Msholozi has the infallible instinct to take in his upraised fist the failure of the rival party to meet the demands of its followers and vow his government will not tolerate the deprivation of the people of their rights anywhere in the country, he’s in process of nationwide inquiry, those responsible must answer for their neglect and lack of action. As if the water has begun to flow into the taps with his words the angry disarray of the crowd has become a song and dance of celebration for the presence among them: ZUMA ZUMA ZUMA. He is them they are him, their suffering, the man of the people, is his.
A flick of the control in the father’s hand dismisses whatever might follow, on- or off-screen.
Baba leads her out to the veranda where Sindiswa and the girls are drinking Coke, the boys lobbing their football into the midst, demanding a share, the sight of Baba and the appearance of aunts with the mother quietens the scene without lowering the pleasure. Some of the Elder’s fellow members of the church governing committee arrive with homebrew and the women mock protest, two of them striding their bulk zigzag to bring out as well the hospitality of the house. One of the men has been to see the site for a stadium to be built for the World Cup event that has been won, against all other world contenders, for South Africa next year. KwaZulu is to have the honour of one of the stadia which will hold fans coming from all over the world to see international countries compete. The boys are all gabbled questions. What’s it look like, how big, bigger than — but the man can’t find any comparison grand enough. Gary Elias from the city is fully informed, these country people haven’t a clue. — The Orlando one’s m-u-c-h bigger. But they’re all e-normous. — One of the boys insists — So what’s it look like? — The man who’s been there is grinning, lifting his chin to the scale of magnificence planned. But Gary Elias has the answer before him. — It’s not up yet!—
— Yes, they’re only clearing the ground, sixty-one thousand three hundred and twelve square metres they told me—
— Wow!—
— D’you hear—
— So how big would that look?—
— Mfana awazifundi izibalo zakho na? Don’t you learn your maths, umfaan—
The boys tease excitedly, punching each other. Gary Elias triumphs, he’s been with the Mkizes to see the vast changes already in progress at the stadium in Orlando. — That’s where the action’s gonna be.—
— And we’ll have our stadium in KwaZulu, d’you hear—
— And we’ll be there, we’ll all be there! — Chorus, the boys are linked, Gary Elias in the middle.
The headmaster reminds. — That depends whether you’ve passed your exams you must all be going up to grade nine or ten—
— Except Thuli—
— Yes well he is a year younger so he’ll have to be up to grade eight, he’ll be the exception if he’s worked hard this year.—
— Baba’s getting tickets for everyone in the team — you’ll come. — Vusi with assurance to Gary Elias as one of them.
Baba never needs to acknowledge boasts on his behalf, it is understood he has influence on this occasion as in many others that concern the community of the family. — We must not count the chickens before they are hatched. Ungabali amatshwele engaka chamuselwa, the tickets will only begin to be available perhaps early next year, it’s going to be a process, a great many, whole lot reserved for the people overseas, all the other countries with teams taking part, America, England, France, Brazil — At the pronouncement of that South American country a cry goes up even though you don’t interrupt Baba; after the home team Bafana Bafana the Brazilians are the favourites.
He allows the enthusiasm. — I have arrangements, soon as tickets will be available for us in our own country.—
The women laugh and slap open palms of one another.
Baba and her alone together, he had not for a moment taken attention from her in a hold that penetrated, appropriated from the statement of her pauses anything being withheld in what she was saying to him, for him. Here among the company where they belonged, his wife, her mother, the boys and the girls half-grown women among the family women, he did not pass a word or glance to her, it was as if she had taken her leave of him, already in her car, gone. Later there were the customary farewells, turnabout, as there had been the gifts of arrival, new-laid eggs from the ranging hens, mealies from the winter’s store, all in baskets where purpose and beauty met in the first art form she had, unconsciously, known, that of the extended family women who gathered the reeds and stripped sheaths of cobs to weave strength, each in a personal pattern through the agility of fingers. For some reason — parents never seem to think it necessary to give this honestly — this visit was to be shorter than usual. Gary Elias had been brought late in the second half of the school holidays, and this time his mother would come back to fetch him after a stay of only a few days. He happened to hear from one of the uncles who would be making the trip to Egoli where a son, once an outstandingly clever pupil nurtured in the headmaster’s school, had just been made a director in a food-chain enterprise — the uncle would be happy to have the chatter of the boy to accompany him. The proposed date coincided with the end of the school holidays. Gary Elias was eager to accept. If he took the lift with the uncle he’d gain four more days with the team. Wethu would stay on, too, and take the same ride with the man who was known to her by some generic in the complex of family relations.
Baba has come to the car with the women, as is not his custom, although he keeps his space from them, he’s there. She and Sindiswa open the doors, linger, get in, lower the windows so they are still in contact.
The football team has run up in claimed possession of Gary Elias. Which one calls out, not needing to name Jabu — You gonna bring him for the World Cup?—
No matter from where.
As she turns the ignition key it comes. The realisation that Baba’s ignoring her among the goodbye talk of others is his acceptance that if this is not the last time, before she is gone farther and further than any other time life has taken her; it may be.
Australia. Leaving like the men, the sons who for generations have left to work down in the gold mines, and now are gone Home-Boys, she’ll be coming back maybe as they do for a funeral. The long flight for the World Cup; the boy Gary Elias to witness it with his team.
Withdrawal now while they were among others is her Baba’s final permission for the future she and her chosen man have made without her father. It is Baba’s unspoken blessing on Down Under. Another journey. Beyond any he could or had ever planned for her, an unspeakable kind of freedom he couldn’t foresee.
It’s not something to tell.
Sindiswa is gossiping with her father about Gary Elias’s clever snatch at the chance to stay on with his football mates and get a lift later with some man who’s coming to the city.
— So you don’t have to go. — He’s guiltily relieved she won’t have to fetch Gary Elias, a trip he ought to have offered to make if there hadn’t been a solution.
— I won’t go back.—
When they are alone, she says it again — I won’t go back.—
So she has said something other, told something different from casual understanding of an alternative arrangement.
— Wha’d’you mean…?—