Thula

Two Prayers….
Please God.
Let me remember this. Always, let me remember this. Even back in reality. Please. Let this midday rock melt into me, let my skin absorb the sweet naturalness of this water running over my fingers. Let the earthy scent always remind me of this one moment where I can lie half naked in my utopia – no fences, no threats, no distractions. This perfect chance to feel greater than it all – to feel an infinite part of this ancient and everlasting heart-land of the world.
Please God
Kealeboga, kealeboga Modimo
Thank You, Thank You God
(…for this song)
Kealeboga, ka dinaledi
Thank You, for the stars in the sky
(Music is your gift to me…)
Kealeboga, ka le tsatsi
Thank You, for the morning sun
(…it is how we talk…)
Kealeboga, ka djotse redijany
Thank You, for the food we eat
(…maybe it’s because we don’t
speak the same language?)

Kealeboga, go re fa Bophelo
Thank You, for giving us life
(Is it wrong to think that?)
Kealeboga, Kealeboga
Thank You, Thank You
(I know You understand me, but…)
Kealeboga Modimo
Thank You Lord
(….sometimes I don’t understand
what you say)

AMEN











Marieke
The red ink seeped into the fibres of the page. Marieke watched it, transfixed as it spread to form a malignant puddle around the tip of her pen. She gazed until a cloud shifted and the bright light hurt her eyes. She impulsively closed the book and flicked on her sunglasses, staring out across the water.
She didn’t want to study medicine. She didn’t want to join her father’s practice. In fact, she didn’t understand why she should go to university at all. She wanted to be an artist. Since she was little, she had always had a fixation with colour.

You can’t be an artist.
You always told me not to listen to people who said that.
Art is just a hobby. Everyone needs a hobby
But it’s always been my dream.
Artists don’t make enough money.
They do if they’re good.
I’ve seen plenty of great artists. Every day, at every intersection, tapping on my window and begging me to buy their art – wire toy cars, wooden giraffes, beaded key rings. And them, all in dirty bits of clothing. No, you’ll be at Wits University next year – first year medicine. If you like, you can take Art History as an extra elective.
I know enough about Art History!
Then don’t take it. Easy.
Last word. Case Closed

Thembi
“Thula wena. Be quiet.” Thembi hushed the infant as it screamed, fists clenched, on the grass. “Shh. Listen, Klupi. How many sounds can you hear? No, Klupi, you can’t listen if you’re crying, can you? Up in the mountains. Listen.”
The boy sniffed, cheeks still wet but eyes wide and serious with sudden curiosity. His aunt smiled.
“Baboons!” he exclaimed.
“That’s right. What else can you hear? Count them quietly and you can tell me when I’ve finished.”
Thembi turned away reluctantly and picked up her bucket. With the absence of Klupi’s screams and the assignment of her task, the more subtle sounds of the land seemed magnified. Still, it was reassuring to hear the boy’s little murmurs of concentration.
“One.” The water gurgling over the rocks.
“Two.” A dragonfly rocketing past.
“Three….”
Thembi hated silence. She panicked if she forgot to listen to the sounds around her in the absence of voices. Silence was all she could remember the day she saw her sister lying still and withered in the hut. The day she returned from Johannesburg having succumbed to the ease of being exploited in such a scary, complex world. The silence of that day made the funeral a relief: family, friends, Klupi all howling – long, agonised, body-shaking sobs. But Thembi didn’t cry then. She stood, digging her feet into the dusty earth that pricked her skin with dagger-stones, numb to all but sound.
One – Mama gasping.
Two – The quivering bass and tenor tones of the coffin-bearers singing themselves to
solace.
Three – A bird soothing “Toe maar, my dogtertjie” – “don’t worry my little
daughter.”

Since Marieke could remember, there has always been the farm. She knew there was never any water as sweet and earthy as that in the little stream in the gorge; she knew that if you went up to the mountains you could find silky green “elephant’s feet” and layers of dry veld; she knew that the smell of smoke from the slahan meant boerwoers and roasted marshmallows; she knew that at Christmas and Easter there would be a party for the squatters up the hill and they would march down to the farmhouse singing so that their voices seemed to be part of the land itself. Marieke knew that she envied them for their ancient culture that let them understand her farm more than she could ever hope to.
Marieke had vague recollections of when she was eight, watching a handsome man smiling and waving on T.V. whilst she decorated a cake with smarties in the colours of a new flag. Later she would learn that the man was Nelson Mandela and the country was celebrating the end of Apartheid.
Sometimes her education would subsidise her ignorance about Apartheid, and something like shame would keep her silent whilst her classmates proudly told stories about their parents’ own resistance to the regime. In those years, Marieke’s father chose to focus on his business instead. She was angry at him for not being a hero and decided to nurture a social conscience – just enough to feel guilty about the world. It was hard to maintain in Johannesburg – all the rich people were too preoccupied with building prisons for themselves to live in: higher and higher walls, electric fences, electric gates, closed-off streets and security guards. All the poor people were desperately trying to feed themselves any way they could. The more desperate they became, the higher the walls went, the more people lived in fear. And no-one had the moral high ground. It was too complex for Marieke and she welcomed the farm with relief. In a mercilessly changing world, this was her constant.
She liked painting pictures of places around the farm. She would paint the same things years apart and would delightfully find that the only changes were that the dam was higher, the veld was thicker and the old thorn tree’s branches stretched wider.
And now, no longer sweet sixteen, Marieke needed the farm more than ever. It seemed that, deemed too old for the fairytale, the reality of life was forced upon her by the very people who had encouraged her quaint dreams. Marieke had spent her whole life trying to be grown up only to find that the dream was suffocating. She still viciously splashed paint around her farm, but her works were washed in darker hues and the lines were slashed with cynicism.
“The New South Africa”; “The Rainbow Nation”. What did it mean? People could throw around the catchphrase du jour as much as they liked, but the country was still the same. Bloody hypocrites who spoke so optimistically whilst shutting themselves away in their asylums of fear, wading in the oblivion of swimming pools and cable T.V. and averting their eyes from the two-year-old child who tapped on the car window for some money. Marieke caught the child’s gaze and the tapping never stopped.


Ten little Ndebele huts in a circle. Bright blue, red, yellow, white. Pale orange of the fire casting smoky shadows on the walls – colours still present in the night.
Dark bodies sit in silence, dipping boerwoers in warm-smelling, starchy white and eating from shallow bowls, eyes transfixed by the delicate movement of the flames.
Everything else is still.
Somebody picks up a metal rod, shifting a burning log to sever the tension.
The others stir uneasily – caught thinking of a taboo.
The log-mover speaks in a low grumble and everything seizes up again. Another figure turns away from the fire. One moment of tension, and then it is broken again by the soft clunk of a clay bowl reaching the ground.
“So we will sit in silence for the rest of our lives?” the log-mover rumbles softly.
A pause.
“No,” a weak voice answers.
The log-mover straightens and puts down his rod. “Then let us talk of what is plaguing all our minds.”
A longer pause.
“Sophia is dead.” He continues.
The group flinches.
“Sipho! Why must we speak of this now?” the weak voice pleads.
Sipho’s voice rises, as if to block out the sound of resistance.
“A twenty-four year old does not die for no reason. She did not die in an accident and she was not murdered. To say so is to sink to the level of Apartheid policemen. We must acknowledge the real reason of her death.”
“Why, Sipho? It will only be shameful for us and her memory.”
“Do you want little Klupi to die as well?”
Sipho looked at the silhouettes around him and leaned closer to the fire.
He sighed. “You know it is likely that he is carrying the disease also.”
“And if he is? What will we do about it?”
“There is treatment available in the city.”
“Which we cannot afford! If we say what Sophia really died from, we will lose our dignity and Klupi. I would prefer to keep one of them.”
“And your dignity is worth more than your grandson?”
“No Sipho! You know how much I love that child. But… how? How can we pay to go to Johannesburg? And treatment? Too expensive, Sipho.”
The fire glinted and crackled.
“We could ask the Missus.”
“For money? No, Sipho. Remember that we are living off her kindness – this is not our land. If we told her about Sophia she could kick us out of our homes. Nobody wants the disease living on their property.”
“Three of my cousins in Alexandra are sick with it. And my sister’s baby is dead, Palesa. We have no time to be afraid or ashamed. We could ask the Missus – she is not a hard woman. She paid for Thembi to go to Johannesburg, remember?”
A small figure shrank back.
“And you see all the good that did. No, Sipho. She is a wise woman – she will not make the same mistake twice.”
“Take him to be tested, at least. Ask the Missus for money.”
The scene settled back into uncomfortable silence.
“I’m sorry, mama,” Thembi whispered.
The woman smiled. “Thula, child.”


Marieke stopped and wiped the sweat from her face. It was a surprise to find herself here. The tombstone was nothing more than a large rock, almost unmarked, the churned ground before it starkly disturbed against the immaculately scattered grass and the thorn tree that stole the scene.
She had heard that a young squatter from up the hill had died. It didn’t seem right that she (whoever she was) should lie here in this disguised resting place to be slowly forgotten and swallowed by time. She felt sorry for the girl who lay there – even in death, change destroyed her.
Marieke stood in silent respect, and slowly, awkwardly opened her book to the first page – a rough sketch of the Ndebele huts from years ago. Swiftly she ripped out the paper and placed it on the rough earth beneath a loose stone. Then she turned, heart beating, and ran out of sight.



* * * * *
“How was your walk?”
“Alright. What’s for lunch?”
“I’m making a potato salad and there’s some boerwoers from last night that we can have on rolls.”
“Mom?”
“Hmmm?”
“What do you know about the squatters up the hill?”
”Well, they’ve been here for year. Since before your grandparents handed the farm over to me.”
“Do you know them?”
“Most of them. You used to play with one girl, Thembi. She was around your age. Do you remember?”
“No. What about the girl who died?”
“Ah. Yes, Sophia. I knew her. She was Thembi’s sister.”
“What else?”
“About Sophia? She had a little boy. You know the one. He comes down with Palesa and plays here.”
“Oh, ja. In the tractor. Was she married?”
“No. I don’t know where the father went.”
“He just left? Without leaving any support?”
“I suppose. It’s tradition in some African cultures that the couple has a child before they get married; just to make sure everything’s working properly.”
“How mercenary. How did she die?”
“Hmm. I don’t know exactly, Marieke. They didn’t tell me and it’s not our place to ask.”
“But they’re practically living off us! They’re living on our land. So shouldn’t we know?”
“Ha! Now who’s being mercenary, girlie? I’ll tell you what I think. It’s purely speculation, though, so don’t go making judgements, alright?”
“Ja, OK. What is it?”
“Things were very mysterious before she died. She looked very ill, but Palesa kept insisting that nothing was wrong. Every time we came here Sophia looked like she was fading away. Deteriorating fast. I used to take them hot meals at night – they were all very stressed out, especially with Thembi in Johannesburg. Anyway, I saw Sophia a lot; the symptoms were very suggestive…”
“Of what? Do you think she had AIDS?”
“Yes, possibly. But, as I said, I don’t know that for sure. And I don’t want you treating any of them differently. There are a lot of misconceptions about HIV.”
“I know, mom. Do you think any of the others have it?”
“I don’t know, Marieke. It’s none of my business, or yours for that matter.”
“I suppose dad wouldn’t dream of checking it out. He wouldn’t think too much of any of them.”
“Come now, Marieke. Your father’s not such a monster. We’re here to help if they ask. Otherwise, it’s unfair to impose on their lives based on an inkling.”





Thula thu’thula baba thula mntwana Hush hush hush little boy hush my child
Thul’ umam’ uzofika ekuseni Be quiet, mother will arrive in the morning

Kukh’ inkanyezi eholel’ umama There’s a light drawing mother
Imkhanyisela indlel’ eziy’ ekhaya Lighting up the way home for her

Thembi walked through the long veld. Klupi was already asleep on her back, but she kept singing the lullaby.

Thula thula thula mntwana Hush hush hush my child
Thula thula thul’ uyeza Hush hush hush, she is coming

Today was warm. The sun shone hot on the large rocks near where Sophia rested. Musical rocks, Thembi used to call them. If you hit them in the right place, each one had a different pitch. She used to sit for hours trying to produce the desired sounds whilst Sophia laughed and collected grass to make mats with. Thembi smiled. She would teach Klupi about the musical rocks after his next birthday. Her mood faltered momentarily. The conversation around the fire had disturbed her. If Klupi was sick, then she wanted to know. Sipho had been right – the boy needed to be tested. Then, at last, they could all relax. He wouldn’t be sick, of course. Someone in Johannesburg had told her that males didn’t get the disease as much as women did. They didn’t really have anything to worry about, but if they did, Thembi wanted to know.
The thorn tree marking Sophia’s resting place sprawled over the path. The shade was refreshing.
Thembi paused and gently lowered the boy onto the grass. He opened his eyes and then curled up again silently. His aunt smiled. Good. He would let her have her time with Sophia. She made her way over to the grave. The shock of first learning that her sister was dying had never really worn off. Sophia had wanted to protect them from the disease – the humiliation, the reputation – until it was too late. And although sisterly love would bind them forever, Thembi felt betrayed that Sophia hadn’t waited for her to come back. It was time to forgive. She knew that her sister was around – she wondered if her spirit was travelling in the breeze or watching from the thorn tree or rustling in the veld. Her mother had always taught her that the spirits of their ancestors never left them completely alone – they were part of the land now. This idea had seemed foolish in Johannesburg where there was only the flippant black and white of heaven and hell. But Thembi believed it and she was confident that her sister was now part of the land too. She sat down beside the grave and squinted into the sun.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I miss you.” The heat embraced her tighter. Sophia would want Klupi to be tested. She would want him to be alive at any cost. Even if Thembi asked the Missus for money herself. That’s what she would do. It was the best thing for the boy. For them all.
“Auntie!” he was awake.
Thembi stood up. “I’m just over here, Klupi.”
“I want to go home.”
“OK Klupi.”
He had woken up badly, hungry and surprised to find himself alone. Thembi inhaled. Silently she promised her sister another visit. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. With a sigh she turned to leave.
“Auntie!”
“OK Klupi.” She stopped. She had just stepped on something. The bright white of it stung her eyes. Paper. Who would leave paper here? She bent down to inspect it. It was folded, under a rock – deliberate.
“Auntie!”
“Thula, Klupi!” Slowly Thembi picked it up, glancing around for permission before unfolding it.

She sat in despondent silence, watching the rain trickle down the window beside her. Her father rearranged his newspaper and smugly sank further into his chair. She hated him. The way his chest heaved sickeningly as if there was a heart underneath, the way his clinical hands gripped the newspaper, the way his dead eyes scanned the words. She stared, willing the murderer he was reading about to rip through the page and strangle him.
She caught her mother’s sad eye – the mediator – and looked away, ashamed. The mediator stood up.
“I’m getting some water,” she said meekly. “Does anyone want anything from the kitchen?”
“There’s some wine in the fridge. I think we should crack it open before we leave tomorrow.” He glanced at Marieke and spoke to his wife. “Bring three glasses.”

The girl dug her nails into her palms with a sudden surge of defiant anger. The wine wasn’t a peace offering. It was her father’s way of telling her that he had won. She was going back to his world, still a prisoner of his dreams, sentenced to eternal mediocrity. It was proof that he would now treat her as an adult because she would live like him. He was stronger and she must therefore submit. Well, she wouldn’t. She would stay on the farm, paint her skin black, live in those Ndebele huts and paint. And if she failed? So what! Her failure would be on his plate. That would really piss him off. The squatters didn’t know how lucky they were. They really cared about each other. You could tell by the way they sang – everyone with a different harmony, and yet it all fit together perfectly. Maybe they could teach her to sing and then she’d be part of that part of the land.

The mediator returned and handed a glass to each of them. Marieke received it without enthusiasm. Her father rose and lifted his wine up.
“Cheers!” he smiled. The rain was banging behind him, suicide against the window pane.
Their glasses clinked together as the lights went out.


He lay still in Thembi’s arms. Innocent dreams accompanied by the slow heaving of his little chest. She could see his ribs. Was he so thin? Why hadn’t she noticed before?
The rain was getting in. Thembi shivered. Maybe the boy was cold. She should close the door. He always wanted it left open at night to see the stars and fall asleep without pitch darkness. No danger of that tonight with the storm. Thembi had told him she would stay with him until he fell asleep.
He had seemed confused, “Why?”
“The storm might frighten you.” She kissed his forehead. “It’s a noisy one tonight.”
Her voice was low and jagged against the predictable drumming on the roof and Klupi rolled over, scared to see his auntie cry. He felt her shaking arms around him and was asleep.

Tonight Thembi was afraid. With every unexpected burst of light or crack of thunder, she flinched. When she missed one of Klupi’s breaths she seized – waiting, listening for a sign of life from the limp body. She could hear nothing above her own heartbeat.

He had returned from Johannesburg this afternoon, showing off the rickety toy car a cousin had made out of wire and old cans. He was eager to talk about the trip; his grandmother was silent, grey, desperate.
“Come, play! Klupi wrapped his tiny fingers around his auntie’s. She looked at her mother and held the boy tight.
“Not now, Klupi.” She didn’t let him go. Her eyes were still locked on her mother, willing the woman to laugh, rosy cheeked, and say, “Thembi, child. Why were you worried?” And Klupi would beg to go and see the new calf and ask when he would go to school because he wanted to be grown up and drive the tractor like Uncle Sipho. And everyone would laugh and have no doubt that he would outlive them all.

But Thembi’s mother had stood, rigid and shaking her head. Thembi let her nephew go. She wished the noise in her head would go away. Maybe if she dug her toes deeper into the sharp stones it would help. Something had just happened. Something important. She couldn’t think with all the noise. Klupi was too young. It couldn’t be him. Her mother had shaken her head. Had she? It was hard to tell. The movement had been so slight. Klupi must not die. He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He was going to drive a tractor when he was older. The noise was spreading. Mama looked ill. Long trip – she needed some water. The noise tingled, icy vibrations all over her hot pain. Water. For mama. Something to eat for Klupi. The noise reached her throat. She needed something. Someone. It was strangling her. She needed arms around her. Lips on her tears. Whispers of “thula”. She couldn’t breathe.
Klupi! She tried to cry out. No words would come, only a hacking sob that left her shaking on the ground.

A tear broke the sky. Thembi jumped. The tears flowed steadily down her neck now. Silently, the earth was crying with her.


It was freedom. The rain’s violent kisses on her upturned face, the damp earthiness filling each breath. Nothing else. She belonged.
It was still dark inside and the wine lay forgotten in the frantic search for electricity.
Marieke had found her own. Each bolt shone like daylight, suspended for a second and then melting back into the rain. The perfect painting: dramatic, mysterious and full of angst.
The drops were so cold on her arms, no, refreshing. It was nice not uncomfortable.
Just for tonight, the land loved her. And she was happy, she belonged.

One… the rain hitting the bucket outside, faster and faster
Two… the shout of light every thirty seconds
Three… branches scraping against the roof.
Four…
Why did you do this to us, Sophia?
Why couldn’t you tell us? We could have helped.
Four… slow drips down the walls
Five…
Why did you leave us with this? We have to fix it now. I don’t know how to.
Five! Five… a sudden crescendo of wind, water and light.
How do I lose someone again?! You must help me! Because you left me like this.
Six… Heavy beats and shallow breaths
Seven…
She would have to go back to Johannesburg now. Try to find more work so that Klupi would live. A little longer.
When would it be? Would it be the same? When she came back would she see his little body in the hut? There would be silence again.
The sky rumbled. Change of pace. Drops crashed on the roof more urgently. It was their solo – everything else faded away.
The noise in her head was still there. Something lurching in her stomach, in her throat, crying out to her ears for help.
Why was there no one to help?

Thembi reached into her pocket. There it was. He picture of her life that she had found where Sophia was buried. It was strange seeing her home through the eyes of someone unknown. Her dark fingers hesitated to trace the familiar scene. The paper was creased with the effort of colouring. She had never seen her life so bright, bold, welcoming. It seemed so stable and certain. Thembi sneered. What would the artist see now?
The world lit up with a crash. Enough time to see the hut where she and Klupi were now. The pure yellow, red and blue patterns seemed so different to the real scene. She imagined the artist painting it now – the picture would be stark. The celebrated white lines on the huts would be sinister behind a film of grey rain. The branches scratching the roof would look like spindly fingers.
Another noisy flash.
Thembi frowned. There were clouds in this picture too. They were purple, heavy with rain. It wasn’t right. The huts should be grey and bland on a cloudy day! And yet here they shone despite the weather.
Ten Ndebele huts in a circle, together. Thembi smiled. No, she had never seen her life like this before.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the rain.


The storm rocked around her. She wouldn’t go back to the house. She wouldn’t let him win. Wind shivered through her body. The storm was closer.

She was scared. Not of the lightening, but of giving up. Of losing her freedom and losing herself in the midst of social hysteria.
Marieke looked back to the storm building. The indistinct glow of candles burnt frantically. They might be looking for her. Let them. They would find her eventually.
Her hair was cold on her back. She rubbed her prickly arms. The time was coming. The world glowed. The mountain’s silhouettes stood tall and constant. The rocks, bushes, memories around her were still against the destructive rain. She wasn’t like them. She was just a tiny leaf, falling when the wind came, her spirit spiralling down the gyre to her fate. She gasped. There were no need for tears; fresh sky juice tumbled down her body instead. She would never be a part of this living, breathing, ancient place, not permanently. She was a victim of time – she could not improve on the timeless. The land brightened again. She could hear her name swallowed by the storm. The time had come. It wouldn’t be long. “Remember me,” she pleaded to her heart land. “Remember me, and love me when I’m alone and when my spirit is dead from the fear and money and electric fences.”
Her eyes were hot. It was taking so long. She was ready now. They were looking so slowly. She heard her name again, louder, higher than before. Would she go back? Would she go to them?
She turned away from the mountains and saw her mother standing in the shadow of the house.

Marieke woke up to hot tea and her mother’s gentle smile. They sat in understanding silence until the mug was empty.
Today they were going back to the city. In a month Marieke would be sitting in a lecture theatre at Wits University.
The feeling of despondency downed her. Her mother stroked her cheek.
“When are we leaving?” Was there enough time to say her farewells to freedom?
“Not for a few hours.” Her mother’s voice was soft, sympathetic.
“I’ll pack for you if you want to walk around for a bit.”
“Maybe.” Marieke shrugged. It might be easier not to.
“One of the big thorn trees fell down in the storm last night. Lightening strike straight through, apparently.”
Marieke started, “Where?”
“Right near Sophia’s grave. I don’t know if you remember, I walked you there once.”
“Yes, I remember.” She thought back to the sketch she’d left there. Somehow the place seemed special. She looked up at her mother.
“I think I’ll go for a walk.”

The storm had disappeared. Everything was clean and new-smelling. Thembi felt the feathery grass tickle her palm as she walked. She had left the boy at home today. She wanted to see it herself. Maybe her sister knew about Klupi – maybe she had made the tree fall. They would cry together, hug each other, in whatever way a spirit and a body could. But Sophia would know what to do. She had all the wisdom of life and death. She would know how to comfort her mortal sister.
A rogue breeze glided past, delicately tousling the veld around Thembi. She paused. It was subtle, but almost personified. She smiled and watched it float before her.
“Sophia,” she whispered and followed it. It danced on her skin warmly as she walked, throwing affectionate kisses on her cheeks. The grass parted easily for them as they travelled together to her sister’s grave.

The tree lay majestically over the path. It seemed larger now that it interrupted the status quo. The sun peered out from behind a cloud and touched the bark tentatively testing the new space in the scenery.

Basking undisturbed nearby, the grave lay watching – a silent witness to the happenings around it. Uneven stones roughly marked its shape, and one had come loose, lodged and dislodged again by human hands. A shadow fell over it and a figure picked the stone up. The girl smiled and looked around satisfied that what she searched for was gone. She replaced the stone carefully, not to disrespect the resting. An unexpected breeze tickled her neck and she straightened, the warm air still stroking her hair.
The breeze had brought someone whose dark slender fingers traced everything lovingly.
The girls stopped and gazed at each other. Their eyes shared a mutual melancholy, refracted by envy and a despondent resignation. They saw it, they saw themselves. And they laughed.