After being haunted by the wooden faces of the tyrants, it was almost a revelation to be near someone with a living face. Aunt Lwandeka had a fluid face which could project her emotions with ease. She could smile, laugh and cry. Her face could also project seriousness, toughness and anger in telling measures. It was a shock to discover that a woman who had come from the same Catholic peasant womb as Padlock could be so different. She used a warm voice when greeting you in the morning, when talking to you during the day and when asking you about your day in the evening. She played with her children, and asked them what was or was not wrong with them. She told them foolish stories and sang them meaningless little songs. She put them at ease but also demanded discipline from them.
Aunt bathed all her children herself, scrubbed their backs and examined their feet carefully. She held them and let them vomit in her lap or shower her with diarrhea when they were ill. When they had measles, and their eyes went red, and they refused to eat, and they cried incessantly, she would plead with them, ask them to be quiet and tempt them with nice little things. She would show a high degree of patience even if she herself was feeling very tired.
Ballasted with Padlockisms, I took up arms to save these children from what I believed was the wrong way to be raised. I drove them hard to do their homework. I drilled them to memorize the multiplication tables. I loaded them with spelling tests. I shouted at them to wash up and to move quickly when ordered to do something. I advised Aunt to discipline them, meaning to beat them and to stop them from talking back. I asked her to discourage them from finding excuses for the wrongs they did. I wanted them to be docile, obedient and trustworthy. I wanted them to stop playing ball, throwing things, tearing paper and chasing each other round the house. Playing seemed to liberate a laxity that had no place on the table of virtue.
I took it upon myself to father these fatherless bastards whose only common parental bond was their mother. Where were their biological fathers? Wasn’t Aunt a sort of whore? Wouldn’t the Biblical Jews have stoned her to death? Deep down I must have been titillated by the word “whore”—it made me remember Cane’s nudes, labias gaping and beckoning to both customers and voyeurs. Aunt was doing it with many men, I thought. The thought both infuriated and excited me. I loathed seeing her talk to any man. I would get seizures when she talked to her man friend. The way she paid attention and responded to him, even if the subject was as banal as diapers, fever or sunshine! As the “man” in the house, as the “dad” of the children, as the number two in command, I felt both insulted and eclipsed.
I would not have minded if Aunt had been ugly, obese and nasty, but she was petite, elegant and attractive. She made me think of Lusanani all the time. When she smiled, the gums did not jut sheathless in the air, deserted by lips pulled brutally back. Instead, the lips stretched just up to the top of the teeth and stayed there in a controlled, almost self-conscious smile. I wanted her to smile over and over again. Her smile was the dearest feature I preserved and clung to when the tide turned against her and riddled holes into old dreams.
I started entertaining murderous fantasies when I saw her with her man friend. I wanted him to be crushed by a car. This man lived in his own house, a distance from Aunt’s house. When he came over, he brought good things with him and tried to be nice, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I wished impotence on him, because I knew that after the smiles and the gifts, he would lie on top of Aunt, push his large penis inside her and make her emit silly sounds. I could see him with his hands all over her, dipping his fingers into all manner of orifices, pushing with all his might. I was in the clutches of the impotent anger suffered by the righteous who get trapped in compromising situations.
I felt invaded and demeaned by his presence. Here was a man who could father the fathers of the three little bastards. I did not like the urge I felt to watch myself when he was around. I wanted him to be the one to watch himself, ask himself questions and doubt his self-worth. I wanted him to fall off his pedestal and break his limbs. If not, I would push him off. In order to catch him with his pants down, I took to keyholing. It was at this time that all the morsels I had plucked from library books came alive. I would put my ear to the keyhole, dying to catch a wet whisper, a broken sigh, a sharp moan. I wanted to compare Sr. Bison’s simple, clean, very effective sounds and Lusanani’s elaborate songs with Aunt’s unknown repertoire. Time stood still in boggy confusion whenever I was rewarded with a sound of sorts. Celibate priesthood was in the balance. If this was how a seminarian gathered information and life experience without breaking celibacy rules, it became clear that it was a ship full of holes I was sailing on. I could feel myself drown, snapping for air. I eventually gave up keyholing, feeling lucky that I had not been nabbed.
On such mornings, Aunt would emerge looking radiant and strangely calm, almost apologetic in her niceness. I kept imagining the storm that arose one day while Jesus slept in a boat. After all the humping and grinding and vocalizing, Aunt’s storms seemed to have dissipated. Mr. Storm Crusher himself always emerged looking nonchalant, as though all he had done was swat a fly. Aunt would take extra care with the breakfast, as though she had to appease everybody. A strange unease would overshadow the meal. It was as though something wrong had happened, and everyone knew the culprit but could not speak out due to conflicting loyalties. Aunt would resemble somebody juggling hats on her head. After the meal, she would change from lover and mother to NRM operative, market supervisor, liquor brewer and church volunteer. Some act. Mr. Storm Crusher’s departure thrilled me.
I could appreciate all the different hats Aunt wore except that of church volunteer. Her reconciliation with the Church seemed quite dramatic in the context of her teenage rebellion and independent adult life. It seemed a calculated decision to incorporate a part of her past into her present life. She went to church every Sunday and was a member of the Catholic Women’s Group. It did not occur to me then that she might have stayed near the Church just to milk information for the guerrillas, because many Catholics sympathized with the cause.
During the week, she spent the biggest part of the day at the market fulfilling her duties as a market supervisor. In the process of settling disputes, handling applications for stalls, collecting stall dues and liaising with local government officials, she conducted NRM business. She exchanged messages with contacts, guerrillas who came disguised as customers, potential traders and favor seekers. In addition to this, she brewed liquor once a month at a friend’s place in the suburbs. It was a very dangerous undertaking, whose crudity repelled me. I would compare it with Fr. Kaanders’ book bindery and feel dismayed. Why was Aunt taking such a risk? Were there no better ways to supplement her income? It was only much later, after contact with the soldierly Infernal Trinity, that I reconciled myself to the business.
For the time being, things went well. I enjoyed the holidays very much, save for the occasional worry when Aunt was late coming home in the evening. I would start speculating. Had her luck run out? Had the security forces caught her carrying NRM documents? But she always came back, and apologized for keeping me waiting.
My wish came true. Aunt’s man friend stopped spending nights at her place during school holidays. I had pushed him off his pedestal. I did not care how often Aunt went over to his place, as long as he stayed out of my way.