Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree. Niq Mhlongo
is that your children are causing distress to other children. Your boy even beat up another boy the other day.”
Lulama frowned and narrowed her eyes. The headmaster peered at her intently through his thick spectacles. He was a red-cheeked, round-faced man with bright green eyes. His short dark-brown hair was silvering at the temples. His moustache was meticulously groomed after the manner of Joseph Stalin. The office smelt of his strong cigarette. A tide of anger rose in Lulama and gave her strength.
“If that boy was teasing my children about something they didn’t do, what do you expect? How many times do they have to tell you that they were here at school when the damn cat drowned in our swimming pool?” Her voice rose until she shouted, “Why are you only concerned about the distress of the other kids, and not my kids who saw a dead cat in our swimming pool? If my kids are discriminated against again by this damn school I will have to refer the matter to the Department of Education and the MEC. I will lodge a complaint about the racism that my children are facing in this bloody school.”
“Some people say you people poisoned the cat and killed it.”
“What? Who said that? Why didn’t we do that some years ago when the dreadful cat attacked our domestic worker?” she asked with the accent that made her roll her tongue, like they do in the suburban schools. “How can the status of the fucking cat be on par with that of my kids?”
Lulama and Mr Steyn parted the way they met, without pleasantries. She drove out of the school grounds, the car jerking forward and stalling as her foot slid off the clutch. A white couple was driving in through the school gate. The man, who was driving, immediately put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and they shook their heads in unison. Their hatred for her was difficult to hide. With a face like that you cannot run away from racism in South Africa, she thought as she passed them.
A few days later, with the situation still not improved at school, Lulama decided to work from home. She wanted to go over to the Moerdyks’ house to try to talk to Sandra. They had not spoken since the day Bonaparte died.
Inside the Moerdyks’ big yard was a well-pruned peach tree and several other flowering trees that perfumed the air. Flowers had been laid under the sneezewood tree at the spot where Bonaparte was buried. All Lulama wanted was to know whether Sandra’s children were responsible for spreading the rumour that her own kids were cat killers. That was all. She was tired of seeing white people drive past and spit at her house in hate. Even the joggers, cyclists and schoolchildren spat on her lawn, their faces distorted with disgust.
The door to the Moerdyks’ kitchen was open, but she knocked anyway, just to be polite. Sandra stared, her eyes nearly popping out. The knife she was using to slice a lemon slipped on the skin of the fruit and cut into her thumb.
“Damn it!” she yelped and sucked at her thumb. Auntie Nurse was busy putting clothes in the washing machine.
“Come in,” said Sandra, holding her thumb under running water from the cold tap.
She looked nauseous.
“How are you doing?” asked Lulama.
“I’m fine,” Sandra replied, bowing her head over a steaming cup of tea with lemon.
“Well, I haven’t seen you since the death of Napoleon.”
“His name was Bonaparte.”
“I’m sorry, I meant to say Bonaparte.”
“Well, I was expecting you guys to come to his funeral as good neighbours,” Sandra said, pushing her hair back from her face. “But it’s okay. I guess you were busy with more serious stuff.”
“I was caught up with some work.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “I also didn’t see you at the school governing body meeting.”
“I deliberately didn’t go because I knew they were arbitrarily going to decide the future of my children. It’s no longer safe for them around here and at school because of the death of your cat.”
“So what are you going to do, take them out of the school?”
Sandra picked up her cup and took another sip. Lulama could feel her neighbour’s eyes resting on her face, watching her over the rim of the cup. Sandra put the cup down gently in its saucer.
“Hell no, I’m not going to do that. I heard that the headmaster was suggesting that I take my children to a township school. That is the reason I’m here anyway. I also heard that the governing body has unanimously ruled that my kids be expelled and sent to a ‘special’ school because they are allegedly not normal. Did you have anything to do with that, Sandra?”
Sandra shook her head slowly and closed her lips tightly. Her eyelids fluttered. Lulama was looking at her intently. Sandra was pale. Her face, which used to be so free of cares, was now stamped with conflict and despair. She was indeed distraught over the death of the cat. For a few seconds Lulama remembered how the bubbly Sandra used to love combing, patting, hugging and kissing her Bonaparte. Now she had some spots on the side of her face. She looks profoundly depressed, like me, Lulama thought. Sandra’s eyes glittered with impatience for Lulama to leave her house.
“That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you,” she said, and left.
Ousie Maria had become sick. She and Mohapi believed that it was all because of the cat and its omen of bad things to come. Without consulting Lulama, they decided that the house would not be safe unless the traditional healer was called upon for cleansing.
The following day, when Lulama went to work at her boutique in Clearwater Mall, Ousie Maria and Mohapi went to fetch Gogo Mpiyakhe, from Zola, in Soweto, to come and heal her sickness, and also to cleanse the house of bad luck.
It was Gogo Mpiyakhe who had helped Ousie Maria to find a job within three days of leaving Swaziland to come to South Africa. Back then, Ousie Maria didn’t know anyone in the country. Gogo Mpiyakhe had given her some amazing medicine. It was the brain of a vulture that had been dried and powdered and then mixed with powdered herbs such as peeled serokgwe root. This, according to Gogo Mpiyakhe, produced good luck and good dreams. Gogo Mpiyakhe told her that vultures hunting for their food are regarded as good dreamers. They are also considered lucky birds. Soon after taking the medicine, Ousie Maria landed her job with the Phalas, and she has believed in the powers of Gogo Mpiyakhe ever since.
“She’s a great medicine person. What she does not know about African medicine is really not worth knowing about,” Ousie Maria said with deep conviction during the car ride to Soweto. “Everything will go back to normal, you’ll see.”
“I trust you,” Mohapi said.
Gogo Mpiyakhe lived in a typical four-roomed Soweto house with an outside toilet. There was a small thatched hut, an indumba, at the corner next to the toilet. This was where she conducted her consultations with clients. She welcomed her visitors with a smile. Her forehead shone with sweat, and she was barefoot. When she walked, she bent slightly forward, as if her back pained her. A few bracelets, mostly white and red, jangled on her wrists and ankles as she walked. Lots of red and white beaded necklaces adorned her long neck. Her two large round earrings looked like bottle caps. She wore a dress in red, black and white. Mohapi and Ousie Maria had to remove their shoes before entering the indumba. Inside, they were engulfed by a powerful smell of traditional medicines. “Gogo Mpiyakhe,” Ousie Maria began, “we need your help.” And she proceeded to explain the Phalas’ predicament.
Gogo Mpiyakhe listened carefully and then agreed to come to the Phalas’ home. Back at the house in Forest Town, she gave Mohapi some dried monepenepe. They burnt the long cylindrical pods by the swimming pool in order to chase the evil spirit.
“The evil spirit has entered the household through the swimming pool water where the cat drowned. The water must be drained while all the family members inhale the smoke of the monepenepe,” Gogo Mpiyakhe explained.
She also gave both Ousie Maria and Mohapi a sekgopha. Ousie Maria knew that crushed Aloe castanea