The Madonna of Excelsior (26 page)

Brownness envelops her. Thin-nibbed outlines of Indian ink give an ephemeral presence to the ghost that watches over her shoulder.

We noticed that the Seller of Songs no longer spent her days busking outside the bank in town. She had decided that if customers
did not come to her, she would take her music to their houses. She went from door to door playing her penny-whistle. Rich white people gave her a few coins, if only to get rid of her. When they got tired of her repeated visits, they shooed her away. Then she came to our houses in Mahlatswetsa Location. When she played outside your door, you opened and gave her some coins. She played a song or two, depending on how much you had paid her, and then moved on to the next house. Those of us who did not have money to waste on songs just clapped our hands and bade her goodbye. As she turned away from us, we would comment on how she was the spitting image of the Reverend François Bornman. And on how her eyes and ears looked exactly like those of Jacomina, the dominee's daughter and wife of Tjaart Cronje. We were able to see these resemblances quite expertly because we knew that the Seller of Songs was Maria's daughter. The Maria of the Excelsior 19. But of course the Seller of Songs was much younger. She was born several years post-Excelsior 19. Obviously Maria had continued with her escapades with white men. Could she—the temptress that she was—have continued spreading her body parts before the path of the dominee?

S
UNDAY MORNING
. Viliki stayed in bed and enjoyed his fingers. He loved his fingers more than he could any woman. They took him to heaven, without his first having to die. And most importandy, without his sweat mingling with anyone else's. His fingers could become any full-bodied figure he had fancied in the street during the day. Or in the gallery of the council chamber. In an instant they could turn into one of those half-naked sirens who graced the pages of
Drum
magazine.

He heard the penny-whistle. He ignored it. He had not yet reached his heavenly destination. The melody persisted. He cursed. He put on his pants and quickly went to open the door. The Seller of Songs was standing on the red polished stoop, displaying a smile that would not be out of place in a toothpaste advertisement.
She could pass for a waif in her brown felt hat, whose brim almost covered her eyes, and a brown threadbare blanket hanging from her shoulders and covering her whole body down to the ankles. He smiled back.

He had seen her busking in town. On the pavement in front of the bank. But he had never really paid her any particular attention. She was just one of the light-skinned girls walking the streets of Excelsior, as the former Minister of Justice, P.C. Pelser, once so apdy put it. Later Viliki had heard from Popi that she was the daughter of Maria, Niki's erstwhile friend. Still he did not take any notice of her.

But here she was, at the door of his RDP house, smiling his knees into jelly and his palms into a sweat.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to play?” he asked.

“I have already played,” she said impishly. “Three songs while you refused to open the door. You owe me.”

“Come in,” he found himself saying.

She went in. And never walked out again. At least not that day. Not that week.

In the chamber of the council, it was announced that His Worship the Mayor of Excelsior was indisposed. But in the chamber of his RDP house, he was bathing in the sweat of the Seller of Songs. And in her blood. He had gently reprimanded her when she had said she would not let him swim in her filth, as it was her bad time of the month.

“God cannot create filth,” he had said. “Babies come from this blood. Babies cannot come from filth.”

And to prove that he meant what he said, he had touched it and let it slide between his fingers, even though she herself was disgusted by it.

As
SOON AS
Popi entered the shack, Niki let her feel the chill of her wrath.

“How can you not tell me when my child is sick?” Niki asked.

“I didn't know it was serious,” Popi defended herself.

“He has been ill for one whole week and you didn't know it was serious? I had to hear it from people in the street.”

“I am sorry, Niki. My mind is full of too many things lately.”

Niki mumbled that not only had
they
succeeded in taking her children away, they had built an uncaring wall between them, despite the fact that the children had come from the same womb.

Once more Popi apologised. It was her war with Tjaart Cronje that was destabilising her life, she confessed to Niki. She should have remembered to tell her mother about Viliki the very day it was announced that he was indisposed. But she had been angry and flustered by Tjaart Cronje's taunts about her hairy legs.

This was not just an excuse on her part. Indeed, since Tjaart Cronje had mentioned her hairy legs for the first time during the library debate, she had become even more conscious of her hairiness. And this had made her less vocal in the chamber lest Tjaart Cronje refer to her legs again. Tjaart Cronje, on the other hand, had every intention of exploiting this newly discovered weak spot.

Observing all this, and missing Popi's characteristic outbursts in the chamber, Lizette de Vries had taken it upon herself to hold a private tea-break conversation with her about hair and hairiness.

“I am aware that most black women don't have hair on their legs,” said Lizette de Vries. “But it is quite normal with white women.”

“But I am not a white woman!” screamed Popi.

All Lizette de Vries could say to this was, “Well . . . ja . . . nee . . .”

Well. Yes. No.

“I am not white,” insisted Popi. “I am a Mosotho girl.”

“All I am saying is that hair that grows on the legs is not abnormal. It is a normal thing for some people, and is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Then she explained how white women dealt with hairy legs. Mothers who wanted their daughters to have a Barbie-doll look
taught their daughters to wax and shave their legs as early as the age of fifteen. But progressive mothers taught their daughters never to shave their legs or even their armpits. Shaving legs was really a city thing. But of course some rural girls in places like Excelsior did it as well, as they aspired to be like the “with it” city girls.

“As you are so ashamed of your hair, buy a razor and shave once a week,” advised Lizette de Vries. “But you must know that your hair will grow thicker and darker. If I were you, I would just let it be. Popi, you have been blessed with such beautiful legs. Be proud of them! Don't listen to country bumpkins like Tjaart.”

After this talk, Popi had felt slightly better about herself. However, she continued to be angry with a God who had burdened her with the hairy problems of white people.

“This war between you and Tjaart is very silly,” Niki said finally after Popi had told her of her woes.

“He is the one who starts it,” said Popi. “I don't know why he hates me so.”

“He is not a bad boy . . . Tjaart . . . he's really not a bad boy.”

“Maybe when you looked after him . . . when he was a little boy . . . he was not a bad boy. But he has changed since then, Niki. You don't know him now. He is a right-winger.”

Niki did not know what a right-winger was. She just looked at Popi sheepishly and said, “One day Tjaart will understand that he has to love you.”

She took a tartan shawl from her bed and draped it around her shoulders. She commanded Popi to accompany her to see her sick child. She had cooked him her special bean and tomato soup, which she put in a blue enamel bowl that had a lid.

“Let me hold it for you, Niki,” said Popi as they walked on the dirt street that was lined with RDP houses on both sides.

“So that he will think it comes from you? No thank you, I'll hold it.”

Popi had this bad habit of opening Viliki's door without knocking. In this instance, she did the same. As mother and daughter entered, they were greeted by a scene that left them open-mouthed.
Viliki was sitting on his new red sofa bought from Ellerine's in Thaba Nchu on a twelve-month hire-purchase instalment plan. He was wearing khaki short pants and was both shoeless and topless. The Seller of Songs was sitting on his lap, wearing only her navy blue knickers. The couple were watching the antics of the stope-workers in the television soap opera,
Isidingo
.

The Seller of Songs jumped up and ran into the bedroom to hide her nakedness.

“I tell you every day, Popi, that you must knock,” said Viliki, going on the attack to hide his embarrassment.

“So this is how you get sick, Viliki?” asked Niki.

“And with this girl who makes a fool of herself playing a flute,” said Popi.

“What is Maria's daughter doing here, Viliki?” asked Niki.

“She stays here with me, Mama. I love her.”

“You stay here with someone's daughter without even asking for her hand from her parents? How many cattle did you pay for her?” asked Niki.

“He can't marry a girl like this, Niki. She is a disgrace, this girl,” squealed Popi.

“Why is she a disgrace, if I may ask?” demanded Viliki.

For a moment, Popi was at a loss for words. Then she asked: “Don't you see her?”

“I see her all right,” said Viliki firmly. “And I love her.”

“Oh, this child will be the death of me,” lamented Niki. “I come here because I heard he was sick for the whole week, only to find that he is doing a vat-en-sit with Maria's child. I spent this whole day slaving over a three-legged pot, cooking him bean and tomato soup. What are the parents of this child saying about this?”

“Nothing,” said Viliki. “They don't care. No one came looking for her.”

This showed how cruel Sekatle was, said Viliki. He was such a wealthy man, yet his niece had to survive by busking. Although he had built Maria a glittering mansion, he was rumoured to have said, “I am not going to toil for Maria's mixed-breed children.”
Viliki vouched for the truth of this rumour. Those words looked just like Sekatle.

Viliki's harangue about the bane of his life was interrupted by the shattering of a window in the bedroom. All three rushed in, fearing that the Seller of Songs had done harm to herself. There she was, cowering in the corner. She had covered herself with her brown blanket. The smell of petrol filled the room. On the floor next to the bed was a bottle full of the liquid. There were pieces of glass all over the floor. Someone had thrown a petrol bomb through the window. It had failed to explode.

Viliki called the police on his cellphone.

“Who do you suspect?” asked the burly Afrikaner sergeant.

Viliki did not hesitate to put the blame on Sekatle. This was the second failed petrol bomb. The first one had been thrown into his house a few weeks ago. He had been at a braai that had been organised by the private company engaged by the council to remove the Baipehi. When he got back home, he had found a broken window and the beginnings of a fire in the living room. With the help of neighbours he had managed to extinguish it, but not before his sofa was burnt to ashes. Hence his having to buy a new one from Ellerine's. On that day too an ineptly constructed petrol bomb had been thrown into his RDP house.

It had to be Sekatle. Earlier that week, he had led a group of boys and girls in school uniforms. They had performed the toyi-toyi dance outside his house, hurling insults at his pedigree, at Niki's escapades with white men, and at Popi's “colouredness”.

Viliki had chosen not to say anything about this because he did not want to upset his mother and sister. But this time Sekatle had gone too far.

H
E LOOKS
quite different from the fruity accordion player of the glorious years of garden parties. He is of the new world. Nothing Flemish expressionist about him. The black outlines are thicker than ever. And rougher. Yet they fail to give him a robust look. He squeezes his purple and white accordion, and its folds breathe out the nostalgic wails of the mountain people of neighbouring Lesotho. The weight of the song has softened his face. He looks frail. The weight of the accordion has given his body a delicate demeanour. It is as if he will break into two. The weight of his purple boots has given him a painful gait. His purple overalls fly far above the ankle, almost mid-shin. His purple conical Basotho hat is tattered and has lost its crown at the pinnacle. His sharp knees pierce the white and yellow and purple light.

The Seller of Songs infected Viliki with music. He bought an old accordion at a second-hand music shop in Bloemfontein, and she taught him how to play it. She herself had never played the accordion before. She just pressed a few keys, listened to the notes
each one produced, and created her own music. It took him a while to master the keys, but she was a patient teacher. Within three months Viliki could accompany the difela poetry and famo music of the mountain people of Lesotho. She accompanied his accordion with her flute, which in itself was an innovation, as that combination of instruments was unknown in the kind of Sesotho music that they played.