Sometimes There Is a Void (69 page)
Read Sometimes There Is a Void Online
Authors: Zakes Mda
Adele told me that she wanted to do a PhD in the United States. Even though there was no love lost between us, to the extent that we were no longer intimate though we shared the same bed, she wanted me to help her get there. She wanted me to get a job at one of the universities, even if only on a short-term basis, so that she could have her foot in the door and then stay and continue with her PhD while I returned to my sinful life in South Africa.
I thought it was a good idea. I would have done her a good turn while at the same time separating myself from her â for good, this time. In any event, I reasoned, a PhD would make her even more marketable and she would be able to look after our kids very well since she was certainly going to have custody of them after our divorce. The divorce was now a certainty and we talked about it all the time. I certainly would not want to stay in America. I was not doing badly as a full-time writer, I had my pet rural development project with the Bee People, was a dramaturge at one of the most prestigious theatre houses in the world, and had my HIV-positive friends at the Southern African Multimedia AIDS Trust.
The poet Willy Keorapetsi Kgositsile was working in the United States at the time and I asked him to spread the word that I was looking for a short-term position anywhere in the country. He wrote back to say he would be returning to South Africa soon, but he would spread the word. In no time, I heard from Mbulelo Mzamane informing me that my alma mater, Ohio University, was looking for a Visiting Professor in Anglophone African Literature for one academic year. Mbulelo, ever so resourceful, had come to our rescue again just as he did when I had completed my contract at Yale University and had nowhere else to go. Remember, he had recruited me then for his old position at the University of Vermont. A one-year Visiting Professorship was an ideal job. I applied and was interviewed by the head of the English Department, Ken Daley, and the Director of African Studies, Steve Howard, on the phone. I got the job.
Adele was ecstatic. She was unemployed again after having lost the Department of Education job. We put things in motion to apply for visas. I wanted Thandi to join us as well so she could go to school.
I thought that finally Adele would be nice to me since I was sacrificing my good life in Johannesburg for her. But instead I was suffering a lot of verbal abuse from her. I stubbornly continued to assist my nieces and nephew financially on one hand, and my children on the other, and that of course exacerbated the situation. Sometimes when we were in bed she would wake up and start yelling at me. I yelled back at her and called her a fishwife when she did that. I would wake up, get dressed, and attempt to leave the room. She would stand at the door and say, âYou are not going anywhere until I am done insulting. I'm going to insult you until you walk slowly.' Here I am making a direct translation from Sesotho. In Sesotho that last statement has more impact. It is very ominous.
She knew I would not hit her. I was too scared of jail. In fact, she challenged me to hit her so that she could lay a charge of domestic abuse with the police. Nevertheless we would struggle until I managed to push her away from the door. I would walk out of the house to the garage, with the view of getting into the car and driving away, maybe to book in at a hotel. But she would follow me and force herself into the car. I should have driven away with her to the nearest police station but I didn't. Instead, I went back to the house and listened to her verbal abuse until she finally fell asleep.
Things came to a head and I started looking for a townhouse for myself in the neighbourhood. My main worry was who would give my children their medicine if I left.
Â
One day I was sitting in my study which was next to our bedroom. I was looking at old files. In a shoe box â yes, a shoe box â I found the letter that Gugu wrote me seven years before, in response to mine, encouraging me to stick it out in my marriage with Adele. I wondered where she was and what she was doing. I put the letter away and went to play with Zenzi on the lawn.
âYou know, Daddy, I wish I was a boy,' Zenzi said.
âYeeech! A boy? Why would my pretty little girl wish to be a boy?' I asked.
âBecause Mommy told me that when I am big I'm going to have a period.'
âOf course you're going to have a period. That's no reason to wish to be a boy.'
âShe told me that it's terrible and it's not pretty and it stinks. I don't want to bleed, Daddy.'
She was really scared. I didn't understand why her mommy didn't realize it would frighten a five-year-old girl like that, or if it was even the right age to tell the child about menstrual problems. I tried to calm her fears and told her how great it was to be a woman.
That evening I went back to the shoe box. I heard Adele yelling at the maid and just sat there staring at the shoe box. Then I went to sleep.
I dreamt about the shoe box. In my dream I opened the box and a misty face emerged like a genie. It turned out to be Gugu's face as it was when we sat in my Toyota Cressida under the tree at our Jerusalema.
The next morning when it was just me and the maid at home I went to the shoe box. I took the letter out and resolved that I was going to write to Gugu. Something inside me told me:
Don't do it! This is dangerous! You're playing with fire!
My heart began to pump faster and faster. It was like I was standing on the railway line and I could see the train coming at full speed, but I could not move. I did not want to move. I was going to write to her and damn the consequences. They might be bitter, but I was too far gone to care. The train was almost here; there was no avoiding it.
Don't do it! This is dangerous! You're playing with fire!
My heart began to pump faster and faster. It was like I was standing on the railway line and I could see the train coming at full speed, but I could not move. I did not want to move. I was going to write to her and damn the consequences. They might be bitter, but I was too far gone to care. The train was almost here; there was no avoiding it.
I wrote a brief letter. I asked how she was and what she was doing. I wished her well. I drove to the post office and mailed the letter. I hoped the old address I had was still her address, or if it was not that whoever received the letter would forward it to her.
I carried on with my life and forgot about the letter. I was completing the final chapters of
The Madonna of Excelsior
and preparing to start on the first chapter of
The Whale Caller.
The Madonna of Excelsior
and preparing to start on the first chapter of
The Whale Caller.
A few weeks later I received a letter from Gugu. It was even briefer than mine. She asked:
Ukuphi? Wenzani? Nabani?
Where are you? What are you doing? With whom?
Ukuphi? Wenzani? Nabani?
Where are you? What are you doing? With whom?
Then there was her phone number.
That was all I needed. I called her there and then. After all those years
her voice was like balm to my scalded soul. She told me she still lived in Swaziland and taught at a high school in a town called Nhlangano. Her parents lived in Piet Retief, a South African town a few kilometres from the Swazi border. She would go visit them the following weekend and we could meet if I drove up there.
her voice was like balm to my scalded soul. She told me she still lived in Swaziland and taught at a high school in a town called Nhlangano. Her parents lived in Piet Retief, a South African town a few kilometres from the Swazi border. She would go visit them the following weekend and we could meet if I drove up there.
I drove to Piet Retief in the Mpumalanga Province, about four hours from Johannesburg, and booked in at the Waterside Lodge. The next morning I sat on the porch of Mr Fries, a fast food place just in front of the lodge, and waited for her. And she came along wearing orange slacks, a white blouse and a white cap. She had not aged one bit since the last time I saw her more than ten years before. I know that's what we say to women to flatter them, but in this case it was true. If only she knew how often I had thought of her, that when I used to write my column for the
Sunday Times
or my articles in the
Mail & Guardian
I hoped she read them and could hear my voice in them, that when I was at a literary festival in Adelaide, Australia, I read to a multitude that had gathered outdoors as if it was a rock concert the poem I had written about our Jerusalema and actually sang Queen's âRadio Gaga'.
Sunday Times
or my articles in the
Mail & Guardian
I hoped she read them and could hear my voice in them, that when I was at a literary festival in Adelaide, Australia, I read to a multitude that had gathered outdoors as if it was a rock concert the poem I had written about our Jerusalema and actually sang Queen's âRadio Gaga'.
As I suspected, her marriage had gone to the dogs too. I didn't think she would have agreed to meet me there if it had not. I didn't want to know the details but she intimated that for a long time she had felt like a soccer widow; her husband was a FIFA referee and spent his life on the soccer fields of the world. She told me about her three children: Nonkululeko, a girl a year younger than my son Zukile, Simphiwe, a boy a year younger than my daughter Zenzi, and a baby daughter called Gcinile.
âNow that I've met you again I am inspired,' she said. âI know I'll go back to school; I'll do a master's degree.'
That evening we made love. I had broken my vow never to be unfaithful to Adele despite the terrible life I was living with her. I had kept my vow until then. Now I had broken it; there was no going back.
I gave Gugu the manuscript of
The Madonna of Excelsior
. Some days later I was to get her feedback.
The Madonna of Excelsior
. Some days later I was to get her feedback.
I drove back to Johannesburg with my head buzzing with excitement.
Gugu applied to Wits University and was admitted for an honours
degree and then for an MA in Forced Migration Studies. She lived in Braamfontein and I saw her quite often. Adele was bound to hear about it, ironically from the same gossip-monger who had told her about us when we were still at Roma, Lesotho. History repeats itself.
degree and then for an MA in Forced Migration Studies. She lived in Braamfontein and I saw her quite often. Adele was bound to hear about it, ironically from the same gossip-monger who had told her about us when we were still at Roma, Lesotho. History repeats itself.
In the meantime we finally decided to do something about our divorce. Adele insisted that I should be the one who initiated it. Her logic was: âYou have done it before and you'll do it again. You are experienced in divorce.'
She promised not to contest it because she wanted out of the marriage as much as I did. We therefore consulted the same lawyer.
âI can only work for you both if it's a consensual divorce and all we are doing is to draw up an agreement,' he said.
We both agreed.
âBut you tell me you are going to America together,' said the lawyer. âHow are you going to live together there when you are going through a divorce?'
She wanted to go to school, so she said we certainly could live under the same roof even though we were not together conjugally.
But it turned out that she wanted half of my royalties from all my books as part of the settlement, even those I wrote long before I knew her. Obviously I was going to contest that. I was not going to share any of my royalties with her when she had discouraged and disparaged my work from the word go. It was no longer a consensual divorce. She consulted her old lawyer who had defended her in the theft and embezzlement case, Raymond Tucker Esq., and I consulted different lawyers from Rosebank, Alet Beyl and her husband, Mark Anthony Beyl.
My lawyer lodged the divorce case and summonses were issued. Her lawyer lodged a counter claim. The battle-lines were drawn, but it was going to be a protracted affair as contested divorces normally were in South Africa. Since the case could only be heard in the High Court our attorneys would have to brief advocates. We would leave for America while the matter was pending. At some stage we would have to come back for the hearings.
Under the circumstances my association with Gugu became quite
open. I went with her to my reading events where we would, with Sello Duiker who was almost like my son, tease the woman we called Mama, novelist Miriam Tlali, about her new unpublished work titled
Bleeding Shoulders
. We laughed our lungs out at the jokes we made about the title. I took her to the Bee Place where I introduced
The Heart of Redness
to my grandfather at the graveside. I stood there while Gugu watched, next to the polished marble tombstone that I had erected, and spoke with him about the book, and gave it to him by leaving it on top of the grave, telling him I hoped he would enjoy it. I had done the same at my father's grave in Mafeteng.
open. I went with her to my reading events where we would, with Sello Duiker who was almost like my son, tease the woman we called Mama, novelist Miriam Tlali, about her new unpublished work titled
Bleeding Shoulders
. We laughed our lungs out at the jokes we made about the title. I took her to the Bee Place where I introduced
The Heart of Redness
to my grandfather at the graveside. I stood there while Gugu watched, next to the polished marble tombstone that I had erected, and spoke with him about the book, and gave it to him by leaving it on top of the grave, telling him I hoped he would enjoy it. I had done the same at my father's grave in Mafeteng.
Don't be surprised at this; some non-believers do have strange rituals which edify them and fulfil a yearning even when they know there is nothing beyond the grave, and that the friend they are talking to is imaginary. Remember:
sometimes there is a void
. That's why we created God and all the other deities in the first place. Humans don't want a vacuum. I was creating my own spirituality.
sometimes there is a void
. That's why we created God and all the other deities in the first place. Humans don't want a vacuum. I was creating my own spirituality.
After this invented ritual I introduced Gugu to the Bee People, who became her friends as well. Then I took her to Kokstad in the Eastern Cape, a ten-hour drive away, to meet my favourite brother, Monwabisi, and his family. We had a relaxing holiday with him and my cousin Nondyebo, away from the mess I had caused in Johannesburg.
On our way back we saw a road sign for the town of Estcourt in KwaZulu-Natal. I remembered the beef and pork sausages that I used to eat with my father when I had joined him in exile in Lesotho. We drove to the town and looked for the factory that manufactured them. I was going to buy them in memory of my father. But we learnt that they no longer manufactured that brand. No wonder I no longer saw them on the shelves.
I took her to Mafeteng to meet my mother. They had met before when she was still a student at Roma fourteen years before. She hit it off with my mother immediately. She told me just before we left: âI can see you're happy at last, Zani.'
I asked Gugu to join me for a few days when I was invited to the University of Cape Town as a visiting writer, a few weeks before I left for America. She was there when I had a showdown with my publishers.
Mary Reynolds, the commissioning editor at Oxford University Press, was a very charming lady and we got along famously. But I was not happy with the woman who was editing
The Madonna of Excelsior
. I had a history with her because she was the one who had edited my very first novel,
Ways of Dying
. She had changed a modifier I had used and had substituted it with âenchanting'. I hated that word in my book because I felt that if the situation I had portrayed was enchanting at all it should just enchant without instructing the reader to be enchanted. It was as if you had a magical realist situation and then you wrote âthe characters magically floated in the air'. That would be ridiculous. Strange and unusual events in the book should be deadpan without calling attention to themselves through silly modifiers. But it was my first novel and I had to go along with what that editor wanted. Now, in this new novel she was insisting that I change the portrayal of the Afrikaner characters and explain things and psychologise the characters when I wanted to write a naive novel in keeping with the naive paintings of Father Frans Claerhout that I had harnessed in my storytelling. I was no longer a first-time novelist and I knew my rights. I demanded that they fire the editor from working on my novel. Mary Reynolds came to my office at the University of Cape Town with the editor to plead with me not to fire her. The editor assured me she would stop trying to put her own stamp on my novel. I agreed that she could go ahead and complete the job. After all, she did have some useful suggestions. For instance, I had made the Afrikaner pastor wear a dog-collar. She corrected that because she knew that in the Dutch Reformed Church pastors did not wear dog-collars. I hadn't known that.
Mary Reynolds, the commissioning editor at Oxford University Press, was a very charming lady and we got along famously. But I was not happy with the woman who was editing
The Madonna of Excelsior
. I had a history with her because she was the one who had edited my very first novel,
Ways of Dying
. She had changed a modifier I had used and had substituted it with âenchanting'. I hated that word in my book because I felt that if the situation I had portrayed was enchanting at all it should just enchant without instructing the reader to be enchanted. It was as if you had a magical realist situation and then you wrote âthe characters magically floated in the air'. That would be ridiculous. Strange and unusual events in the book should be deadpan without calling attention to themselves through silly modifiers. But it was my first novel and I had to go along with what that editor wanted. Now, in this new novel she was insisting that I change the portrayal of the Afrikaner characters and explain things and psychologise the characters when I wanted to write a naive novel in keeping with the naive paintings of Father Frans Claerhout that I had harnessed in my storytelling. I was no longer a first-time novelist and I knew my rights. I demanded that they fire the editor from working on my novel. Mary Reynolds came to my office at the University of Cape Town with the editor to plead with me not to fire her. The editor assured me she would stop trying to put her own stamp on my novel. I agreed that she could go ahead and complete the job. After all, she did have some useful suggestions. For instance, I had made the Afrikaner pastor wear a dog-collar. She corrected that because she knew that in the Dutch Reformed Church pastors did not wear dog-collars. I hadn't known that.
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