“Did you hear about Johannes?” asked Jacomina, as she rushed into the butchery from the bank.
“What about Johannes?”
“He has joined Oom Adam in the Excelsior Development Trust.”
“No. not Johannes Smit. he can’t do that,” said Tjaart Cronje, shaking all over with anger.
“Maybe you should reconsider your stand too, Tjaart,” advised Jacomina. “Maybe it is better for all of us to be part of this new South Africa.”
But Tjaart Cronje was no longer listening. He was ranting about the betrayal of the elders. He was raving that he had fought wars oh behalf of Adam de Vries, whose generation had never died at the border nor faced petrol bombs in the black townships. And now he had made an about-turn, taking many good Afrikaners with him. He would remain true to Afrikaner values even if everyone left to join the enemy camp. He was prepared to fight a lonely war.
It was clear that Tjaart Cronje had altogether lost control. He was screaming at the top of his voice, wielding a cleaver. His workers cowered in the corner. But he made no attempt to attack them. He was only interested in chopping the air in front of him. Jacomina stayed out of range while at the same time pleading with him to calm down.
“What do you expect from a man who ate pap and morogo in the huts of black nannies and boasts about it?” screamed Tjaart Cronje.
“You are not well, Tjaart,” pleaded Jacomina. “You have been working too hard. Let me drive you home. You need a rest.”
He seemed to calm down, and placed the cleaver on the counter. Jacomina rushed to him and embraced him.
“Don’t you worry, my darling,” she said, “everything will be all right.”
“Okay, many an Afrikaner child has played with black piccaninnies and has eaten in their homes,” he said weakly. “I myself used to play with Viliki. I had a bite or two at Viliki’s home. But it is not something I boast about at a dinner table. It was just part of the reality of growing up in the Free State platteland. Something better forgotten than broadcast at a dinner table!”
Then he began to jabber and foam at the mouth. He was running a temperature. Jacomina phoned Cornelia Cronje, and then drove her husband to the doctor.
34. A SEASON OF WHISPERS
ASPAN OF four donkeys is pulling a cart across the emerald-green ground. A green man and a green woman sit on the cart. A big round red sun burns in the red sky. Flashes of green and white cloud float around the sun. Green hills appear on the expansive horizon. The tones are hot and sombre.
The rays of the summer sun seared through the corrugated-iron roof and through the white ceiling. They filled the room with unbearable heat. The whirling fan on the ceiling was fighting a losing battle. It stirred the hot air that was descending with a vengeance over Tjaart Cronje as he lay on a white metal bed. His gaunt body was covered only in a white sheet, which was already drenched with his sweat. He was fast asleep. A group of elders in black suits stood over the bed, looking at him sadly. Among them were Klein-Jan Lombard, Gys Uys, Adam de Vries and the Reverend François Bornman. Klein-Jan Lombard was now retired from the police service and was dabbling in vegetable farming on his smallholding. The one-time mayor of Excelsior in the good old days, Gys Uys, was the oldest of the elders.
The elders were solemn. And respectable. None of them looked like men who would not acknowledge their daughters.
“It is terrible to see him like this,” said Klein-Jan Lombard, sighing sorrowfully.
“Ja, ou Stephanus’s boy used to be big and strong,” agreed the dominee. “He could have easily become a Springbok flank forward if he had pursued his rugby career.”
“It is sad to see him like this,” Gys Uys echoed Klein-Jan Lombard.
“What do the doctors say?” asked Adam de Vries.
“They are not able to put their finger on his problem,” said the dominee. “He’s tired. We should let him sleep. Jacomina says he was hallucinating all night long. something about the lies of the elders.”
“And you all pretend you don’t know what is wrong with him?” asked Gys Uys angrily.
“Do you know what is wrong with him, Gys?” asked Adam de Vries.
“We all know. Let’s not pretend,” cried Gys Uys. “We all know that we used these children to fight our wars. And then we discarded them. All of a sudden they find that they live in a new world in which they do not belong. We, on the other hand, have simply blended into this new dispensation. We were already established in our careers and in our businesses. We have the wealth and the influence and are now in cahoots with the new elite. Things like affirmative action do not affect us at all. But what about these young men who had to kill and be prepared to be killed on our behalf? They suffer the consequences. They are the ones who are on the receiving end of affirmative action and the kind of transformation that decrees that there should no longer be any white faces in any senior positions in the public sector and parastatals.”
“I knew that Gys would find some political reason for the young man’s sickness,” said Adam de Vries. “You always want to score some right-wing political point, Gys.”
“Perhaps Gys is right,” said the Reverend Bornman. “We all regret the past and yet are fearful of the future.”
“Don’t you dare count my name among those who regret the past,” yelled Gys Uys. “There was never anything wrong with the past until you people and your de Klerk messed it up. People like you, Adam, go around apologising to the blacks for apartheid. Did you ever think of apologising to these young men that you used?”
“It is people like you, Gys, who take away all hope from these young people,” said Adam de Vries. “You plant in their minds the false notion that Afrikaners are now the oppressed people.”
The Reverend François Bornman stepped forward and said, “Let us remember that we are here to pray for this sick boy. We are not here to poison the whole atmosphere with our silly arguments.”
The elders put their hands together and bowed their heads. The Reverend François Bornman led them in prayer.
SATURDAY MORNING. Popi decided to help Niki patch the holes in their shack before going to sing at the cemetery. The shack was falling apart. They spent a lot of time attending to the leaks, patching the ramshackle structure with mud at the corners and replacing corrugated-iron sheets that had been perforated by rust with plastic bags and cardboard.
Popi was telling Niki about the cherry harvest season in Clo-colan that had enabled her to put a few rands into her post office savings book. But the money was not enough to buy even a row of concrete blocks. The house would have to stay waist-high until a stroke of fortune came their way.
“The house is not important, Popi,” said Niki. “We should be happy that we do have a roof over our heads.”
“But I vow that one day I will finish this house, Niki,” said Popi. “I tell you, Niki, one day you are going to live in this house.”
Niki’s crusted face cracked into a smile.
“I know,” she said.
“And I’ll furnish it with very posh furniture,” enthused Popi.
“You know that I don’t care for posh furniture, Popi. I am just happy to have you back.”
“Back? From Clocolan?”
“From your politics. At least now I am able to spend a lot of time with you. But sometimes I can see that you are lonely. There is no man in your life. A woman needs a man in her life.”
“You know that I do not need a man in my life, Niki.”