Spilt Milk Read online

  First published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd in 2010

  Second impression 2011

  10 Orange Street

  Sunnyside

  Auckland Park 2092

  South Africa

  +2711 628 3200

  www.jacana.co.za

  © Kopano Matlwa, 2010

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-77009-791-9

  Also available as an e-book

  d-PDF ISBN 978-1-4314-0401-8

  ePUB ISBN 978-1-4314-0402-5

  mobi ISBN 978-1-4314-0418-6

  Job No. 001606

  Set in Sabon 11/14.5

  See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  “Every book is a prayer.”

  (Author unknown)

  “Ah, Sovereign Lord,” I said, “I do not know how to speak; I am only a child.” But the Lord said to me, “Do not say ‘I am only a child.’ You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you.”

  (Jeremiah 1:6 – 7)

  It was as the curtains were about to be drawn, when children were called in from a day full of play, when little pots of rice were washed of their yellow starch and the gravy turned down from 4 to 2, that they silently snuck out the back door.

  It was as the darkness was about to fall, when the hot sun had had its final say, when black, square shoes were rested from their whole-day march and the rush-rush was over with not much left to do, that they returned to where they’d been before.

  And even though it really was just only their fingers that had rocked backwards and forwards in increasing desire;

  And even though they’d made sure their lips were curled tightly back as they took deep gulps of each other’s breath;

  And even though it was only just her sternum and definitely not her breasts she’d permitted him and he’d attempted to touch …

  … to the tall Fathers with the heavy shadows that crushed them as they lay there in the afternoon grass, it had looked like something so much more ominous, so much more sinful, so much more depraved.

  As he stood before the church tribunal, with all those grave creamy eyes sighing heavily at him, those frail gold-framed spectacles shaking their heads at him and those thickened bunion hearts tut-tutting at him, he looked up to God for a moment with eyes that stung of anger and betrayal. How was he supposed to have known that the feelings were false and the intimacy wrong, when God Himself had been so encouraging?

  But that was that. His bags were packed and soon he was on his way, to away away, where lines were straight and circles round.

  And once out on the road and far far from earshot, he made it clear to the thick plug of sour guilt that sat at the top of his throat that if it thought it was there to stay, then it really did have another thing coming. As soon as he was out of view he would scowl his face, knot his neck and spit it out and out and out until his throat was raw and all that remained was retching. Of all the things he was prepared to feel, guilt was not one of them. And he would leave it there, the thick plug of sour guilt, lying on the dirt road for large truck tyres to crush, just as it should be.

  God had actually had nothing to do with their disgrace. That day, God too was rolling in the grass, laughing with the sun, surprised at the scowling faces, but sadly, this was discovered only much later, when too much had already been lost.

  After all the excitement, after the jubilation, after the celebrations, after they had finished with the laughing, the sweet tears of joy, after they had sobbed in pure gladness, after they had yelped in ecstasy, after they had snivelled at the beauty of it all, after they had lit candles in reverence of the time, after they had knelt down on their knees and kissed the ground, after they had exclaimed to all and sundry the victory they had won, after they had howled at the mastery of their success, after they had thrown their fists into the air, after they had roared with triumph and screeched at the supremacy, after they had torn down old street signs, after they had paraded into the streets and sung those songs that could only be sung by those who had suffered before, after they had stood in front of the television flicking between the two channels hoping to catch it again, after they had held hands and flung them into the air, after they had all stood in lines changing back from names that rolled out the nose easily to those that slickly used the tongue, after they had embraced complete strangers.

  After packing up the room and moving into rooms, after the purchasing of German cars, after filling up the cabinet, after changing the neighbourhood and the neighbours, after buying new wardrobes, after throwing out prima stoves for microwave ovens, after filling up leather purses with shiny gold and silver cards, after BlackBerrys, MP3s, electronic notebooks and hands-free sets, after the inaugurations and commemorations, after the mounting of new statues where the old ones used to stand, after shaking hands and swapping gifts, after they had sat around round tables drafting new bills, after sketching designs for emblems, logos, badges, after no paper became green paper became white paper announced on the evening news, after rugby teams met quotas and companies had colourful CEOs; after it was all done, she came.

  Out of nowhere. Quite literally out of nowhere. She belonged to no people, as far as we knew anyway. No place, no person, no friend, no neighbour, no preschool teacher who could identify her. And at a time in this country when to get anywhere or anyplace one needed to be known, it was quite a risky thing she did, coming out of nowhere, with no struggle, no prison, no party, no nothing. But perhaps that is why they looked up, because no rational person would ever dream of doing such a thing, and the irrational have always amused us.

  She had simply woken up one morning and realised we had been speaking for decades. Speaking and arguing, planning and deliberating, theorising and hypothesising, complaining and moaning, shouting and screaming, and it was now enough. There would be no more speaking, no more arguing, no more planning, no more deliberating, no more theorising, no more hypothesising, no more complaining, no more moaning, no more shouting, no more screaming, no more words, no more. There had been enough talk. It was now time to work.

  She pointed out that it was now a different time. A time not for little round men and women in sparkly suits with quick speech and magic tricks, saying this and saying that, promising this and promising that, buying this and buying that, being charged with this and being charged with that, accused of this and accused of that, caught for this and caught for that; round men and women in sparkly suits who kept letting us down. It was all so boring, she said, so mundane. And who amongst us was not tired of defending them?

  She pointed out that after the elation, after the hysteria, after the scones and ginger ale and custard and canned peaches, after the delirium and the drama, after the heat and intensity, after the meat and the alcohol and salt and vinegar chips, after excitement pierced the air and prospect ripped the sky, after it all, things came apart. Came apart slowly, but came apart nonetheless.

  Deceit was found in the pockets of heroes, rot in the rucksacks of warriors, treachery in the notepads of leaders, depravity in the shoes of champions, greed in the closets of the ordinary, decay on the key chains of figureheads and disease tucked quietly into the bras of our legends. And even the Pale People realised that they needn’t ever use the just-in-case packed bags they kept underneath the staircase, in the boot, under the bed; the car they kept with extra fuel, extra oil, extra tyres; the apartment they kept in Australia, in London, in New Zealand. Because as it so happened, the Dark People became their own oppressors.

  “The perilous thing about being the victim,
” she said, “is that you are never forced to hold the mirror up to yourself. No one ever asks you to evaluate your actions, your motives, your intent, and so you continue on with no points checked and no questions asked.”

  And after uTata, well, there really were no great names, not in the moral sense, no nobility left. Sure there was money and plenty of money-makers, but no T-shirts, no funny dance, no million-dollar smile, no croaky voice.

  And so Mohumagadi, because that was how she was to be addressed, called for a school to be formed. Sekolo sa Ditlhora. A school of excellence. A place where Mathematics would not simply be a tool taught to tally mortality rates, to compute debts and to add zeros to failing economies, but a means to add something to the nothingness, to create change, fill space, organise thinking and multiply results. A place where History would not be a subject of chronicled post-independence dates of resentments, war and hatred but would stand as a witness to all things overcome from all centuries gone by. A reminder of where we have been and where we no longer want to be. It would be a place where Geography would not simply be a means to identify sources of aid on the map of the world, but a pursuit of the understanding of the earth itself, a way to find place and meaning and thus perspective. This would be a school where Art was not just the beadwork sold by bo Koko on the side of the road but a sense of identity, a means to connect with our ancestors and those to come, a centreing.

  She said it would be a school where circumstance would not divide us, and poverty would be left outside the gates. A place where the elderly listened to the young and the young took the podium and led. A place of pride. A place of truth. She said it would be a place where the begging bowl was overturned and used as a stepping stone. Where umntu omnyama could be something great. For how else could things change if not at the very beginning? And if we didn’t believe it? We could fuck off.

  And so Sekolo sa Ditlhora was opened, and what a mighty structure it was. The gates were soaring and ebony and plated with gold. Behind them lay space, wide open space, space in which to breathe, to think, to create. There were gardens, thick leafy gardens, distinct striking gardens, gardens with fruit trees interrupted only by long corridors of light. And if one walked far enough there were little streams to stand around where statues of Cleopatra, Makeda and Tiye looked to the sky. Old scrolls were recalled and the names of great emperors, kings and queens who were left out of the history books were placed on the doors of classrooms. So Shamba Reading Room and Khama Place of Study could be found on the same floor, and Nehanda and Nandi housed grades One A and B.

  The teachers were carefully selected; only those who were believed to have the ability to inspire growing minds, encourage a pursuit of knowledge and instil a sense of ambition were chosen. And what a relief it was for mothers now that they didn’t need to wake up a little earlier to force hard straw hats onto course hair and unwilling heads. No more did Aunty have to iron carefully around the badge of arms and Latin motto no one in the house knew the meaning of but everyone revered. And when they heard that there was an alternative to the schools where brown boys and girls only ever got certificates for Xhosa and Zulu, well, their minds were made up.

  And even though Mohumagadi seemed like a tormented, angry woman, understood only by those she had worked with for years, and even though she appeared to have to try hard to be politically correct, everyone was thankful she was focused on making the school great, and everybody, even the white newspapers, agreed that it was a good thing. At least she was not Mugabe-angry, at least she was not that.

  And as the gates were closed each morning, it was clear to all who stood outside them that these people were done with being objects of curiosity. The children were working. Everyone agreed that it was indeed a school of excellence.

  Only a few years after the opening of the school, a predicament in the form of a bound report found its way onto Mohumagadi’s desk. It was written by Dr Tshivhase, the Public Health and Epidemiology teacher, who had led an afternoon field trip to the Nkosi Johnson Inaugural Lecture. Whilst redoing a headcount on the return journey, he had happened upon four Grade Fours at the back of the school bus with their buttocks exposed, panties around ankles and school trousers around knees. They had no reasonable explanation for their behaviour other than that they had wanted to see.

  The story found its way to the weekend’s papers, where it was reported that the children of Sihle Dladla (CEO of Maatla Power House), Ntombovuyo Pooi (author of Sexual Consciousness), Peter Graham (of the Alliance of the People) and Diplomat Tshilitsi Mntambo ‘were found at the back of a school bus engaged in an orgy’. In response, Dr Mahlangu, Public Relations Officer and Media Liaison, suggested that perhaps a little divinity might do the kids (and the school’s now sullied image) a bit of good.

  But who to call and where to look? Of all the things Mohumagadi cared about, religion was certainly not one of them. The way she saw it, God and His Bible, which suspiciously held servitude in high esteem, had no place in this school of change. “God was not there when we were chained, when we were raped, when we were cheated and beaten for all those centuries past, so why only now does God want to involve Himself when it appears that we are winning?” No, to Mohumagadi God was solely for weddings and bedtime stories and certainly not for work.

  The whole idea of religion irked her; the rituals, the candles that would damage the classroom carpeting, the pompous pious pew behaviour and the overzealous boasting of fourteen-year-olds claiming that they alone on missions to Africa had converted a village chief and his people to Christianity. It all left a bitter taste in Mohumagadi’s mouth. But nonetheless, she approved the idea proposed by Dr Mahlangu and seconded by Dr Ntsoko (member of the Board of Directors), albeit with a little perspiration prickling her armpits.

  She would allow a church person to enter her school but resolved to keep a very tight handle on things and limit interaction with the pupils. There was much too much invested in this school, too many lives that had put their hope in it. The church was a threat to the very thing she had created and she knew that these people were very good at what they did, collecting whole nations for decades, splitting families, taking sons severed right off their umbilical cords, convincing daughters to adopt strange attire and insisting that their families change or disappear. They made her terribly, terribly uncomfortable.

  Of course, there was the question of race. All of the priests Mohumagadi had ever known were of the lighter shades with theologies tainted by European influence. How much worse it would be if he were also to have European blood! She really did not trust those religious types who claimed to believe in the country and in the people and in progress only to later escape to their balconies abroad and point down to the little corner of Africa where the people were resistant to the power of the spirit.

  So when Mohumagadi was told in confidence by Dr Zungu, who taught Indigenous Belief Systems, that the bishop was desperately searching for a place outside of the church to station a priest who had ‘defaulted and fallen prey to the desires of the flesh’, Mohumagadi rejoiced. How perfect to bring in a banished white priest! None of the haughty holiness, no grand robe, no condemning bow, just a simple man brought back down to earth by his own sins.

  “No one,” Mohumagadi announced in the executive meeting, “could be a better example for the children.”

  He arrived on a Monday morning. He had his landlord drop him off at the school, not sure if there would be a parking space for him, and not wanting to be presumptuous. He had not been given a letter or a note or a number to dial, just told to come to Sekolo sa Ditlhora, no. 6 Ray Street, Grey Lourie Gardens (close to Trucks for Africa), at 7.30 a.m. When the security guards who stood at the gates asked him the purpose of his visit, he wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t visiting as such; the word ‘visit’ suggested he was there to see someone specific and would shortly leave, but he wasn’t exactly sure how long he would be staying. What was he there to do? The bishop had said he needed to reflect and rest.

/>   “I am here to rest,” is what he told the security guards.

  “To rest?” asked one.

  “Uthini lomntu?” said the other, who had heard him clearly and appeared insulted.

  “Identification please, sir,” the third guard said, taking over.

  “I am afraid I do not have any identification, sir.”

  “Well, we are afraid you cannot come in, sir.”

  And that is how he ended up sitting on the curb outside the school gates, waiting for someone who could perhaps do something and not because, as it was later rumoured by many of the parents who had seen the shabby old white man sitting on the pavement of the school as they drove in to drop their children off, that he had come hustling for some kind of job.