Holding Up the Sky (13 page)

This was where my wedding experience to date had normally ended. However, this time I was going to attend the second day of festivities as well, something I was eagerly looking forward to as it was the traditional African part of the wedding. It was to be hosted by Zonke's family who lived in Paulpietersburg some two hours or so to the north. Paulpietersburg is in the middle of the popular tourist area of the battlefields where the British fought the Zulus in 1879. Despite the images projected in the movie
Zulu,
the British forces were repeatedly punished by the superior military abilities of the Zulu army up until the capture of King Cetshwayo. However, I doubted that tourists would have visited the rural village outside Paulpietersburg where we would be spending the night.

It was almost dark before Robbie and I met up at the bakkie, ready to head north. Once more we were surrounded by a group of hopefuls. Robbie made his choices, which were, thankfully, fewer this time as we had much further to go. We loaded up our fellow travellers who were each clutching a plastic shopping bag which I assumed contained their overnight essentials and headed off. For this trip, it was just Robbie and me in front so we had a good chance to chat.

As we headed north, we talked of our families and our plans for the future. Happy, Robbie's sister, and her husband were childless, so Robbie had no plans to move on from where he was. I adored Happy for she was just that. Whenever I dropped in to visit, her warmth and generosity gave her tiny home an abundance that many large ones can lack. Despite her childlessness, which must have caused her a great deal of pain in a culture where men can return a woman to her parents for such an inadequacy, she and her husband were very much in love and content in their lives together.

Eventually Robbie turned to the difficult topic of Msizi. I told him we spoke on the phone every three or four days and were still very close, but it was clear that despite our feelings for each other, Msizi would not pursue a future with me. While Robbie understood Msizi's position, he suggested that we could think about leaving the country to be together. Msizi and I hadn't discussed this option directly, but I think we both knew that neither one would be happy to be anywhere else in the foreseeable future. We left it there and drove on in silence for a while.

The discussion had brought back my feelings of being in limbo concerning my relationship with Msizi. I wasn't even sure that we were still together. We certainly still had strong feelings for each other and couldn't seem to go for more than a few days without being in touch. However, we were floating in murky uncertainty, not willing to make a move either way. I pushed these thoughts aside and asked Robbie about his love life. He told me there were a few women around. As with most of the black men I knew, Robbie did not seem to confine himself to one woman, nor was he expected to by the women themselves. I have to admit to a moment of doubt about Msizi as we drove along in the darkness. Was he stringing me along while seeing another woman or two in Grahamstown? After a moment's hesitation, I decided he was not: he had such intensity and honesty that he would have told me if he were. But the point was not lost on me that I had never thought to question his fidelity.

Before long we arrived in Paulpietersburg and from there we followed directions until we arrived at the village itself. Zonke's family had no idea how many people would be coming so I was unsure that we would find a bed. Robbie assured me that there would always be space, especially in a rural area, and that I in particular should not be worried as the neighbours would be queuing up to host the ‘special guest'. I sent a sneer in his direction but knew he was right.

We pulled up outside the yard of Zonke's home and helped our stiff travellers out of the back of the bakkie. They thanked us profusely before calling out to the house to notify them of our arrival. Given all the noise in this quiet, peaceful place, I was sure they knew. Zonke's mother and aunties soon emerged to greet us and usher us inside. Their eyes widened a little when they saw me; clearly no one had mentioned that I was joining the traditional part of the wedding as well. But their surprise quickly transformed to delight and they took me by the arm and escorted me into the house.

It was much larger than the township homes I was used to and appeared to be made of the same wattle and daub construction we were using for the Sweetwaters creche–but completed with much greater skill. There was no electricity and so the house was lit with candles and paraffin lamps, the latter giving off their telltale odour. The lounge room was packed with wedding guests, some sitting down to tea, others like ourselves newly arrived. After all the introductions and greetings were complete, which took quite a while, one of the aunties took Robbie aside to discuss arrangements for the night. He was given directions to her home a few houses down the road, where I was to stay the night. Robbie told me we would have supper here before retiring. We were then taken through to the kitchen where large pots of food were bubbling away on the coal stove. One of Zonke's cousins dished a plate each for Robbie and I and offered us a seat at the kitchen table. It had been quite a while since lunch at the reception hall and I was ravenous. The food was very similar to our lunchtime feast with a little less meat and a little more pap. I thought, not for the last time, how much a wedding must cost the family. No wonder they were often planned up to two years in advance.

After thanking our host, Robbie drove us down the road to Zonke's auntie's home. This household seemed as busy as Zonke's parents' home, so I wondered whether I would be in a bed or on the floor. As it turned out I was offered a bed that I was to share with two older female relatives. At this point, I was glad for any place to lie down, so sharing was not a problem. What I hadn't factored in was that these were endurance wedding guests, well used to a two-day affair and happy to chat about the events of the day far into the wee hours of the morning. I'm not quite sure when but eventually, at some point, I fell asleep.

The next morning, the house woke early. There was more cooking to be done for lunch and all those not cooking seemed to be making a start on washing and dressing for the big day. I feigned sleep for as long as I could, reluctantly dragging myself from the bed at about seven o'clock. I realised my mistake when the queue for hot water from the stove already seemed to be seven people long. Robbie was nowhere to be seen and I was told that he had in fact not slept here. Feeling a little lost despite the many friendly offers of breakfast, I decided to wash my face and brush my teeth at the tap outside and then go in search of a familiar face. Even with my gregariousness, lacking a good night's sleep and operating in a second language can make me a little grumpy–so I needed the space.

It was beautiful outside in the freshness of the morning's smells and sounds. There must have been a little rain during the night as the air smelt of fresh earth. The early morning is far and away my favourite time of day, so full of possibilities. In contrast, I sometimes feel a sense of regret at dusk: ‘Have I made the most of the day?' The early morning light thrills me, the colours seem fuller without being harsh, and the soil and sun optimistic.

Having arrived in the dark, I had no idea of our surroundings. The village was situated on the gentle slope of a hill overlooking a broad valley. I met and greeted a few people as I strolled up the road, taking the long way round to Zonke's parents' house, enjoying the moment and its peacefulness.

By the time I entered Zonke's yard, I had spotted both our own little red bakkie and Mdu's work car. Robbie was sitting outside the house on a wooden bench having breakfast with a few of the men when I came up. He asked if I had slept well. I lied. Robbie then asked if I had eaten, but as I didn't fancy the pap and sour milk that he was holding, I lied again. I suggested we could go into town a bit later and, taking my meaning, he agreed. I then sat on the bench next to Robbie's and let the men's talk wash over me as I soaked up the early morning sun, my head resting comfortably against the wall. Some time later, I woke to Mdu calling my name. I opened one eye and peered at him before closing it again.

‘Rough night?' he asked.

‘Hmph', I said, hoping he would leave me in peace.

‘Robbie tells me you want to go into town.'

My need for sleep was by now warring against my need for food. ‘Maybe.'

‘I'll take you now if you want to go.'

As we pulled into town, I reminded myself that I was with a black man in a small rural town. 'Maritzburg, being a university town, was used to occasional socialising between the races; Paulpietersburgwas not. We pulled up outside a small shop that boasted a variety of tasty treats. Knowing that cereal, my favourite breakfast food, would be out of the question I was hoping for a bacon and egg burger or some close relative. The stares from the owner and fellow patrons as we entered the store made me regret coming to town but, given my hunger, there was no turning back. I went up to the counter and began reading the board, my eyes quickly settling on the burger I desired. I placed my order amid stony silence, then turned to ask Mdu what he wanted. His work at the Council of Churches put him in contact with all types of people and so, unintimidated by our reception, he looked thoughtfully at the board for some time before replying that he would have the same as me. Not wishing to push our luck, we decided to wait in the car, the man behind the counter and his customers watching in silence as we left the store. Once in the car, I lost my nerve a bit: I hadn't had enough sleep for this. After a few minutes, despite feeling a little shaky, I suggested it was best if I went back in alone. Though Mdu was not put off, for my sake he agreed. When I returned to the car with our brunch, Mdu told me I shouldn't let it get to me. ‘People can think what they will', he said. I agreed with his sentiment in principle but still insisted on returning to the village straight away, feeling visible and exposed in town.

Given the nature of my work and the skin colour of my friends, I was beginning to experience the threat of violence like a gathering storm. I could hear it thundering off in the distance, gaining momentum, but had no idea when it would strike. I feared violence at the hands of the police as well as at the hands of members of the public. As I began to move regularly between town and township, city and village, it became clear to me that I only felt the threat of violence at the hands of white people. Though I knew there were community workers who had been attacked in the townships, I had no sense of danger from those around me. The murder of Amy Biehl–a visiting American Fulbright scholar and community volunteer who was killed in a township outside Cape Town two days before she was due to return home–would not take place for another four years. While the news of her death would shake me, I still believed the chances of violence against me from other quarters was far more likely.

As we pulled up near Zonke's house, it was clear that the festivities were under way. The yard was swarming like a beehive, some people intent on cooking, others on eating and a third group on some serious catching up. We entered the yard and the auntie who had housed me overnight spotted me and took me inside. I was given a seat in the lounge room and offered tea and biscuits. Female relatives spent weeks before a wedding cooking special biscuits to serve to all the well-wishers who would visit the house during the wedding week. While I was now neither hungry nor thirsty I didn't wish to appear rude so I gratefully accepted the offer.

As I sat with my tea and my plate of biscuits, watching the general flow of events, I saw a small stream of women going in and out of a particular room. As I peered around one of the women sitting opposite, I caught a glimpse of Zonke inside. She had cast aside the white gown and was now dressed in dazzling traditional African attire. Given how magnificent she looked today, I wondered why she had bothered with the white dress at all. Keen for a better look and the company of women more my own age, I got up off the couch and tried my luck at gaining entry to the bride's room. A young cousin opened the door and peered out.
‘Ngi ya cela ukubona'
(I'd like to see) was as far as my language skills would take me, but it seemed to do the trick as she happily ushered me inside.

Zonke was dressed in a patterned gold and green gown with a matching headcloth and, while not the most beautiful among her peers, today she looked regal. Her bridesmaids had also lost the pastels and were now attired in strong primary colours and bold African designs. Surprisingly, it was hard to find traditional attire in South Africa and such outfits were often purchased from West African seamstresses who visited the country regularly for this purpose. I smiled at the bride: ‘Zonke you look beautiful,
ubuhle kakhulu
', and she smiled back. It looked as if I had arrived just in time as she and her bridesmaids were getting finishing touches done to their make up. A few minutes later we all swept out of the room.

As Zonke made her entrance, all the women broke into loud, approving ululation,
‘e le le le le le'
. The sound must have carried to the yard, as before long the sounds of ululating were heard outside as well. It was a sign that the formal part of the day was to begin. There was a sudden crush in the lounge room when Zonke's female relatives surged forward and drew her outside to the waiting crowd. On catching their first glimpse of the
makoti
, or bride, the crowd began singing. Once more they moved as a single being, urging Zonke in the direction of the neighbour's house where her groom was waiting. Skhumbuzo and his groomsmen emerged and were carried along by an excited crowd of their own. As with yesterday's wedding, people seemed to come from everywhere to enjoy the singing and dancing. I loved the idea that the celebrations were public and exuberant, not hidden away inside a stuffy golf club, stiff and formal in comparison. As the two groups merged into one, the bride and groom were brought together in its centre. The father of the bride appeared from nowhere just in time to place Zonke's hand in Skhumbuzo's and, I assume, let him know his duty of care, before the singing unbelievably cranked up another notch and we were off down the street like a huge mardi gras, all colour, movement and song.