The Madonna of Excelsior (11 page)

Besides the young soldiers and their fathers who came to the café to buy
Scope
magazine discreetly, and the schoolboys who came to peek through its pages stealthily, the Afrikaner community kept Dukakis at a polite distance. They left him alone to bully the folk of Mahlatswetsa Location in peace. Until one night when his son, Ari, was caught necking in Dukakis' old Studebaker with Jacomina, the Reverend Bornman's daughter. The Afrikaners of Excelsior, led by the dominee himself, could not hide their outrage. They said Greek boys had no right to smooch with Afrikaner meisies. Greeks were not white enough. They were no different from the Portuguese. Greeks were wit kaffirs. They put it to him frankly that the likes of him were no longer welcome in Excelsior.

The Dukakis family had had to pack up and leave.

ADAM DE VRIES. Mayor of Excelsior. Elected by the town council only a month before the erstwhile mayor, Stephanus Cronje, took his life. District Chairman of the ruling National Party. With the emphasis on
ruling
. His gait befitted that of the attorney of record of the five white men accused of sleeping with black women. He walked to the dock to confer with his clients in a manner that would have been august if only he had been of bigger stature. His stride was that of a man savouring moments of glory. Here at last was a case that would afford him the opportunity to display his greatness as an attorney-at-law. Not the petty stock theft cases that occupied most of his time. Not the tedious drawing of wills and deeds of transfer and the administering of estates of deceased farmers.

He whispered something to Johannes Smit, but went quickly back to his table when the accused women were led into the courtroom.
Fourteen black women, twelve with babies in their arms or strapped to their backs. Gasps from the volk, packed into the gallery, at the sight of so many coloured babies. The gallery had been full one hour before the trial. Spectators came from as far as Reddersburg, one hundred and forty-five kilometres away. Hairy farmers in safari suits with combs in their socks. Wives in floral dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats. Tannies carrying picnic baskets and Thermos flasks of strong coffee.

None of us were allowed to sit on the seats. Those few of us who could get into the courtroom stood against the wall at the back.

We saw the court orderly policeman arrange the women so that each of them stood next to the man she was being charged with. He read the names of the women from a sheet of paper. When a woman acknowledged her name, she was pulled by the arm to the spot where the law had determined she belonged.

Johannes Smit was charged with five women, one of whom was Mmampe. Groot-Jan Lombard with two. The Reverend François Bornman with two, one of whom was Maria. The farmer we did not know was charged with three women, and his policeman friend with one. Niki was charged alone, since Stephanus Cronje no longer walked this earth.

General nervousness and fidgeting among the men and women of Excelsior and its environs, as they stood side-by-side in the dock.

Klein-Jan Lombard, in his neat police officer's uniform, entered and sat at the prosecutor's table, next to the prosecutor, Christiaan Calitz. We wondered how he had escaped arrest, as the women of Mahlatswetsa Location had revealed at stokvels and at the fundraising gatherings of the Mothers' Union that he had also occasionally indulged in the wicked pleasures. Now here he was, ready to prosecute his own father.

When the burly magistrate, Karel Bezuidenhout, entered, all those who were sitting down stood up. Including Adam de Vries, Christiaan Calitz and Klein-Jan Lombard. Those of us who had
been leaning against the wall stood up straight. Karel Bezuidenhout surveyed his court, then sat down. The rest of the people sat down too. We leaned against the wall.

“One of the accused is your close relative,” said the magistrate, looking at Klein-Jan Lombard kindly. “You cannot prosecute this case.”

“I thought I could perhaps assist Mr Calitz, Your Worship,” said Klein-Jan Lombard humbly.

“I have no doubt that you are a man of integrity,” said the magistrate patiently. “But you'll still have to recuse yourself. Mr Calitz can manage fine without you.”

Klein-Jan Lombard made a deep bow in front of the bench, and walked out of the side door that led to the prosecutors' and magistrates' offices.

The prosecutor said that the women had all agreed to plead guilty and thereafter to give evidence against the white men. This obviously came as a shock to Adam de Vries. He stood up in a huff.

“They are accomplices!” he cried. “Their evidence alone will not be enough to convict my clients.”

“My learned friend should not worry about that,” said Christiaan Calitz with a wicked smile. “There are other eyewitnesses. And of course there are the children. Blood tests have been carried out on the accused and the children.”

He looked at the babies benevolently.

Popi made friendly noises in Niki's arms. Niki fondled her face.

The magistrate said the court was not dealing with the merits of the case at that moment. The proceedings would be adjourned until the following week. Bail for the women would be set at fifty rands each.

Popi began to cry as the women were led away by the prison warders and policewomen.

We waved at the women and their babies as they were loaded into the back of a big police truck with meshed windows. None of them were able to post bail. They would all remain in custody at the Winburg police cells.

A
BROWN CHRIST
crucified in a field of pink and white cosmos. His face has streaks of red from the red sun that burns from the safety of a green ball suspended against a blue and white sky. He wears a black loincloth and hangs on the grey cross like a bird in flight. One big sunflower grows next to the cross, its yellow petals touching the bent knees of the Christ. Another big sunflower stands behind the cross. Sunflowers always face the sun and thrive on basking in its rays. But these two giant sunflowers have turned their backs on the sun in silent defiance.

A black-roofed house camouflages itself among the cosmos and blue and green grass. Yellow light shines from a single window. Red blood seeps from the green door. A procession of women in blue dresses and shawls passes between the house and the big sunflower behind the cross. The sun has painted streaks of red on their Basotho hats. Their bodies are bent forward from invisible burdens. Four stooped women led by an upright nun in a blue head-veil march to pay homage to the hanging Christ. Roundeyed nun with bare breasts and black nipples. A black navel planted on a brown round stomach. A stomach full of life hangs above a blue skirt with a frayed knee-length hem.

A sunburnt Christ. Like Niki's face. Although hers was not burnt by the sun. It had been devoured by the chemicals that the Krok brothers put into their Super Rose skin-lightening lotion. The Krok brothers were diminutive identical twins from Johannesburg who used huge doses of hydroquinone to turn black South Africans into white South Africans. They were reaping great rewards in the process, since millions of black people had taken to their skin-lightening products like bees to nectar and pollen.

Niki was no exception. For even quicker results, she had changed from the regular Super Rose skin-lightener to Super Rose He-Man, specially brewed by the twins to lighten the tough skins of black men. It was even stronger than American products such as Ambi Extra and Artra. Hydroquinone did lighten the skin. But only for a while. Then it fried it until it became discoloured and hard like the skin of an alligator.

Niki's world was falling apart with her skin. It had caked and was beginning to crack. Fire was burning in her cheeks. She blamed it on her incarceration. Had she been at home, she would have applied more Super Rose He-Man to her face. Her skin was crying out for Super Rose He-Man. They had not given her the opportunity to take any toiletries when they arrested her.

But Susanna, the farm-school teacher, told her that her skin would have broken into cracks and patches even if she had been as free as a bird. Super Rose He-Man did that to the skin in the long run. She was speaking from experience. Her own face had chubaba patches. But fortunately she had stopped using skin-lighteners as soon as she realised that they did not agree with her skin. Then one day she had read in some magazine about the ravages of hydroquinone and about the Krok twins, Abe and Solly, who were amassing untold fortunes as a result of black women's quest for whiteness.

“The only way you can save your skin from further corrosion is to stop using skin-lightening creams,” said Susanna. “Go back to the harmless creams that treat our skins gently: to Beauty and Pandora.”

Her listeners laughed at the memory of those cheap pink creams that they had outgrown since adopting Super Rose, Ambi and Artra, in line with the trends set by the city women that they saw in magazines. How could Susanna suggest that they go back to an age of darkness?

Niki did not understand any of this. It seemed that Susanna was talking politics. Her face had nothing to do with politics. Susanna had this annoying habit of seeing politics in everything. Niki therefore did not join the others in their laughter.

“At least we can still laugh in spite of our troubles,” said Mmampe.

“And by the way, who is the cause of these troubles?” asked Maria cruelly.

“When will you people understand that I did not cause our arrest?” asked Mmampe. “How many times must I tell you that they knew everything already when they came to arrest me? They merely asked me to confirm it!”

Thirteen women looked at her in disgust. Well, twelve women, because Niki did not look at her at all. Niki fixed her eyes on her baby as she rocked her in her arms. Mmampe saw the hate in twenty-four eyes. It still was not safe for her to be in the same cell as these vicious women.

The women were silent for a while, and focused on fussing over their babies.

Fourteen women sitting against the wall of the Excelsior Magistrate's Court. Twelve of them with light-skinned babies nestling in their arms. One of them almost recovered from being a truly coloured baby. Three weeks had healed the blotches of red and blue. But her neck and chest were still peeling.

Twelve madonnas, sitting in a row outside the courtroom, breastfeeding their babies. Coo-cooing and talking baby talk. Promising the little ones that they would be home soon. Or pretending they were already home and making references to beautiful things in the home surroundings with which the babies would
be familiar. Making futile assurances: “Grandma will come and fetch you.”

They had been transported in a truck at dawn from the Winburg holding cells, fifty-five kilometres away. They had been waiting the whole morning. They did not complain. It was better than being locked up in tiny cells for days on end. Here there was ample fresh air. Also, they were able to update themselves on the latest news from the township and farm villages. Friends and relatives, crowding a short distance away, let snippets of gossip drift across to them. They talked to the prisoners obliquely in their loud conversations among themselves.

By midday, no one had called them into the courtroom. The female warders hovering over them told them that the magistrate had not yet arrived. Something must have happened, for Karel Bezuidenhout was usually a stickler for time. The women were not bothered. They were not hungry either. Their friends and relatives had brought them fish, Russian sausages and chips. The warders were kind enough to allow them to receive food from the outside world. No one had brought anything for Niki. Mmampe and Maria shared their food with her.

The babies were getting restless, though. Popi was crying. Niki pushed her breast into her daughter's mouth. She made an attempt to suckle. But she soon spat the milk out because it had a painful taste.

Thirty minutes after midday. The women were led into the courtroom. And into the dock. The accused white men were already in the dock. But there were only four of them. The Reverend François Bornman was not among them. The attorney for the defence, Adam de Vries, was not there either. Prosecutor Christiaan Calitz looked bored. He was busying himself paging through a law report, without really reading anything. The usual spectators, including press people, filled the gallery.

“All rise!” announced the policeman who also acted as a court orderly, as Karel Bezuidenhout entered. Everybody stood up,
and only sat down once the magistrate had taken his seat at the bench.

It was at this point that Adam de Vries rushed into the courtroom. He apologised as he bowed before the magistrate. He placed his black briefcase and files on his table.

“I spent this whole morning at the hospital in Bloemfontein,” said Adam de Vries breathlessly.

“How is he?” asked the magistrate.

“He will live,” said Adam de Vries, much to the relief of the magistrate, the prosecutor and the men in the dock. “But he will lose his eye.”

“You might have heard that one of the accused, the Reverend François Bornman, allegedly made an attempt on his life with a gun this morning,” announced the magistrate to the rest of the court. “He allegedly shot himself in the right eye. That is why the court had to start so late today.”