, sipping my coffee, remembering the times her and I had spent in the kitchen together. Boy could that lady cook! I could almost smell the vetkoek, the koeksisters and the butternut soup with a twist, as she would chirp with a wink. Mavis had taught me an art, wrapped in flour and love. She had created magic in that awful eighties kitchen, with its chipped formica tops, linolium tiles lifting in places and heavily barred windows.
My childhood home was a Benoni special, right on the railway, two blocks down from the veld I wasn’t allowed to walk through. The house was typical government issue and sat on a small plot. It was surrounded by cement walls topped with the jagged edges of broken bottles. Cosmos grew in clumps in the garden and that was about the only attempt my mother made at making the place look pretty. It somehow just ended up looking sad though. Just like my mother. Sad and crumpled. She would try to pretty up when my father came home, spraying her hair into stiff peaks, slashing on her pink lipstick, and generally fluttering around like a bird with a broken wing. When my father was due home she would make sure that Mavis got down and scrubbed floors and cleaned windows and all that stuff. I always asked if I could help but my mother said that it wasn’t a good idea, that if I gave a finger, Mavis would want an arm. I never understood what she meant by that, but was too afraid to ask because it sounded rather painful. My mother was a vague figure in our house when my father wasn’t home, tucking into her gin and ciggies on the stoep most of the time. It was great because Mavis and I could cook and sing songs and generally have a good time without feeling guilty. But, then my father would arrive and the house would become dark. Mavis would become quietly efficient, almost invisible and my mother would suddenly become a bossy missus to her, would smother me with wet gin kisses and jump up and down like a jack in the box if my father so much as cleared his throat.
He was a huge man, with massive hands and quite a boep on him. He smelled of cigarettes and Brut aftershave and booze most of the time.
My father came home every couple of weeks. He worked as a policeman, in the townships, doing “township tours”. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like he enjoyed it. I overheard him telling my mother once that he had ridden over a ‘munt’ in his ‘Caspir’ in Alexandra township just for fun… that it was the eighties and that if we didn’t keep the ‘munts’ in their place, they would murder us all in our sleep!
I wondered who these ‘munts’ were that my father had to keep under control with his ‘Caspir’. All I did know was that if they were half as afraid of him as I was, they would know better than to behave badly or my father would give them such a klap, like he would to me and my mom when he was angry with us.
He needed to drink to get things that he had seen in the townships out of his head. That’s what he said to my mother after he had flat handed her across the face one day and then came back with some cosmos out of the garden to say sorry. I tried to stay out of my father’s way and with the help of Mavis I succeeded most of the time.
Then one day everything changed.
That day, I lay hidden beneath Mavis’ bed and counted her tokolosh bricks over and over. Mavis said that those bricks holding her bed high off the ground, were what kept her safe at night from the tokolosh.
My father was the tokolosh in my life. So I figured the best place to stay hidden when he came home, was under Mavis’ bed, in her warm little room at the end of the garden.
Her room was dark and smelled of paraffin and pap. My mother would delicately wrinkle her nose and clutch at her throat ever so slightly when she had to come anywhere near Mavis’ room. She made sure it wasn’t often. Most times she would just stick her head out of the kitchen door and yell “Maviiisss!”,and boy, if Mavis wasn’t at the kitchen door in a shot, you would see my mother clucking her tongue and muttering something like, “Bleddy ousies.”
My mother always had lots to say about the ‘Bleddy ousies’to her friends. Then they would also shake their heads and cluck back. I could never understand what this was about, so one day I asked Mavis what ‘Bleddy ousies’was . Oh how she laughed, tears running down her shiny black cheeks, bosom jiggling like no one’s business.
My mother was like a stick insect, all jerky and angles. She gave awkward hugs, you know, when they just don’t feel right. But now, Mavis, boy, could she hug! It was where I loved to be most on earth, folded in amongst Mavis’ huge boobs, smelling moth balls and zambuk and love. It was my safest place, followed closely by my hiding spot here, under her bed, counting bricks while my father tore the house apart. I felt as though I were in a dark bubble where no one could touch me.
I could hear my mother shrieking in the lounge and so I put my hands over my ears and started to sing the song Mavis had been teaching me that morning. We had been in the kitchen and I was writing down recipes for her because she couldn’t read or write. Can you imagine not being able to read or write? So I did my absolute best, dotting my i’s with hearts, poking my tongue this way and that with intense concentration.
Mavis’ cooking was the best and we’d put together quite a collection of recipes already. She said that one day she would give the recipes to her daughter, if she ever had children, but that the ‘missus’ kept her too busy here in Benoni at our house for her to get back to her homeland in Venda.
It was a shock for me to hear that Mavis had another family far away! I always thought she just lived here! Mavis told me that my father kept her passbook, so she was stuck here, but that she would one day make a plan. I just hoped that when she did make a plan, she would take me with her.When I asked her about this, she just shook her head and said white people couldn’t live in Venda. She had tears in her eyes and stroked my head softly. I could tell she was sad, and that made me feel sad too, though I wasn’t sure why. Anyway, I thought, Mavis would be with me forever, just as she had always been.
I carried on singing my song, but as loud as I sang, my mother and father were louder. I pulled my knees up against my chest and drew patterns on the dusty floor under the bed, counting bricks as fast as I could. This was the worst fight my parents had ever had. I squeezed my eyes tight, watching the splotches of colour against my eyelids. I listened to my breathing and felt my heart wanting to fly right out of my chest. Opening my eyes, I wished for Mavis’ feet to magically shuffle into my line of sight, but all I saw were little dust balls floating upward on my breath.
My mother was sobbing now and so I peeped out from under the bed to see what was happening. She was in a heap on the courtyard floor outside the kitchen door. Mavis was holding a lappie to my mother’s face, trying to stop blood from trickling onto her blouse.
My fathers’ large form darkened the kitchen door. Just as my mother tried to flatten herself further into the cement floor, so rose Mavis to her full height and planted herself firmly in front of my father. She crossed her arms over her bosom and said, “No more Baas.”.
His back hand snapped her head back and with one movement he had her on the ground, face down on the concrete. With one hand he pulled up her skirt and yanked his belt out of his pants with the other.
Spit flying from his mouth he shouted, “You don’t fucking tell me what to do with my family. You are a kaffir! A nothing!” All anger turned upon Mavis, my father brought the belt down hard on the back of her body. Then with his knees, he spread her legs apart, tearing at her pantyhose.
When he pulled his pants down, I closed my eyes. My mother always told me that it was very unladylike to see a mans naked parts. So I shut my eyes and sang my song, not noticing the muddy puddle that I had made when I let myself go in fright.
Eventually everything was quiet and eyes screwed tight, I sang myself to sleep under Mavis’ bed.
When my mother eventually found me and brought me into the house, life had changed forever. I could feel that the house was empty. My father was gone, but so was Mavis.
I asked my mother where she was and she told me that Mavis had been a bit ‘voor’ . She had interfered with family business and we just couldn’t have that in our house. A maid must know her place. So Mavis had been fired.
At this piece of information, given to me in ice cold chunks, I collapsed into gulping tears.
“Don’t be silly!” my mother said, “You are 10! Girls your age don’t cry like babies over a maid! There are plenty more looking for work so we will just get another one.”
I looked at my mother and realised that I had just somehow participated in evil. I just wasn’t sure how. Already what I thought I had seen was becoming strangely distorted. Reality seemed to melt into a nightmare.
That was the summer I grew – inwards mostly. From then on I kept the memory of Mavis close to me. My love of cooking grew from those memories because I felt closest to her in the kitchen, perfecting the recipes I had written down for her.
And so here I was, sitting at a restaurant, twenty years on, paging through the recipe book and waiting for my appointment, remembering the woman who had given love to me, when I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. My appointment had arrived.
I turned around to face a young woman, the image of Mavis, with the lovliest honey brown face and eyes as blue as my fathers.
Archives for 2015
That night
Always knew that I am a conqueror
I just never thought I could conquer many things as I did tonight
I was everybody’s hero
children were shocked while adults were occupied by anger and hostility
Nevertheless, as for me, it was the best night ever
A night of fulfillment’s and honor
That night I took all of my belongings and used them wisely
I did not mind spending and loosing
They called me the bad man while others called me superman
Everything I wore was scarlet and
All the memories I left behind was indelible
Believe me when I tell you about that night
cause I am the one who was in charge of everything
The world seemed to be on my side and
perfection is what I was living
That night I went to bed with a pure heart and smiles on my face
I slept like a new born baby with a mock in his mouth.
In the morning when I wake up, I expected to be tired
However, I was as smooth as a person who never did anything
Everything I had diminished like water in a form of vapor
Moreover, the world was ordinary as it always where.
What a wonderful dream!
Had i said no
Had i said no
would you let me go
and mourned my leaving
wanting me back – pleading
had i said no
would you at my door show
asking me to stay
love you would you say
had i said no
would i still fee low
or happy would i be
that you still wanted me
had i said no
i will never know
for i said yes
being your wife no less
Herne’s Song
Herne’s song
In broken light neath stars embrace,
Amid grass and stone see the old god’s face,
In hoary trunk of twisted tree, there is the one who is three.
Old in hand and heart and bone, voiceless whispers his final tone.
Once the green man of spring was he, singing, laughing running free.
Bud and blossom and then to fruit, at summers height and solstice night.
Oaken king he took the crown and brought the gift of Awen down.
Then winters king he took his turn, lean high hunter, mighty Herne.
Though his children call to him no more, still he sleeps in glade and forest floor.
An’ lo on night when moon shines bright, the horn it sounds and all hide from his sight
Forth the hunt to ride the sky, never fear only join or die.
Cauldron calls yet in olden hall, calling us come, ere the land at last must fall.
I am not an African
I am not an African
In fact I don’t like being an African
It’s so limiting
I am not an Indian
In fact i don’t like being an Indian
It’s so narrow
I am not even human
If being human means bekng limited
By definition
I am not my religion
it is so ancient
And sometimes not in a good way
I am not conjoined by race or creed
Not defined by race or greed
Of definition I have no need
I am not even myself
For that is selfish
In a fishy kind of way
I am not my consciousness
In an unconscious kind of way
I am not nothing
And I am not something
Not even everything
I am not a riddle
Or even an answer
and not a question
I am not my thoughts
Or what I am thought of
I am not this and certainly not that
Maybe
Maybe one day I will learn how to let it all out
Open my heart and pour forth the contents
Maybe one day I will learn how to let go
Of the one I love so much
Maybe one day I will learn how to say goodbye
To the bittersweet memories of you
Maybe, just maybe one day
An African sister.
You need not to apologize for your beauty
Your dark injected cultured skin
Rubbed on it, smells herbal oil,
Puffed with cocoa dust,
Darkened toned chocolate legs
Twisted in a cat walk.
Head held up high
Up where exquisiteness flags
Swing their tails.
Reflection of confidence in your eyes
Should be emitted on the
Grass land your heels
Beat beats on.
Defined as your
Waists attracts attention
As it swings your tail side to side,
Curled curvatures pronounced
And respect your embodiment deserves,
Should be printed on your forehead.
Retailing and serving your
Art sculpture to vultures
Forfeits dignity to infinity.
Let real men unroll carpets,
For you deserve not to lie in caskets
And let a penny drive you.
Let no adjectives switch lights off for you.
Let your emotions dance courage songs
In gardens of high esteem.
Let no corner whistles
Prescribe definitions for you
Let no external appearance
Deceive you.
Your voice should tune
Heritage songs to African ears,
Not to shout in modern streets
With a stoned body guys take out tongues for.
Your hands should restore the nation,
Not to slide in men’s pockets, grabbing
High quality hard-pronounced liquor,
Blocking bullets and wiping bitter tears.
An African sister.
You deserve better.
My liefie
Hartseer vul my lewe
Soos trane jou oe
My liefde ek’t jou verloor
Jou soet stem vul
my gedagtes met musiek
Ek vra vir nog net een vliek
Die golwe van die see
jou n afstand ver geneem
Nou is als so vreemd
Die blou kamer muur
jou oe se ewige staar
Is jy dan regtig klaar
n Kombers van stilte
vul die eens se gelag
My liefie jy’t belowe jy sou wag
Haunting
When i wake i see u
my heart starts paining
my eyes moist like dew
any ounce of joy waning
i met u once
yet you still haunt me
we only spoke once
that meeting destroyed me
for i dont forget you
i cant move forward
your’e no ghost thats true
but by you i’m haunted
if only you’d leave my thoughts
for there you dwell
another mothers daughters
for you make living hell
