“Silence please, the chair is speaking!” he shouts. “Here we have Miss Vathiswa from the Blue Flamingo Hotel. She is buying with her twenty cents that the school choir must take a rest for the duration of three songs, and must be replaced by the choir from the Blue Flamingo Hotel!”
People applaud as the school choir walks from the stage. The Blue Flamingo choir takes the stage, and NoPetticoat’s voice rings in a new izitibiri song. Vathiswa herself joins the choir and dances around clownishly. But even before they have gone halfway through the song the bell rings again. The choir stops.
“For twenty-five cents this young man here. . he is a student at Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School. . he says that he will not allow anyone to treat his school choir like that,” says the chairman. “The Blue Flamingo choir should go home to sleep, and the school choir should come back to the stage.”
The school choir has sung only one song before Vathiswa buys it off the stage again. The buying battle between Vathiswa and a group of students, now also joined by some parents, continues until the price is five rand. Vathiswa throws in the towel, and the choir from the secondary school dominates the stage. It sings three songs in a row, which reverberate around the walls of the hall, overwhelming everyone with joy. The very joy that is reflected on the faces of the students as they sing and dance.
The fourth song is not izitibiri but a formal classical piece that is conducted by Xoliswa Ximiya herself. Halfway through the song the bell rings.
“We have this man here who won’t tell us his name,” says the chairman. “He says that he is not stopping the song. After all, it is such a beautiful song by one of our greatest composers, Michael Mosoeu Moerane. He merely wants to comment on the beautiful smiles on the children’s faces as they sing with their lovely voices that sound like drops of rain. But he is not happy that the conductor herself does not have a happy smile. The conductor looks sad. He is therefore buying with his three rand that that man who is sitting in the audience, Camagu, son of Cesane, should come to the stage and tickle the conductor, Miss Xoliswa Ximiya, as she conducts this song. We have never seen Miss Xoliswa Ximiya laugh, the buyer says.”
Xoliswa Ximiya gives both the buyer and the chairman a very stern look. Camagu is embarrassed, but laughs in the spirit of the game. He goes to the chairman’s table. The bell rings again.
“Camagu is buying with his three rand fifty that he will not tickle Miss Xoliswa Ximiya because the buyer has neglected to mention which part of Miss Ximiya’s body he should tickle,” the chairman announces.
People laugh. Some students shout, “On the hips! On the waist!” while others yell, “On the sole of her feet! Tickling is more effective there!”
But the chairman rings the bell and says, “No use shouting! Only money talks at the concert! Come to the table and buy if you want to say anything.”
Xoliswa Ximiya casts a deadly look at the buyer, and then at Camagu, as she walks to the chairman’s table. The bell rings.
“Miss Ximiya says with her five rand that there shall be no tickling, and that is final,” announces the chairman. He looks around for the buyer, hoping that he will pay more money to have his way, and for the first time the people of Qolorha-by-Sea will see their headmistress reeling with laughter. But the buyer is not brave enough to contradict Xoliswa Ximiya.
The choir continues with Moerane’s song until it comes to an end. Then they lunge into an energetic izitibiri song and dance. The bell rings.
“Things are becoming hotter and hotter,” says the chair man, “Here we have Qukezwa, daughter of Zim. .”
Camagu’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the mention of the name. There is Qukezwa, looking as cocky as ever, leaving the chair-man’s table and going to sit next to the buyer who bought that Xoliswa Ximiya should be tickled. This tickling business must be her idea. He wonders from which hole she has emerged after all these weeks.
“She is buying with her five rand that every woman in the audience whose name is NomaRussia should come to the stage and parade as if in a beauty contest,” says the chairman, “and Camagu should be the judge of which NomaRussia is the most beautiful.”
This has gone beyond a joke, thinks Camagu. He came to the concert to enjoy himself, not to be the center of so much ridicule. But the NomaRussias of Qolorha-by-Sea do not see this as ridicule. It is fun, and a moment of fame for many of them. They stream to the stage, in every shape, size, and age, about fifteen of them in all. They clown around and parade on the stage, to the great amusement and cheers of the audience.
Camagu walks to the chairman’s table, intently looking at the NomaRussias, hoping against hope that his own NomaRussia is among them. But she is not. He buys with ten rand that he will not be the judge, and the NomaRussias must get off the stage so that the choirs can continue. He adds that the next choir to take the stage should be the hotel choir. The amount is too big for anyone to argue with.
The bell rings.
“Here is a group of girls. They say they are not stopping the choir. It must remain on the stage. For two rand they only want Qukezwa to come to the stage and explain the pain of their friend which Qukezwa seems to enjoy,” says the chairman. Then he adds, “I must admit I do not understand what it is exactly that the young ladies are buying. But Qukezwa must come to the stage and explain the pain.”
Qukezwa walks to the stage. She smiles condescendingly at the girls who have bought her. It is not the first time she has had a confrontation with them. Nor will it be the last. They are the same girls who attacked her at work many moons ago. The very girls who insulted her in the presence of Camagu at the lagoon.
“The girls want me to explain the pain of their friend,” says Qukezwa defiantly. “Well, the explanation is a very simple one. Their friend caused the pain on herself.”
She is about to walk down the stage when the chairman stops her with his bell.
“Another person has bought you, Qukezwa,” laughs the chairman. “You see, you started the whole thing by buying the NomaRussias. Now people are buying you. For twenty rand John Dalton is buying you to sing in your split-tone manner. He says he has heard your beautiful voice as you went about working in his store. But today you need to share it with the rest of the audience.”
One thing Qukezwa is not ashamed of is her singing. She opens her mouth and sings in many voices. There is utter silence in the hall. Camagu remembers the silvery night when she sang him to an orgasm on top of Gxagxa.
Qukezwa sings in such beautiful colors. Soft colors like the ochre of yellow gullies. Reassuring colors of the earth. Red. Hot colors like blazing fire. Deep blue. Deep green. Colors of the valleys and the ocean. Cool colors like the rain of summer sliding down a pair of naked bodies.
She sings in soft pastel colors, this Qukezwa. In crude and glaring colors. And in bright glossy colors. In subdued colors of the newly turned fields. All at the same time. Once more wetness imposes itself on a hapless Camagu.
The song ends. She surveys the audience. Utter silence ensues. It follows her as she walks down the stage and out of the door. Panic grips Camagu. She will disappear again. And if she does he will never be able to find her. He will not let her disappear from his life again. He jumps out of his seat, calling her name. The scandalized eyes of the audience follow him as he bolts out of the door.
“Please, Qukezwa, wait for me,” he pleads. “We must talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” says Qukezwa, walking on, almost running.
“We have a lot to talk about! Please don’t run away from me!”