Holding Up the Sky (42 page)

Before I had finished eating, Mello appeared in the doorway rubbing her eyes, searching for my face amongst the group of women. Her hair, as every morning, was like an explosion on the top of her head, tight dark frizz pressed up and out in her sleep. As her eyes found mine, she locked onto me like a homing beacon and headed straight for my lap without a word. She climbed up and took the last of the bread, eyeing the unfamiliar women around the kitchen table. She smiled when she saw her grandmother, but continued eating. Mama told me that after breakfast she would take me to meet some more of the family in the neighbouring homes. While I knew it was important for us to meet the family, nothing in my Australian suburban childhood had prepared me for a situation like this and I was not looking forward to visiting the main house. I finished my water and took Mello to wash and change.

As Mama and I walked towards the neighbouring homestead, Teboho having offered to take Mello while Mama and I went visiting, I questioned her about our stay. If this woman had killed Mama's husband, why on earth were we visiting her? Mama shrugged and said that she was still family. I decided it was simply Mama's nature to forgive and get on with her life. She did this regardless of whether it was an entire political system or an individual who had caused her harm. She had shown that time and time again over the course of her life. I did not have her graciousness, nor her courage, so I let her walk into the yard first, thinking I would just follow her lead as I had no idea how to handle the situation.

As we entered the yard, marked by a small plastered mud brick wall that surrounded part of the house, we announced our presence with a greeting, followed by a loud
‘Ko ko'
, Knock, knock as we ventured through the door.
‘Dumelang'
, Hello both of you, a voice replied out of the darkness. We crossed the room to see a tiny woman almost hidden inside the deep armchair in which she sat. The two small windows barely lit the room but I was able to see her wizened face; she looked just as one would imagine a storybook witch to look. Her skin was deeply lined and she was painfully thin. While she looked physically frail, her eyes showed a knowingness that pierced through me and I had to look away. Mama had reminded me on the way over that African witches do not cast spells on white people so I should not be afraid. However, her gaze had unsettled me and I was left hoping that our visit would be brief.

Mama began to ask after her health as she approached the armchair where her sister-in-law sat. The old woman rose stiffly, saying that we had found her well, and Mama leant forward to kiss her. She then stepped aside, allowing me to approach and greet. I had no choice but to bend and kiss her myself, feeling a chill as I did. Willie had told me this woman kept her zombie hidden away in the back room during the day. While I remained cynical about the existence of zombies, I did shoot a glance at the closed door behind her. The three of us took our seats and chatted briefly about the journey up from Rustenburg. We were then served tea by a young girl, presumably a grandchild, who had come to wait on us.

Though my language abilities were progressing, on this day feigning ignorance was a blessing. Family or not, the small house felt oddly cold and the whole experience unsettling. The sooner we were outside the better. After half an hour of smiling and pleasantries, we took our leave and began the walk back. Once out of earshot of the house Mama began to giggle. And I knew just what it was about.

‘Why did you make me kiss the witch?'

She turned and shrugged saying, as she has said often before and since, ‘Ah, what could I do?'

After our visit, I told Mama I would like to see the farm. She suggested I go and find Willie and ask him to take me; she was going to drop in on another nephew who lived in the opposite direction. So we parted ways and I headed back to the house in which we had spent the night. As I rounded the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. Two black, round bullets masquerading as eyes peered at me with a clear, murderous intent. I inched slowly towards the kitchen door, surprised and annoyed at the sudden threat before me. I was embarrassed by my cowardice yet unsure what damage a turkey the size of a large dog could do to me. Clearly the turkey had no doubts, so I retreated into the cool of the house.

It was the first time I had seen a free range turkey, except on a Christmas plate at my aunt's house in Sydney. Not only was this one big, it also looked mean. As I stood pressed against the wall just inside the kitchen door, contemplating the dispositions of large turkeys, I suddenly realised I wasn't alone. The eldest daughter of the household, Warona, was standing in the doorway to the lounge with her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous scene before her. When I started to giggle she let her guard down and was soon bent over double with laughter. I explained to her that I was looking for Willie and had bumped into the turkey. To my surprise, she agreed that the turkey was a bad one and many people were afraid of it. Warona then offered to go and find Willie for me, an offer I quickly accepted.

In about fifteen minutes, Warona reappeared with Willie in tow. As we left the house, I quietly put Willie between myself and the turkey and with an eye on the wicked bird, headed over to the fence where two male cousins about Willie's age were rigging up a homemade cart to two donkeys. Assuming they were about to head off to the fields, Willie asked if we could come along for the ride. Once we were seated, one cousin flicked a small whip over the heads of the donkeys and we were off. We headed up the fence line to a gate, the homemade cart proving a speedier ride than appearances would have suggested. I was enjoying the wind in my face as we sped along, clinging to the back of the bench in front of me, and couldn't suppress a laugh at the sheer unexpected pleasure of it.

Once inside the gate, we trotted along the dirt road that ran between two rows of mealies. The cousins, with a little help from Willie, told me about their work on the farm. They both recognised the opportunity that their family situation presented to them and were working hard to secure the family's future. The mealie field stretched on for a few kilometres, giving the four of us time to chat. The cousins asked after Willie's studies–he had just begun a Bachelor of Science degree at the University of Natal, specialising in botany and agriculture. One cousin mentioned that he himself was planning to go to a technical college the following year to study agriculture.

After circumnavigating the field, we were dropped off at the same gate we had entered through and the cousins left to get on with the work at hand. Willie and I then went walking amongst the various family homes that dotted the area and as we passed each one, he explained their relationship to us. When we greeted an aunt who was washing clothes in a large dish in her yard, she asked how I was enjoying my stay. I told her it was wonderful and Willie then said we would see her that night. At my quizzical look, he explained that the family was having a feast in our honour and would be slaughtering a goat this afternoon. Something to look forward to.

We continued our stroll around the village, now heading back in the direction of the house of our hosts. By this time, our unusual duo had gathered some followers with a few of the local children walking behind us, firing questions at Willie about who I was. When he told them, they laughed, having never heard of such a thing. He assured them that I was in fact married to his brother and we were here visiting family. This piece of information made my presence all the more interesting and they stuck to us like glue after that.

As we came past the witch's house, we saw a horse grazing in the yard. Willie knew of my childhood obsession with horses and asked if I wanted to ride. Despite the intimidating identity of its owner, I jumped at the chance as I hadn't ridden in a few years. He quickly organised a bridle while I spent a little time getting acquainted. Willie gave me a leg up and I walked the white mare around the yard and out the gate. To my surprise, the children started shouting and calling for others to come and see. I asked Willie what all the fuss was about as he walked along beside me and he told me that women don't ride in Africa; that it is considered a man's activity. I gave him a look that said I would get him later and kicked the horse up into a canter. The children screamed with delight and the women from neighbouring houses shouted to one another, passing comments on my seemingly magical abilities.

After an enjoyable but highly public ride, I dismounted, thanked Willie's uncle and his wife who had also come to witness my prowess, and walked back towards the main house with four or five children in tow. Mama came out to meet me, having now returned from her own morning visits, and added her praise to the shouts of the neighbours. When I explained that horse riding was a pastime more common with young women than young men in Australia, she was astonished. She found many things I had to say about Australia astonishing.

Lunch was prepared by the time we returned to the house. Teboho and Mello were there, catching up with various members of the family who had come calling. But Teboho had already heard about my efforts on horseback.

Mama dished up a plate of meat and pap. After four years in Africa, I had tried ever variety of pap there is. Each time I indicated that it wasn't really my favourite food, the woman of the house would assure me it was only because I hadn't tasted her special recipe. Despite hundreds of taste tests, it still tasted like glue to my western and somewhat limited palate. So despite my misgivings, I dished for Mello and myself. With the heat and the heartiness of the meal, I found I had little appetite and gave Mello the larger of the two servings, making sure to include plenty of meaty bones.

After the household–including the children who had followed me home–finished eating, people began to drift off to prepare for the evening's entertainment. I was longing for a nap, given the lack of sleep from the night before. Teboho assured me I wouldn't be expected to do anything for a few hours yet and should feel free to go and sleep. With Warona offering to take care of Mello, I retreated to my room and fell asleep almost instantly.

I was woken just over an hour later by a commotion outside and lay in the bed for a moment, trying to make sense of the words that floated through the window. From the tone alone, I could tell it was a robust debate between a few of the men. Then I heard a word I knew; it was
thipa
, the Setswana word for knife. With that, I was out of bed. I threw on my shoes and headed outside.

There was a group of men, Teboho in their midst, standing around a large male goat that was tied to a rope staked into the ground. Each man seemed to have an opinion on how the goat should be properly slaughtered. Another cousin then appeared around the corner of the house rolling an old tyre in front of him. I had no idea how this connected to the issue of the goat, so I watched to see what he would do. He went to fetch the large knife from his father's hand and set about splitting the tyre into two. Once he was done, two donut shaped tyre halves lay on the ground. A few men grabbed the bleating goat and dragged it over to the tyre. I had no doubt what was about to happen next. However, I was also aware that I was the only woman present. I tried to catch Teboho's eye to check if this was a problem. Seeing my imploring look, he came over and whispered that while this is generally considered to be man's work, I might like to see how it's done. As was often the case, I was excused from a number of traditional gender roles because of the colour of my skin. In this case, I was torn as to whether it was a privilege or not. I didn't want to see this animal die and yet I did want to see how the family treated such a central cultural tradition, so I stayed.

The goat was pushed to the ground, with its neck stretched over the upturned half tyre. As the man of the house drew the knife across its throat, I understood the purpose of the tyre–it caught the blood that gushed from the goat's throat rather than letting it spill over the ground. Next, in a moment that truly turned my stomach, the yard dog snuck over and drank the warm blood that had collected inside the tyre.

While the goat lay bleeding out, a large metal sheet was brought over. The body was thrown on top and the skinning process began. At this point, Mama and a few of the aunties arrived, all carrying plastic basins. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch the festivities, my small fan club of neighbourhood children along with it. Once the skin was off and passed to waiting hands, the belly was slit open and the stomach and intestines removed. These were whisked off in a separate bowl and I was assured that they would make a tasty treat. The thought made my eyes widen and my lips purse in anticipation. The liver, pancreas, gall bladder, lungs and other items commonly referred to in Zulu as
ama-insides
found their way into another waiting dish. Culinary delicacies aside, I was amazed as Mama told me what each and every part of the animal would be used for– nothing was to be wasted. Some parts had symbolic significance and needed to be offered to special individuals, including me in this case. Other parts would be used for religious ceremonies and traditional medicine, and the skin for floor coverings.

Before long the sheet of metal held only a carcass, ready to be thrown on the fire and cooked. One of the women had begun the task of building a fire for this very purpose. However, looking around I doubted that the one goat, as big as it was, would be able to feed all those who had gathered there. I sent up a silent prayer that the evil turkey would be likewise sacrificed to the communal pot. As if summoned, the nasty beast appeared on the edge of the crowd almost as soon as the thought had formed in my mind. Not wishing a repeat of my earlier encounter, I kept close to the middle of the festivities, with one eye on the turkey. I noticed it had one eye on me.

Back in the kitchen the stomach and intestines were roughly cleaned and then steamed in a large pot. Willie told me the dish is tastier if the cleaning of insides is not overly thorough. White people who like a thorough cleaning of their tripe, he explained, lose all the favour that the contents of the stomach and intestines hold. I struggle to be in the same room in which tripe is being cooked, so I thought I would take Willie's word for it. While the insides were cooking, the liver was being specially pan-fried for me. As the guests of honour, both Teboho and I were to be offered the freshly fried liver. Not a big fan of liver either, I thanked my hosts and offered to share mine with Mama.