Niki was well-scrubbed herself. At twenty-two, she drowned the hearts of Mahlatswetsa in a vortex of desire. But she was unreachable. She could not save them from certain death. She was Pule’s wife. Pule, whose very name spoke of many rains. Old Pule who had been married before. And was deserted. Or did he desert?
Shame. Niki was loved so much. You could see it even from the way she walked. Like someone who is loved. Shame. She had a husband who dressed her so well. She glowed in a red two-piece costume with blinding silver buttons and a Terylene cream-white blouse. Her face glowed from Super Rose skin lightening lotion. She had long discarded the cheaper Pandora matt. One of the perks of being married to a man who burrowed in the earth for the white man’s gold. Her hair gleamed with braids of very thin lines. A style known as essence because it was first seen on models that appeared in an African-American magazine called Essence. Shame. Pule spoilt his young beautiful wife. There was no way she could dress herself and braid her hair like that from her earnings at Excelsior Slaghuis. We all knew how tightfisted the Boers of Excelsior were.
This was our church. It was Niki’s church. She belonged here. As she passed, she could hear seeping through the porous walls a hymn about God’s amazing grace that distinguished itself by its sweetness. If she had been inside she would also be singing about the amazing grace, while Viliki would be snuffing out with his little thumb termites that traced their path across the aisle up the pew in front of him. She would slap his hand and he would stop. But soon the massacre would resume. Viliki was always bored by solemnity.
She knew by heart what would follow the hymn. The minister would speak of how the meek would inherit the earth and the poor in spirit would see the kingdom of heaven. How those who were oppressed and persecuted would get their reward in heaven. They were the salt of the earth and the light of the world. But in the meantime, he would plead, while they were still on earth preparing for their inheritance in heaven, it was necessary that the leaking roof of the house of the Lord be repaired. Was it because of the congregation’s meanness of spirit that even though over the years appeals had been made for funds to repair the roof, very little had been raised? How did the congregation think the Lord felt about being praised in a dilapidated building with a leaking roof and cracked walls with peeling paint? The congregation would respond with amens. But only small brown coins would find their way into the collection plate.
It was like that every Sunday.
Today Niki was going to another church, the one in town. A distance of twenty minutes at an easy pace. Fifteen minutes if she didn’t have someone slowing her down. The Reverend François Bornman’s beautiful church built of sandstone and roofed with black slate. Everyone said it was shaped like hands in prayer, but Niki did not see any of that. Often she had tried to work out how exactly the strange architecture translated into hands in anything, let alone prayer.
She got there just as the final bell was tolling. She was right on time for the service. Worshippers in colourful floral dresses and grey suits were scurrying into the church. Some betrayed the fact that they were first-time visitors by pausing to read the inscription on a marble panel next to the door: Tot Eer van God is hierdie steen gelê dew Ds J.G. Strydom, Jehova Shamma, Die Woning van God, Ezfich 48–35B. In honour of God, this stone was laid by J.G. Strydom — the Lion of the North who was the Prime Minister of South Africa from 1954 to 1958, and made certain that he did not make equal what God had not made equal. He who confirmed to his people: As a Calvinist people we Afrikaners have, in accordance with our faith in the Word of God, developed a policy condemning all equality and mongrelisation between White and Black. God’s Word teaches us, after all, that He willed into being separate nations, colours and languages. The house of God.
Niki and Viliki stood outside the gate where they would remain for the rest of the service. It was the nagmaal service, so named after the days when Afrikaners trekked from their distant farms into the towns every few months to attend the evening service in which rites of the Last Supper — the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine — were revisited. Niki was able to catch waves of what was going on inside the church, and she became part of it. She joined the Afrikaners in singing about God’s amazing grace that was also very sweet. The red amaryllis — belladonna lilies indigenous to this part of the world — attested to this grace. And so did the clean paved surroundings, sanctified by the organ that backed the angelic voices. The amaryllis bowed their heads along the knee-high wrought-iron fence that surrounded the church. Niki and Viliki bowed their heads too. They stood up when it was time for standing up. They sat when it was time for sitting. She listened attentively to the Reverend Bornman’s booming sermon. She was uplifted by St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians: And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Praise the Lord that the door had been mercifully left open so that her ears could feast on His Word!
Thus she became part of the Great Fellowship.
All this solemnity bored Viliki. He broke away from the holy rites. While Niki sang the Afrikaans hymns, he clambered on the sandstone column near the gate, and traced with his forefinger the names engraved on the marble panel. Under the heading: Eeufees Ossewatrek 22 Oct. 1938 was a list of the names of the distinguished citizens of Excelsior who had participated in the wonderful commemoration of the centenary of the Great Trek. They were among a group of Afrikaners who re-enacted the great event of 1838 by trekking from Cape Town into the interior of South Africa with ox-wagons. Viliki’s reading skills were not advanced enough to decipher some of the prominent surnames in the district.
Niki sat, stood and bowed her head — as the ceremony demanded — through the Bible readings and the paeans and the sharing of bread and wine. In spirit she devoured the body of Christ and imbibed His blood. She listened to the announcements and sang the final hymn.
Then the church’s hands opened up, and spilled a flood of rejuvenated worshippers onto the fulfilled paving. Niki could see the Reverend François Bornman shaking hands with his flock, who were obviously congratulating him on an inspiring sermon. The Reverend Bornman in his shimmering black suit and snow-white tie. There was Johannes Smit in an ill-fitting brown suit cracking a joke with the doddering farmer, Groot-Jan Lombard. Smit did not seem to be aware that his beer belly had grown bigger and that he therefore needed clothes a few sizes larger. Niki was glad that he no longer bothered her. Maybe he had found someone else to be obsessed with. There was Sergeant Klein-Jan Lombard and his wife, Liezl, shaking hands with the Reverend. There was Adam de Vries and his wife, Lizette, walking out of the gate to their house, which was just behind the church.
Adam de Vries always had a kind word for everyone. As he passed Niki, he smiled and asked, “Did you enjoy the service?”
“It was good, my baas,” responded Niki.
There was Stephanus Cronje, his wife, Cornelia, and their son Tjaart. Seven-year-old Tjaart looked like a grown-up in a navy blue suit, white shirt and grey tie. He saw Niki and Viliki at the gate, and ran to join them.
“So, what are we going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Niki. “You’ll think of something.”
“I know!” said Tjaart excitedly. “You can carry me on your back.”
“No, I will not do that.”
“Come on, Niki! Horsey-horsey!”
“Never!”
The boy sulked. Viliki wondered why his mother had lost interest in Tjaart’s horsey-horsey game and why she never played it with her own son.