It was the same when Tjaart Cronje entered. He went straight to the head of the queue.
We looked at the burly Tjaart and we looked at the tall and slim Popi. We saw what we had always whispered. They looked as if they had hatched from the same egg. Popi was just a darker version of Tjaart. We also noted that Tjaart did not see himself in Popi. And Popi did not see herself in Tjaart.
Tjaart Cronje did not see Popi at all. Just a row of faces that were not white, but were now permitted to share the same queue with white people. But Popi did see Tjaart Cronje. And was filled with hatred towards him. Popi’s hatred always bubbled close to the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. She hated Tjaart Cronje for having such a tight grip on Niki’s affection. The affection that should be Popi’s alone. Hers and Viliki’s. Yet some of it spilled over to Tjaart Cronje. Just because she had once been his nanny. And it was such a wasted love, because he was not even aware of its existence.
Anyway, what made Tjaart Cronje think he could just walk to the head of the queue and get service when she had been waiting in line for almost twenty minutes? Was it because he was Tjaart Cronje? And she was just Popi? Well, she had news for him. She was Popi Pule. She too had a surname, even though the familiarity that bred contempt meant that all and sundry just called her Popi. And Niki just Niki. And Viliki just Viliki. But they were born and bred by people too. They were Niki Pule. Viliki Pule. Popi Pule. And Tjaart Cronje had better remember that. Tjaart had better remember that.
Popi Pule. Stealer of surnames from cuckolded men!
She was fuming inside while she displayed an indifferent outside.
Jacomina Bornman, now Jacomina Cronje, rushed in, breathing as though she had been running. She whispered something to Tjaart Cronje. Obviously not the sweet nothings of newly-weds, for Tjaart left her to complete the banking transaction while he shot out of Volkskas Bank.
Jacomina took forever to finish whatever she was doing with the teller, which included exchanging snippets of gossip. When she turned to leave, she saw Popi. She looked at her for a long time, until Popi feared that she might have read her evil thoughts. Jacomina slowly broke into a smile as a glimmer of recognition dawned on her.
“Dumela,” she greeted in Sesotho. Like all Afrikaners who grew up in Excelsior, she spoke fluent Sesotho. Like almost all Afrikaner natives of the eastern Free State.
“Dumela,” responded Popi without any enthusiasm.
“I remember you,” said Jacomina. “You used to sit outside our garden parties with your mother. Why, you have grown into such a big beautiful girl.”
Popi took exception to being remembered by her. But she did not say anything. These people had no business knowing her. Why should this Jacomina continue to hoard memories of her back when she used to hang around garden parties with Niki? That must have been eighteen years ago. She had only been five then. What twisted god had cursed this Jacomina with such a cruel streak of memory? She, Popi, did not remember this Jacomina from the garden party days. She must have been one of the big white girls who used to pinch her cheeks before they gave her a sweet or a cookie.
“What happened to your mother? Is she still alive?” asked Jacomina innocently.
“What would make her dead?” asked Popi, taking further offence that this Jacomina should dare to associate Niki with death.
“Don’t be rude, girl,” said Jacomina. “I am being nice to you. It’s just that I no longer see her at any of our garden parties.”
As if you had invited her!
She was being nice. Like the coochi coochi coo women in the bus. Her memory of their niceness was as vivid as if it were yesterday. Nice. Would people ever stop this foolish notion of being nice to her? Didn’t they know that she was a boesman? No one had any right to be nice to a boesman. Didn’t they know that?
Popi walked home with Viliki’s money hidden in her bra. At the junction where the dirt road to Mahlatswetsa Location joined the four-lane tarred road that became the only street of the town, she saw a sea of people coming her way. They were trotting and toyi-toying like prancing horses, and chanting slogans. Popi remembered that Viliki had mentioned something about Solomon Mahlangu Day. May 1993. They were celebrating Solomon Mahlangu, a young hero from Viliki’s Movement who was hanged by the Boers during the Wars of Liberation. The people were using this day to demand the release of all political prisoners.
All political prisoners, Viliki? There are no political prisoners in Excelsior. How can you demand that the Boers of Excelsior release all political prisoners? Excelsior is part of South Africa, Popi. There are still political prisoners in South Africa. Even though we will have our first general elections next year. There are still political prisoners in the jails of this country. We are taking a memorandum to the police station demanding that all political prisoners in South Africa be released forthwith!
Before the demonstrating crowd could reach her — or before she could reach the demonstrating crowd — a platoon of policemen approached from the direction of the town. Policemen in police vans. Police reservists in their private bakkies. A convoy of them. They passed Niki as she walked towards the crowd. She saw that the policemen were led by Captain Klein-Jan Lombard. The police reservists were under the command of Tjaart Cronje. So that was where he was rushing! Among the reservists was Johannes Smit.
The platoon stopped in front of the crowd and Captain Klein-Jan Lombard instructed it to disperse and go back peacefully to Mahlatswetsa Location. Viliki, who was at the head of the crowd, shouted that the crowd would not disperse. The crowd was marching to the police station to hand in a memorandum. The people of Mahlatswetsa were demanding the release of political prisoners.
“That’s not a local issue,” Captain Klein-Jan Lombard tried to reason. “Is has nothing to do with the police of Excelsior.”
“It has everything to do with the police of South Africa in every square inch of this country,” yelled Viliki. “And you want a local issue, do you? We demand that Adam de Vries be removed as the Administrator of our township. Get the Conservative Party out of our affairs!”
The party that was ruling Excelsior at the time was the Conservative Party — another splinter group from the National Party. Unlike the Herstigte Nasionale Party, it was a strong group, which even had significant representation in Parliament. Hence Adam de Vries, who continued to be the leading light of the National Party, was no longer the mayor of Excelsior. The mayoral chain was now worn by the arch-right-winger, Gys Uys. Tjaart Cronje and Johannes Smit were now members of the town council, as representatives of the Conservative Party, in addition to their self-appointed task of policing Excelsior as police reservists. Although Adam de Vries was no longer mayor, and his National Party no longer had power in Excelsior, they let him run Mahlatswetsa Location as Administrator as he professed superior knowledge of “these people”, knowledge gained from his anthropology courses at university.
The police reservists were getting impatient with the official police. One could not reason with these people. There was only one language they understood. Tjaart Cronje opened fire. Johannes Smit followed with his own fire. The crowd screamed and ran in different directions. The policemen and their reservists ran after them, hitting them with the butts of their guns.
Popi was not going to run. She had not been part of the crowd. She was on her way home from the bank. Home, where Niki was waiting for the money in order to buy maize-meal and candles from Sekatle’s shop. Which would make Viliki angry.
Why do you spend my money at that sellout’s shop? Why do you enrich the dog that has made his money from selling our people to the enemy? He is already rich, Viliki. Tour buying at his store or not buying at his store will not make a dent in his wealth. Will not stop him from driving around the location, playing loud music, blowing his hooter for everyone to know Sekatle is driving by. In any case, Viliki, you do not expect us to go all the way to town just to buy a packet of candles, do you? And those shops in town, are they not owned by the enemy? Like your Volkskas Bank?