Starlight in the Ring (22 page)

I wake up hearing a key unlock the main door. I open my eyes, still lying in my bed, to see the landlord returning from work. He is a security guard, and in full uniform. I realise then that I’m alone in the house. Both Gloria and Caroline have left. Sleep and tiredness disappear at that very moment. I lie still, pretending to be in deep sleep. With my head covered, I can hear my heart beat loudly. I can hardly breathe. I watch this man’s movement through a small hole in my blanket. He puts on the lights, and then says in a horrid voice, “So, you are here!”

From where he is standing by the door opening of my room, he should have noticed I’m alone. “Come and sleep with me
here,” he says. That’s enough instruction to trigger next my drastic response.

Without a word, I jump up, forcing myself out of the small opening between him and the doorframe, hoping to escape. I’m wrong. He grabs me by his rough hands. Struggling to break loose, I fall face down onto the floor. He turns off the light in the living room.

“Get up!” he commands. I don’t respond. He puts his foot on my body and then neck, shaking me. I feel the rubber sole pressing hard on my neck. Scared of rape, death or both, I lie down, not knowing what to do. His patience is running out. He says, “I don’t have time to beg you. I mean what I say - hurry up.” I do not respond. “Okay, stay there: I’ll carry you.”

He bends over, picks me up in his arms and carries me towards the dark corridor into his bedroom. I struggle to break loose. I knock the shot gun off his belt with my knee. He is too strong for me. He puts me down on his big bed, perhaps king size. The mattress is very soft in the middle. As soon as he drops me, I sink.

“I don’t want trouble, do you understand?” he says slowly in a soft voice. He turns the light on. I look at his eyes – they are big and reddish. He is obese, breathing aloud, blowing out his breath and clean shaven. I notice this bedroom hasn’t got a door also. I move myself over to the edge of this bed and gather courage before asking him firmly, “What are you doing?”

“I’ve asked you to come and sleep with me in my bedroom. You go on and on making this a big deal. Don’t you realise that these walls are thin?”

Walls aren’t thick, so neighbours will hear me if I scream,
I repeat this in my mind.

“I will not hurt you if you cooperate. Make up your mind. I’ll have a quick one, and that’s all. That’s your choice.”

I start negotiating with him. “Look, you just came in, and you are horrible to me. What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer me. He is wilfully, deliberately, undressing himself. He takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, and takes it off; he undoes his shirt buttons and takes it off; he takes off his vest. He sits on the bed, taking off his stinky boots and socks, making a lot of noises, yawning and groaning. He slips off his trousers, remaining in his big loose black boxer shorts. He leaves the gun in his trousers. Sitting next to me, he puts his right hand on my thigh, and starts moving it about gently. He is disturbed.

He gets up and rushes for the toilet, just opposite his bedroom. He is careful to leave the toilet door open, and looks back at me every so often. I hear the sound of his wee, and then it goes quiet. He turns around and sits on the pot. He holds his tummy with crossed arms, as if he is in pain. He appears stuck; all I can hear is lots of noises. He flushes the toilet, while sitting on the pot, and continues his business. He bends his head forward towards his thighs. It’s hard for me to imagine what he hopes to do on his return.

The corridor is so narrow, that he would see me passing by, should I try to escape through to the main door. I guess he has locked it, and has not left the key there.

I can’t surrender. I have one way if I can regain enough strength, and that’s to escape through the window. The risk in jumping out, falling over, and hurting myself outside is minimal. It’s a lot better than what might happen when this man returns. These thoughts are strong enough for me to act on, while he’s in the middle of his business on the toilet.

I step on the bed, put my foot on the windowsill, while turning the handle. The window flings opens widely. I jump down, landing safely on my feet. I run away from his house into the dark, but not too far. I’m unfamiliar with the area. I can see the dim light of his bedroom. I watch his room go dark.

I assume the man is asleep. I’m safe to return just to sleep in front of his door. Frightened of the passers-by all night, I sit up, covering myself with the top thin and transparent layer of my
nightdress. The fear and the cooler temperature of the night keep me awake, shivering.

The early-morning breeze brings a chill that cuts through my bones. I start to cry, but not loud enough for him to hear me. I watch people walking past, a few metres away from me, coming from parties.

I soon hear the man’s footsteps moving about inside his house, perhaps preparing for work. I get up and move to one side from the door; I sit down hiding slightly from his door’s view. I watch him pulling the door handle behind, walking away. Fortunately, he has left the door opened, probably for me to return.

I’m in a terrible state, longing for a shoulder to cry on, but there’s no one to comfort me this time. I drag my feet back into the house, feeling very tired from lack of proper sleep. I start getting dressed. As I’m about to put on my last piece of garment, Caroline and Gloria return.

By then, I can hardly speak. I just look at them with my swollen, blotted bloodshot eyes, and suddenly burst into tears again.

“What did he do to you?” they ask appearing very concerned. “Tell us, Betty, we can sort him out.”

They try to stop me from crying, so that I can speak – it’s impossible for now. No word can soothe me. However, after a while, I stop crying. I have two thoughts in my mind - not another night in this house, and never to return to South Africa.

Later that day Gloria and Caroline help me move my suitcase to Kay. She kindly allows me to sleep in her living room, next to my luggage. She has less furniture, and not even a carpet on the floors, but has more love to accommodate a stranger like me in her home.

She’s a lone parent, doing domestic work for a young European family. She brings left-over food to share with me and her children. This means so much to me. I can feel a wave of relief. At least, I am safer here.

I look for work, so that I can maintain myself. Every morning I call Employment Agencies. I read the newspapers, searching for work. I’m confident about selling my skills to impress all the employers.

I see a temporary teaching post advertised in Windhoek, at Ben Schoeman Primere Skool, and apply. The Principal invites me to visit the school to have a chat with him and the staff. I prepare for the journey by train to Windhoek the following morning. The train arrives at the station on time, enabling me to walk to the taxi rank, to hire a taxi to this school.

A child directs me to the Principal’s office. I knock at the door. A tall man in his fifties sitting behind his desk lifts up his eyes, pushes his chair backwards, and gets up to meet me by the door. He shakes my hand, beckoning me to another chair opposite his.

“I’m Mr Beans. Please take a seat.”

“I’m Betty Baker. I spoke to you on the phone. Thank you for the opportunity to meet you.”

He is very polite, and offers to make me a drink.

“Tea with milk, and one spoon of sugar, please,” I say, sitting upright on the chair. He walks out. I scan my eyes around the office, passing time. This is just a man’s office, with blank walls. I notice English books on the bookshelves, and on his desk. He also speaks English fluently, although the official language here is Afrikaans.
This reveals to me a bit about him himself,
I say in my mind, thinking he must be supporting the freedom fighters.

Mr Beans returns with a cup of milky hot tea and sugar, all on the tray. “I’m looking for an English teacher on a temporary basis, to cover maternity for six months,” he says. “I’m impressed with your standard of communication. How soon could you start?”

“Well, I’m available right now. Of course, I’ll need a day to collect my stuff from Swakopmund. Will you provide me with accommodation?”

“Yes, I’ll ask my friend about that.” Mr Beans gives me the
application forms. After filling in the forms and showing him my original certificates and reference letter from Mount View, we agree on my start date.

“Your class will be waiting for you, Miss Baker,” he says as he sees me off at the main entrance of the staff and administration building. I’m thrilled with my new job in a bigger school than the last one in South Africa.

Within a month of arriving in this country, I’m back to teaching again, the job I cherish mostly. Life is better here; there is legal racial integration. I’m now organised, teaching and living well. I give up searching for Thomas; however, I still have room for Mark in my heart. But, I write a letter to Gregory.

I go to the Post Office to buy a stamp, and then post my letter to Greg. Eight weeks later, I receive his reply.

I reply. This time, I write a bit more about the general style of life and culture.

People live in their own ways. They enjoy life, especially weekends from Friday until Sunday evening; they hold fund-raising activities called ‘braaivleis’. This means barbecues in English. The DJ plays music, and those who wish to dance do so, while others chat over drinks, ‘six to six’, meaning from 6.00 p.m. to 6.00 a.m. I enjoy barbecues. I’ve also made friends, who have introduced me to their social lifestyle - discos. Weekends are all exciting. I can’t help bubbling with the excitement inside me. However, in some moments, life becomes a struggle, with some excruciating pain.

There are times when I wish I wouldn’t see the sun rises and sets again… these are ‘the dark moments’. However, I try to enjoy my job, working extremely hard. In some way, it’s like the same-old South Africa you know.…I miss you.

Love, Betty x

After reading my letter, I seal it in an envelope. Deep in thought about the current state of my life, I walk down to the Post Office. I buy a stamp for forty cents, and get an airmail sticker. The cashier is very kind to accept it over the counter. Imagining Greg’s excitement when receiving my letter, I return home.

I live a peaceful life with everyone, daily. I have experienced many of life’s ups and downs. I’m determined to do whatever I can to improve the level of my education and knowledge, generally. In my spare time, I read my reference letter, to
encourage myself. My eyes fill up with tears, making it impossible to see and read the text. I’m tired of wiping them off. I continue reading, until tears drop on the paper, smudging it.

In my imagination, Greg’s face flashes before me.
Betty, what are you doing here?
I ask myself.
When will you follow your heart, and go to be with Greg in England?
Shaking my head, I remember the fact that this is impossible to do from South Africa.

E
arly in the morning, I open the front door to get out to the city for a job search, as my temporary job at Ben Schoeman has finished. I walk down the street towards the number 187 bus stop. Staggering, I struggle to stay balanced due to the strong wind. I trip on something hard and fall over; landing with both knees and hands on the ground. My handbag drops off my shoulder.

“Ouch!” I lie there for a while before getting up slowly, and collecting my handbag. Brushing my hands and bending over to look at the cut below my right knee, I get a tissue from my handbag to clean the wound dripping with blood. I bind my handkerchief around the wound to stop the blood-flow and turn around and look back, wondering what made me fall. I see a tied blue carrier bag, probably with concrete inside. I recognise the letters
OK,
the name of a big supermarket on the high street.
That’s what I tripped on.

This is not surprising: litter is scattered everywhere, and fly-tipping seems to be the norm in this area. Rats run around in daylight feeling good after feeding from rotten, smelly food in overflowing rubbish bins. Some dry yellowish and brown leaves are cluttering the gullies. Others are scattered all over the streets and pavements.

I force my way forward, finding it difficult, and struggling to breathe. With cross winds blowing so strongly, it’s hard for me to remain upright. I manage to balance, defying the wind blowing me sideways. At a distance, I see a cloud of dust appearing to be touching the sky. Blown papers are flying about, polluting the atmosphere. My eyes are sandy and reddish from constant rubbing and trying to remove the sand grains. ‘Huh, this is Windhoek,’ I moan to myself. The literal translation of Windhoek is ‘windy corner’.

I arrive at the bus-stop and join the end of the long queue. It’s rather noisy, with various people chatting among themselves in their vernacular. I can hardly understand a word they’re saying.
Is it Damara, Khoisan, Portuguese or Tswana?
I wonder. Listening again, I still can’t tell, but conclude it’s definitely not Afrikaans.