The Owl
And
The Pussycat
“May I have your hand for marriage?”
“?” she says with a wrinkling of her brow. “Do you not mean have my hand in Marriage?”
He rotates his head several times adamantly. “No, No, No. I ask for your hand in order to get married. You see the one I intend to wed has stolen many a heart and has been punished by having her hand taken from her. So I ask you give me yours, so we may marry in peace. Do you now understand?”
“!” She says with daggers flung from her eyes. The stars in the sky blink in shock and remain silent in their voyeuristic vigil over the night.
She sighs and moves her hand over her shiny coat, glossing over her sadness with the involuntary gesture.
A cross wind rocks the boat as she shudders and speaks:
“It won't be a marriage sanctioned by the heavens, for I have blood on my hands from performing open heart surgery, massaging the egos of men such as yourself.”
His eyes grow wide. “So you shall, you shall?”
“I Shall! Only know this much I have always played my cards close to my chest because I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I wouldn't let a soul know where to look. However I owe you this much: from the hand you take I shall raise my child in its place.”
Not understanding what she implied, he pulled a cleaver, that was waiting in the wings and severed her hand, in a hurry. Her heart having no place to rest, slipped from her sleeve and fell to the boat's floor and shattered. She discovered she was the only one witnessing the tragedy when she looked up to see his silhouette take flight deep into the night.
She looked at her stomach growing slightly with a new spirit and hummed a lullaby to her soon to be born.
1.
My mother was feline, supple and graceful. My father had huge eyes; my slighted family were scant on the details. I am a bastard. My name is Majasane Audrey Lehadima. I am my mother's only child. I was born after an eighteen hour labour, that saw me expeled from my mother after she shuffled through bouts of vomit and deliria. A healthy boy at five point three kilograms - my legend: I was born with my eyes open and wearing my placenta. Hence I was refered to as Rajasinyane, little man with a coat or more explicitly; man with a small coat. Through a broken telephone of relatives; from the most excited, to the spiteful, all the way to the older hard-of-hearing matrons, my names were whispered and confirmed, finally recorded on my birth certificate as Majasane Audrey Lehadima. Audrey was as a result of a dunce of a clerk in the births' office who misrecorded the name Aubrey. I am a child born out of wedlock, my parents seperated before I was born – correction – my father left my mother to marry another woman, before she could tie him down with the guilt of a child. Till recently, I knew very little of my father, just a few minor details... he had big eyes, he worked at night he's street name was Redi... I was raised by my mother and her family--
Scuse me. That was Comrade. He was going on about how, now that he could afford a little roof garden he realised what the dealers were doing. “e Charlie these people. They want to keep the crop to themselves there's no seeds in their bankies maan! I bought from Freddy for a hundred and fifty. Daai maan gave me some good shit but there's no seeds maan! How am I supposed to plant!...”
Comrade is excitable at times, less than before, but he's doing fine now.
Where was I?
--
My mother was strong-willed and hauntingly beautiful. She was feline in appearance, had a predatory gait, meticulous grooming. She was distanced from the rest of the community by boundless will. She knew what it was she wanted, and didn't have any qualms in spurning the communal spirit of waiting for charity. She was envied and disliked. “who is she to think she is speshal?”. She was followed by sideway glances and rumours that got more and more detailed daily. Her reputation was steeped in scandal. Me the illegitimate child, her refusal to wed and then “where does she get the money for those clothes, she never told us where in Joburg she works, won't even help getting my daughter a job there, when I asked her, phela hhe manyeo there are those places in the city that make women whores...”
My first years were spent at my grandmother's house. My grandmother who had birthed nine children. Six of whom survived the middle passage from the womb to the world. She then suffered through burying two who never transcended to middle childhood – dying in their infancy. My mother was the sixth born and by her fourth year she was the eldest surviving sibling followed by her two sisters and younger brother.
In the early years in my grandmother's care and under the patronage of my grandfather, I had a lot of uncles, there always seemed to be a constant influx of young men who would be housed and fed in the family's four roomed domicile, for periods on end. Some coming and going, other's permanently fixed on the couch, or planted in the garden cleaning up after the tidying they had done. The garden was seasonally styled by who came when.
Despite the constant contact with the male example, I was close to my mother, I always had the feeling that it was me and her, despite the fact that we lived intimately with family – two aunts with their combined five offspring and the in and out uncles, it was always me and her. I heard the gossip they directed at my mother, and suffered the taunts of being a spoilt brat, who clung to his mother's petticoat, a “mama's boy” – they would exclaim with a jeering leer in their faces. I would survive the day and live happily through the evening once my mother returned from work.
My world was boxed in my grandparents' yard with its knuckle-dry peach tree and oil-rutted backyard autoshop. My only friend was Keke from diagonal back opposite, we'd talk – she'd tell me what she saw on TV at night, I'd listen and try and picture it – all the while, perched on the rusted support frame of the diamond-link fence, that demarcated the boundaries of my grandparents' abode. Her parents owned a shebeen and she was mainly babysitted by TV and – lucky her – video games. I remember wandering when my dad would come and bring me a video game – a black Golden China, with red buttons. On days when it got too hard to listen I would pout and tell her how Redi was delayed in America and would be back soon to bring me my Video Game and nice clothes. She never pointed out how my threat was worn out and was yet to become true.
In my grandparent's house the TV is only on for the afternoon soapie and the news, because we must save the tube. Things were kept in this house. The radio couldn't be played louder than eight on the thirty six point volume dial, so as to not damage the speaker. The trays were arranged in categories: daily use, special occasion, society visits, uppity friends visits, display. All things from tablecloths to curtains were mended by the industry of women in the house, charged by grandmother. My grandfather would busy himself with the paper and with the manly work of pruning the kinks out of his Peugeot. Me and my cousins would have to entertain ourselves between chores, armed with curiosity and mischief. They were brave enough to venture into the street, but for a while I was too mature a social foetus, awkward and unsociable to join the others. My birth, there, had to be induced.
Ous' Mame seemed to be my mother's only friend. She was nice to me and always enquired about how I was getting along. She was a nurse and when she had to work night's or had her days off, I was allowed to go over to her house and watch television, while she rested. In my gratitude, I watched only things she approved of. I was inundated with edu-programs and school going childrens' revision sessions. It was an intensive swatting marathon. I'd acquire and process information without knowing its importance or relevance. I'd latch onto ideas influenced by the passion of the disembodied teacher's presentation. I remember how undulating became my favourite word after a science tutor used it to explain a series of sound waves. My late morning to noons were a school day, then I'd have to switch channels to avoid the soapie repeats and informercials and watch the business news or CNN, while preparing and eating lunch. I would be rewarded at the end of the day with cinnamon biscuits (that had a slight salty taste) and a watery lemon squash coolade, as I watched the after school cartoon binge. I'd leave giddy with the exhaustion of a secret affair and still manage to run back home before my relative's worry would earn me a tongue lashing.
2.
The evening before my youngest aunt's wedding I had straddled at Ous' Mame's house. Mulling in the kitchen waiting for a pie to cool. I ate quickly, I knew I was late, but I still made an effort to recover time lost by sprinting the distance. I arrived and was greeted by people sizzling with mirth. Distant relatives who arrived for duty from out of town before me pestered me with enquiries of where things were or belonged. I was sent from pillowcase to postbox on frivolous tasks. I felt like a beast of burden, quietly sulking, wandering as to when my mother would arrive.
She arrived, all buttoned up against the cooling of dusk. She put her things in the bedroom, and to my disappointment didn't slow down to ask me about my day, but instead picked up an apron and joined the cackle in the kitchen-cum-henhouse, busying herself with the splitting of heads of cabbage. I felt displaced because the corner I would have sulked in had been earmarked as the slaughter area, and was rank with death. I ran round the side of the house, to sit under my grandparent's window. The night seemed to stretch itself as I fidgeted to find the most comfortable position, balancing against the wall, resting on my haunches and eventually resorting to cramp inducing squats.
I woke in the morning from a compost heap of sweaty bodies, the deposited children of aunts, cousins and relatives of relatives. I was in a foul mood and was not afraid to show it. I shuffled about and pretended not to hear my name being called by some or other blood-stranger. I lingered in the bathroom locking myself in as the line of cousins lengthened outside. I took my time languishing in the bath, soaping myself thoroughly, drying myself to a point of dehydration. Then walking out with an air of impenetrable casualness, I sauntered into the bedroom to moisturize and dress – making sure I hid away my grooming kit and leaving the crappy aqueous cream, for them to smear and streak their skin.
I spent the rest of my morning loafing about in my formal best, so as to avoid duty. I couldn't be sent on endless errands wearing my finery. I was left alone and scorned by the working class. “Oh look at our little prince” they would snigger. I ignored them and avoided the gaze of my mother, who didn't seem to attempt to admonish me in anyway, making me feel a touch of shame. I occupied myself with parading in front of the working kids and rating the venom in their silent cusses. One, the one who was too old to have a snot nose, but had a mucus tap above his cracked lips - went so far as to scrunch their nose at me – an outright cuss, I would've ran to my grandmother, if I was remotely close to even being a marginal scribble in her good books. So, I just walked away and waddled to Ous' Mame's, stepping in a manner that would not put a crease in my leather shoes. Even before I arrived I knew she was not home, she had told me the day before to tell my mother that she would be arriving in time for the evening clean up.
Once back at home after my pedestrian paddle, I had stamped out all hostility and wasn't looking for any trouble. I was blind sided. Snots came over to me with confrontation in his eye. He was younger than me but he was no child when it came to squinch, revenge – he was not one to sit on the bench when it came to the game of one up-manship. He walked up to me. I hated his vindictive ass. I was seated in the empty tent where there were plenty of empty chairs for him to sit his empty-headed ass in. He said that he wanted to sit in the chair I was sitting in. I couldn't believe this, exasperated I mouthed: “Why?”. He said he wants to sit in the yellow chair. I suddenly noticed that in the bleached arena of white chairs and tablecloths, I was sitting on the only coloured seat. I was floored by the request, but I wouldn't let the pipsqueak walk over me. I grunted him off with an I-don't-want-to. He shuffled forward and by reflex I shoved him – not hard at all – he collapsed to the ground, dramatically, and threw in an epileptic tantrum, to boot. His wails caught the ears of my grandmother, who although strained to hear you in conversation, could hear a child crying from anywhere in the world. She bull-ran out in her concern, enquiring as to what was the matter. The little snot-nosed runt, who grew more and more vulnerable with each sniffle and shudder, pointed at me and reported that I had pushed him around. My grandmother turned her head toward me and I saw fire and brimstone in her eyes. I was not apologetic but she put the fear of god in me. I attempted to plead my case, with as much humility as possible, but could not deter her righteous wrath. She brought down her judgement with a heavy hand and then a switch that miraculously appeared and excorcised the pain from the hide of my bottom to the seat of my soul. Let me mention amongst all my grandmother's children – her own offspring and their offspring, her nieces, nephews, and their children – I was the only one to be bequeathed a beating.
I was sore, humiliated and furious. My mother was no where to be found – I felt it was so typical of her to conveniently disappear when I was abused at the hands of this family. I huffed and puffed my way around the yard, kicking up dust and scratching at the cuts I had received. I then jumped over the fence looking for Keke, something I'd never done before for good measure. Distracted by the lascerations and claustrophobia, I had forgotten that Keke had a guard dog in her backyard. The beast charged at me like a hellhound as I grated myself trying to get back over the fence, posturing in frightened poses, offering prayers and outright demanding heavenly intervention. As my acceptance of my mauling cooled my temper, the dog was savagely yanked back in the direction it came from. Relief. Before I could thank my guardian angel for lassoing the devourer and delivering me from death, I noticed the Monster was chained to it's dog box. I gathered myself together and crept along to the room where Keke bided her time, my eye firmly fixed on the dog.
When I didn't find Keke in her room, I went and knocked on the kitchen door. Her father with his long face stuck his torso out over the top half of the sectioned door and demanded to know what I wanted before he registered who I am. When he calmed down to annoyance, I greeted and informed him that I was looking for Keke. He must of seen or smelt my terror as he looked over at his pet terror that was testing the length of its chain by walking the circumference of it's reach, and then looking down his nose at me with my leafy tremble and kneading hands. He told me casually that he had sent her to the shop and... that... I could stay out front in the tavern if I wanted to wait for her. As if I'd refuse. As I stepped and gratefully watched the door close my bladder relaxed and didn't seem to be all that full anymore. I sat out in the tavern on a crate and watched the sun wrestle the glare off the steel gutters through a broken window. I was dosing off, exhausted from my morning ,when I was disturbed by a hand on my shoulder. More accurately the big hand palmed my shoulder, thumbed my back and had fingers monopolosing my chest. I turned to face this giant, expecting to come face to face with a biblical Goliath, only to be stared down at by some gum popping, thug who was huge, even looked like he had muscles in his jaw. My brain had a cotton wool filament that would not even allow for dim recognition. He was saying something to me. I suddenly felt afraid and wandered why was today a day of fear, is this what they mean by balancing the scales. My aunt's day of joy becomes my day of torment?
As the day settled and after I was chastised for delaying the family portrait I met Senatla. He was leaning against a car, with a smile on his face, looking over (or maybe after) the proceedings. Before I reached him an uncle pulled me aside and shoved a note and coins in my hand and directed me to go purchase him a few more beers. I was apalled by his audacity and his wish to consume any more alcohol looking at the pageant of bottles at his feet. I withheld my protest and was gathering the bottles when my mother appeared at my defence heckling the drunken uncle for sending her angel to some god-beknownst hovel. My faith in her was restored on the wings of relief. I skipped over to Senatla and he asked me where I'd been, I told him I was taken a picture with my family – he noticed that I had a sullen look on my face and asked what was the matter. I said I was never sure if I liked the way I came out in pictures, that there was no way I would ever want to be remembered in some or other comical face. He asked how I'd want to be remembered – I replied that I didn't know. There was an awkward silence and clumsily I asked him why he was so fearless. He chuckled and said that there were things he was scared of, looking down. First time I noticed the freckles that speckled the bridge of his nose – the characteristic brought him closer to human. I fumbled my way through trying to explain an idea that was becoming more and more vague to me. He calmed my increasing panic, by saying he understands. He mulled it over, looking around like he was about to give me the real secret to his strength. He carefully asked if I believed in god. I was taken aback and by reflex, with denial in my manner, I nodded look down and mumbled yes. He assured me I didn't have to lie, it wouldn't change me in anyway. I looked up at him with a dogged look scared that I had disappointed him. He asked me If I believed my mother was my mother, and was I sure she loved me. Offended I answered: “Of course!”. He said that with the same belief that I believed in my mother he believed in god; that there's someone bigger than everyone else, who cares. And that, that someone, was always there and there was nothing to prove to anyone. After a thoughtful silence he said that he'd see me around, I asked him when, he promised that it would be soon.
That evening, when people were packed away in the slivers of spaces available in the four-room, exhausted from exertion. My grandmother came over to me in the privacy of a corner littered with children. She came and said she was sorry, I pretended to be asleep, she said she loved me and she wanted to make me understand. I thought to myself understand what, that she loved me but not as much as Snots – the resentment that had receded, came flooding back and I tucked myself deeper into the little pocket I had on the floor, closer to the asbestos heater. I felt wronged I was not allowed to sleep at my mother's feet, under blankets I knew intimately instead of these pissy rags. My tolerance for family events was leaving with the remains of the day. I received a sharp kick to my gut from a stray dream had by one of the snoring hoard. I received it like an affirmation and vowed to stew in my indignation till this herd of invaders went home. I avoided dreams, kept awake by the nocturnal rhythm of a wall-clock, tapping out a metronomic march towards the coming morning. I hadn't been awake before at this time, I had imagined that this would be a time filled with magic and secrets, not an orchestra of gastric snores and nasal/gastric farts. Now the sleep blatantly refused to come to my rescue, I felt irritable and abandoned, a bloodlust festered through my veins and I wished that a foot from the pile of bodies would once again attack me, so I had a reason to thrash out, or maybe, I thought, I aught to feign sleep and go on a footloose rampage. Time was moving too slow for my liking – it was like the lost battalions march across the desert – the hope to reach morning was making me hot and my throat dry. The walk to the kitchen was a mine field littered with slumber bombed torsoes limbs and heads, too hazardous to negotiate without a good enough reason. My throat tightened, I was suffocating, and my survival instinct took me by the neck and yanked me to my feet. I tip-toed through the minefield and made it to the kitchen without injury (mines or theirs) or detection. I chanced upon a washed glass on the sink and drank successive gulps of water without any cause for alarm. On trying to return to my place amongst the dead-living pikinins, a figure appeared from around the corner of my eye. I froze and wandered if by wishing for magic I had accidentally called on witchcraft. Sincere prayer did not come easily, what else could one expect from a second-hand bible instinct. Before I made any failed attempts at saving my life I wanted to see the face of my persecutor so that I could tell on them to God. I knew I would see god, because god loves children and I was a child. I turned ever so slowly preparing to stare into the eyes of death incarnate, mustering what courage I could to keep my bladder from watering my pyjamas. When my head had turned as far as it could, I discovered that my imagination had made a witch out of an uncle who slept snoring to the heavens upright in a chair next to the coal stove. I skipped back to my place in the pile with relief and a new appreciation for life and settled too hurriedly to check my spot. All settled and ready to engage rest, I felt a wetness along my side – to my horror one of these related-strangers had spilt their piss into my sleeping nook. Too tired for despair and too spent for revenge, I dived into a reservoir of mindless sleep, and hoped to never wake up.
3.
“eh baba, I just figured it out, nne – no, before you assume, I am not high, I just had a beer - “
“it's 9 in the morning jo”
Comrade is fired up again, he kept calling till I answered, guilted into believing it could be an emergency, from an original state of irritation.
“ja mare the point is I ain't high this is one of the truths”
“sho ... ah...” I secretly welcome the break, it's getting hard to go any further, remembering is overwhelming. I would love to quit, but I need to this for me and you.
“o da, buddha? Hhe?”
“ ja sho”
“What was I saying? ...eh? something about eh di-election, nne, ... shit maan!”
“Joe I must get back to work, can I call you later?”
“-” I can hear the musing hurt in his silence, and held breath.
“Not like anything, I just need to...”
“I understand, maan. You don't need to baby me with explanations. * “
He may be pissed now. I'll pass by him later after your mother comes home. Mother! I can't register this...
--
Gin makes good company for grief. I learnt this from Twosly. It was the morning after my aunt's wedding – expecting to run to my mother with an explanation as to why there was a mildew-yellow gold stain on her favorite pyjamas. I could not manage to find her anywhere. I was tugged aside as I tried to leave the horse stall door. Why wouldn't they let me leave!? Why would people whisper knowing fully well I could understand the good English!? “Day kilt him for no reason” - Uncle Boxer. “Who Sen...” - Aunty Reso “shhh that child might hear you” he said throwing her eyes in my direction “why haven't they removed him from the gate?” - Uncle Boxer “It was the constable's son who did it...” - Aunty Reso “Moren...” - Unc... “No blasphemy in the place of ghosts” - Aunty Reso.
As seen on TV “What the fuck is going on here?” I'm too young, too stupid to save myself. I get to the front of the house Senatla's shoes are by the post box by the front gate. That says it all. People take shoes off the dead. Boys should not cry. I did. Out of sight of everyone. I thought; Twosly managed to find me in my hiding place – and found my trembling left hand. And put a bottle of Old B___k gin in it. Without knowing what I was doing half the bottle steadied me – somehow I still didn't manage to forget by now it was noon.
“the son of the cop has been killed”
I don't know, Yet I listen. And I listen well.
--
"Will you ever finish this story, my friend?"
"Not yet"
"Not ever?"
"Maybe"
