Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree. Niq Mhlongo
Karen. “He just came from the vet two weeks ago.”
The Moerdyks gave Bonaparte a proper burial the following day. Auntie Nurse, their domestic worker, told Ousie Maria afterwards that Bonaparte was buried at about ten in the morning, and the children did not go to school. Some friends of Sandra, their mother, had arrived the previous day for a night vigil and more had come for the funeral. During the proceedings Sandra did most of the talking, and it was as if she had lost a human being.
“My friend Bonaparte, your death has carved deep furrows into my soul,” Sandra had said, closing her eyes. “Time and tears may repair the gap a little, but it will never completely heal. We mourn you, and will do so until our last breath.”
Bonaparte was put inside a small casket and buried at the corner of the garden near the sneezewood tree. The family, all dressed in black, stood silently next to the cat’s grave.
What madness, Ousie Maria thought, hearing Auntie Nurse recount the events of the funeral. So Jaco and Sandra Moerdyk didn’t go to work because they had to bury an animal? And why were the kids brought into this madness and kept out of school?
“Bonaparte, we have many happy memories of life with you, my friend. It’ll take time to be comforted in our loss,” said Jaco, as he spread soil over the grave. “I still remember when I first got the job at Sasol in Rosebank and drove from Cape Town to Johannesburg with you on Sandra’s lap next to me.”
Sandra chimed in: “Oh, my beloved friend! Remember that? You were still a baby; it was before Karen and Jan were even born. Every time we played Bob Dylan’s ‘Forever Young’ you nodded your little head as if you knew the song. I bought you a bottle of milk at Laingsburg. Oh, how you loved that! Rest in peace, my dear friend.” She wiped a tear from her face.
Bonaparte had been part of the Moerdyk family for almost sixteen years. Sandra seemed the most affected by the loss. According to Auntie Nurse, who hurriedly shared the gossip on her way back to her township home that evening, Sandra had sat on the edge of the bed for hours after the funeral without talking to anyone. Then she stood up and looked through the window at the Phalas’ house for a long time.
Apparently, Auntie Nurse was left to answer the door for flower deliveries and condolence cards sent from the children’s school, in between clearing the plates and cutlery left by the funeral guests:
I’m thinking of you in this difficult, sad time – from the headmaster.
We know it’s hard, but try to stay strong. Thinking of you. Many hugs – Love from your Grade 10 class.
Sad you’re grieving but glad you’re coping; that’s NB – from your friend Claire.
May love, warmth and gentle hugs embrace you and try to soothe you.
None of the cards came from the Phalas. They could not mourn. For them, as for Ousie Maria, a cat was just another animal. It could not be equated to a human being. In fact, to most Africans a cat is a symbol of witchcraft and bad luck.
Yesterday, when young Mbuso tried to remove the cat from the swimming pool, Ousie Maria had harshly warned him against doing so. She convinced him that bad luck would follow him if he touched the animal. When he still insisted on removing it, Ousie Maria warned him that she would tell his father. Mbuso had a deep reverence for Mohapi Phala.
“I can’t let you invite witchcraft into your family,” Ousie Maria had warned Mbuso. “If you continue doing this, I’ll have to quit and go home immediately. Then you can tell your parents that you made me go.”
With those words, Mbuso had to wait until Jaco came back from work to remove Bonaparte from the pool.
Lulama Phala knew her husband still believed in witchcraft, although they had been living in Forest Town for nine years now. His upbringing in the Free State town of Warden was not shaken off that easily. But, to be honest, Lulama was more concerned that the death of Bonaparte was going to affect her relationship with Sandra. She was also worried that the kids might have been affected by the sight of the dead cat in their swimming pool. Mbuso had described to her how horrific the drowned cat had looked. She could see that Buhle was traumatised, as she vowed not to swim in the pool again. That night, lying in bed with her husband, Lulama tried to convince him to take both the children to the clinical psychologist.
“Darling, it’s just a dead cat,” said Mohapi, looking at the ceiling. “It’s like seeing a dead rat. There’s no difference at all.”
“Yes, to us it’s just a dead cat, as you say. But what about the kids, honey? This may be harmful and affect their schoolwork. You should have seen Buhle. She’s even afraid to go to her room. She’s still in the TV room at the moment because she can’t take her mind off that cat.”
“No, no, no. Come on now. You can’t be serious. It was just a fucking dead cat. Let me go speak to her,” he said as he put his slippers on and left the bed.
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going to talk to Buhle.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t talk to her about a dead cat at this hour of the night.”
Lulama tried to hold him by the hand, but he drew away.
“Mohapi, you’re not going to mention the dead cat to her at this hour, are you?” she repeated. “No, you can’t.”
Mohapi did not answer. Lulama watched him walk out of the room. She strained her ears to listen to the conversation that would follow. Everything was quiet. It appeared that the TV set was also off. Mohapi came back less than five minutes later.
“She’s already sleeping in her room, and the lights are off,” he said as he kicked off his slippers, adjusted his pillow and got into bed. “I really don’t understand why these white people exaggerate their emotions of happiness and sadness towards animals like cats and dogs.”
“But that’s what they believe in,” said Lulama in the darkness of the bedroom. “There’s nothing wrong with that. They believe that cats invite peace and happiness into their homes.”
“Whites are a very strange bunch of people. I mean, it was only two weeks ago that the Moerdyks invited us over for a braai because the same bloody dead cat had returned from a successful vet operation.”
“Shame, and all that money they paid for the operation is wasted now.”
“Exactly! Honestly, I only went to that braai because you insisted we honour their invitation.”
“But, honey, for white people a cat is more than just a cat. Just like a dog is not just a dog to them. They are their friends. Their dogs are not only for hunting and scaring criminals, nor are their cats only for killing rats and practising witchcraft.”
“But do you think they would come if we invited them over to slaughter a goat to appease our ancestors?”
“That’s different. We kill animals for food and to satisfy our ancestors. Most white people want animals to live because they’re emotionally attached to them.”
“Bullshit. They also eat meat, don’t they?”
“True, most of them still do. But they’re friendly to animals. Look at white people’s eyes, honey. Don’t their eyes look like cat’s eyes to you? That’s probably why they see another human being in a cat – one of their own.”
“I guess you’re right. Do you remember when Bonaparte injured Ousie Maria that time, and they blamed her for provoking the cat instead of sending her to the clinic? She had scratches all over her face and hands! And yet, when the cat was sick they sent it to the vet for an operation. I swear to you that if Auntie Nurse gets sick, they’ll simply send her home.”
“Yes, but the cat had medical aid.”
“And poor Auntie Nurse doesn’t. You know, the Moerdyks spoke to Bonaparte as if it were a real person. They would apologise, plead and pamper that bloody cat . . . Please Bonaparte, sorry Bonaparte, come on darling,