“I am not voting,” Viliki had said, not bothering to hide his relief. “I’ll only have a casting vote if there is a tie.”
The following day, Popi’s motion had been passed. Five ayes and four nays. Viliki consoled himself that he had had no part in the foolish decision.
Another spat among the Pule Siblings blew up when Sekatle, the rich businessman who had worked for “the system” before liberation, applied to join the Movement. There were celebrations in the ranks of the Movement, rejoicings that Sekatle had at last seen the error of his ways. But Viliki objected. He said Sekatle was nothing but an opportunist. He was joining the Movement, not out of conviction, but for what he could gain from it financially.
It seemed that Viliki was taking an opposing view to that of the Movement on too many issues. Had his mayorship run to his head? Did he now think he was bigger than the Movement?
“Sekatle may be a scoundrel, Viliki,” said Popi, “but he is donating a sizeable sum of money to our branch to carry out the activities of the Movement.”
“That’s what I am saying, Popi,” said Viliki. “He thinks he can just buy his way into the Movement after doing all those filthy things against our people. He is the man who sold me out. Because of him, I was tortured by the Boers for days on end.”
“Where is your spirit of reconciliation, Viliki?” Popi asked. “We forgave the Boers who oppressed and killed us for three hundred years. We are reconciling with them now. Why can’t we reconcile with our own people too?”
Reconciliation won the day, and Sekatle became a member of the Movement in good standing.
Viliki gave in, and focused on his work as the mayor of Excelsior.
One of the greatest achievements of his council was the electrification of Mahlatswetsa Location. Every dwelling was wired up, even shacks like Niki’s. Families threw away their paraffin lamps, and kept their candles only for the days when there were power failures.
A naked bulb hung from the roof of Niki’s shack above the wobbly “kitchen scheme” table. At night it shone so brightly that it made her eyes uncomfortable. It reminded her of the naked bulb that had hung from the roof of the police cell in Winburg.
In addition to the electricity, Popi had installed a telephone. Most days it just sat there on a box in the corner without ringing. It rang only when Popi was away attending political meetings in the outlying districts. She called often to find out how Niki was keeping. And this greatly irritated Niki. She was only forty-nine, yet her daughter treated her like a senile invalid. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone in her solitude, as Viliki was doing? But when a whole day passed without Popi calling, perhaps because she was too busy, or maybe because she could not find a public phonebox in the vicinity, Niki would be irritated. Why didn’t the ungrateful girl call? Didn’t she know that her mother worried about her?
IN THE MORNING Niki went to collect cow-dung, as she did every day, while Popi went to town to attend to matters of the council. Niki missed Popi’s company during these expeditions. But Popi was too busywith the council. Or with political rallies throughout the eastern Free State.
On Saturdays, she was too busy with funerals. She was a funeral singer in one of the many choirs of Excelsior. In her red and white and black uniform of the Methodists. Singing at funerals was a pastime she had begun nine years ago, when she had sung her little heart out at Pule’s funeral. Since then, every Saturday she attended funerals and sang at them. There were more funerals than ever before. In the old days, there used to be only one funeral per Saturday. Some Saturdays would even pass without a funeral. But now there were about three every Saturday. The people of Mahlatswetsa Location were dying in great numbers. Sometimes Popi would be torn between funerals. Or between a funeral and a political rally.
This did not mean that Popi had outgrown cow-dung expeditions. Once in a while, when she wanted to release the stress that inhabited her body, she joined Niki in the veld. And became carefree and happy. She became a child again. She slid down the slopes and rolled on the grass. She skipped like a kid and gambolled around like a lamb. All her bitterness seemed to dissolve.
But these moments were becoming rare, Niki thought as she gathered dry cow-dung. If only things could be as they were before they took her children away.
As if in answer to her prayers, Popi approached, still wearing the blue dress with tiny white dots and the blue turban that she wore for special council meetings.
“You can’t collect cow-dung in your nice council clothes, Popi,” said Niki.
“I haven’t come to gather cow-dung, Niki. I have come to ask for your help.”
Swarming bees had invaded the Stadsaal. People were scared to go in or out of the building. Popi had offered to get rid of the bees. But once she had taken a look at the place where they were swarming, she knew that she would not be able to do it alone. She needed the assistance of a greater expert. Hence her pleading with Niki to go to town with her to get rid of the bees.
Reluctantly, Niki agreed.
The bees were hanging under the eaves of the building. They had swarmed the previous day, and had clustered around their new queen. Niki piled papers and cow-dung on a corrugated-iron sheet and lit a fire. Popi stood on a 55-gallon paraffin drum and lifted the smoking corrugated-iron sheet above her head just below the swarming bees. Soon the bees were drunk with smoke. Niki climbed on a stepladder and put her naked hand among the bees. They sat all around and over her arm without stinging her.
“What are you looking for, Niki?” asked Popi.
“The one with the golden legs, Popi. That’s the queen. All we need to do is to capture the one with the golden legs. The rest of her black-legged subjects will follow their queen.”
Niki found the bee with the golden legs and transferred her to a wooden box that was coated with honey inside. She shook her arm and the rest of the drunken bees fell into the box.
A group of spectators had gathered around the two women.
“Some of you stink of beer,” said Niki, as she shook more bees into the box. “Bees are sensitive to alcohol. They smell alcohol and they sting you.”
Two or three spectators skulked away into the building. They did not want to provoke the bees with their fumes.
“We’ll take these bees home, Popi,” said Niki. “We’ll build a hive in our backyard.”
The spectators went on their way as Niki placed the box full of bees on her head. When she turned to leave, she came face-to-face with Tjaart Cronje, who had just walked out of the building. They looked at each other. Quietly for some time. Softness crept into her eyes. His remained blank. But there was a littie twitch of a smile on his lips. Popi glared at Tjaart Cronje angrily, and then walked away. Niki followed with the box on her head. Tjaart Cronje walked to his bakkie parked on the pavement in front of the Stad-saal.
“I hear you and Tjaart fight like starving dogs over a dry bone,” said Niki, as they walked to Mahlatswetsa Location. “It is not a good thing for you to fight Tjaart.”
“I don’t fight Tjaart, Niki,” said Popi. “Tjaart fights me.”
25. THE WAR OF THE UNSHAVEN LEGS
YELLOW-COLOURED YOUNG MAN in a fiery red conical hat. Fiery red overalls. Fiery red shoes. Round-nosed combat boots. Gleaming. His coal-black fingers are strumming on the invisible strings of a golden-yellow guitar. He dances in a fluid of red and yellow flames.