Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness by Alexandra Fuller
Authors: Alexandra Fuller
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continued the journey to the Sosiani River.
“There was at that time,” Mum says, “a hunter called Cecil Hoey who lived on the other side of what would become Eldoret. He saw what he thought was a long stream of smoke snaking its way up the escarpment onto the highlands. And then he realized he was seeing the pale canvas of covered wagons winding up to the plateau. It was the trekkers arriving.” Mum says, “Cecil took one look at that lot and predicted the end of the wildlife. He was right because when those Afrikaners first got there they had nothing to live off except what they could kill, and they finished off all the animals in no time.”
The Afrikaners made harrows from branches and thorns bound with leather thongs made from zebra skin, they made soap from eland fat and they made shoes from the hides of giraffes. They ate what they could snare or shoot and they lived in grass-thatched houses made from their own mud bricks, baked in the high-altitude sun. “A lot of them were very basic,” Mum says. “They weren’t educated and they didn’t read anything except the Bible. But they were tough and resourceful and they could live off nothing, those people.” And then she sniffs and I can tell that it wounds her to make this next admission. “Well, that was most of them. But some of them were quite posh. One Afrikaner family was so posh that the Queen Mother stayed with them when she came to Kenya in 1959.” Mum pauses to let me absorb this startling knowledge. “Imagine that,” she says. “There’s no way our shoddy little house would have been fit for royalty, but there they were—those posh Afrikaners—entertaining the Queen Mother!”
AT LAST CHERITO LURCHED ONTO the veranda with a tray of tea and a bottle of my grandmother’s homemade wine.
“Thank you,” my grandmother said.
Cherito staggered back into the kitchen. My grandmother’s hand hovered over the tray. “Tea, Mr. Prinsloo?” she offered. “Or something a little stronger?”
Flip blinked.
My grandmother poured them both a glass of wine. “It burns a little at first,” she warned, “but it’s not bad once you get used to it.” She took a sip of her wine. “Here’s to us.” She raised her glass. “There’re none like us, and if there were, they’re all dead.”
Flip took a sip.
“What do you think?” my grandmother asked.
Flip’s lips were stuck to his teeth, so he did not answer.
“Not bad, eh?” My grandmother poured herself another glass. “Mud in your eye,” she said. The second glass tasted better than the first, and working off the theory that the third would therefore be better than the second, my grandmother gave herself another helping. “To absent friends!” she cried. Which was how, when Flip finally got around to the reason for his visit, he found my grandmother in a pleasantly receptive mood.
“I’ve been watching your daughter riding,” Flip said suddenly.
My grandmother narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you?”
“I like her style,” he said. “Lots of blood.”
“Well,” my grandmother said, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
There was a long pause. Flip cleared his throat. “Dingaan’s Day is coming up,” he said.
Each year on December 16 Afrikaners everywhere celebrated Dingaan’s Day. The most significant date in their calendar, it memorialized a battle in 1838 when a Voortrekker column defeated Dingaan’s Zulu warriors on the banks of a river in modern-day KwaZulu-Natal. In Zulu they call that battle iMpi yaseNcome, the Battle of Ncome River. In Afrikaans they say it was Slag van Bloedrivier, the Battle of Blood River. But whatever you call it, the outcome was the same. On that day—with everything you can imagine going against them—four hundred seventy Voortrekkers roundly defeated tens of thousands of Zulu warriors. By nightfall, the Ncome River ran red with the blood of three thousand slain Zulus. No Afrikaners were killed in the battle and
“There was at that time,” Mum says, “a hunter called Cecil Hoey who lived on the other side of what would become Eldoret. He saw what he thought was a long stream of smoke snaking its way up the escarpment onto the highlands. And then he realized he was seeing the pale canvas of covered wagons winding up to the plateau. It was the trekkers arriving.” Mum says, “Cecil took one look at that lot and predicted the end of the wildlife. He was right because when those Afrikaners first got there they had nothing to live off except what they could kill, and they finished off all the animals in no time.”
The Afrikaners made harrows from branches and thorns bound with leather thongs made from zebra skin, they made soap from eland fat and they made shoes from the hides of giraffes. They ate what they could snare or shoot and they lived in grass-thatched houses made from their own mud bricks, baked in the high-altitude sun. “A lot of them were very basic,” Mum says. “They weren’t educated and they didn’t read anything except the Bible. But they were tough and resourceful and they could live off nothing, those people.” And then she sniffs and I can tell that it wounds her to make this next admission. “Well, that was most of them. But some of them were quite posh. One Afrikaner family was so posh that the Queen Mother stayed with them when she came to Kenya in 1959.” Mum pauses to let me absorb this startling knowledge. “Imagine that,” she says. “There’s no way our shoddy little house would have been fit for royalty, but there they were—those posh Afrikaners—entertaining the Queen Mother!”
AT LAST CHERITO LURCHED ONTO the veranda with a tray of tea and a bottle of my grandmother’s homemade wine.
“Thank you,” my grandmother said.
Cherito staggered back into the kitchen. My grandmother’s hand hovered over the tray. “Tea, Mr. Prinsloo?” she offered. “Or something a little stronger?”
Flip blinked.
My grandmother poured them both a glass of wine. “It burns a little at first,” she warned, “but it’s not bad once you get used to it.” She took a sip of her wine. “Here’s to us.” She raised her glass. “There’re none like us, and if there were, they’re all dead.”
Flip took a sip.
“What do you think?” my grandmother asked.
Flip’s lips were stuck to his teeth, so he did not answer.
“Not bad, eh?” My grandmother poured herself another glass. “Mud in your eye,” she said. The second glass tasted better than the first, and working off the theory that the third would therefore be better than the second, my grandmother gave herself another helping. “To absent friends!” she cried. Which was how, when Flip finally got around to the reason for his visit, he found my grandmother in a pleasantly receptive mood.
“I’ve been watching your daughter riding,” Flip said suddenly.
My grandmother narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you?”
“I like her style,” he said. “Lots of blood.”
“Well,” my grandmother said, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
There was a long pause. Flip cleared his throat. “Dingaan’s Day is coming up,” he said.
Each year on December 16 Afrikaners everywhere celebrated Dingaan’s Day. The most significant date in their calendar, it memorialized a battle in 1838 when a Voortrekker column defeated Dingaan’s Zulu warriors on the banks of a river in modern-day KwaZulu-Natal. In Zulu they call that battle iMpi yaseNcome, the Battle of Ncome River. In Afrikaans they say it was Slag van Bloedrivier, the Battle of Blood River. But whatever you call it, the outcome was the same. On that day—with everything you can imagine going against them—four hundred seventy Voortrekkers roundly defeated tens of thousands of Zulu warriors. By nightfall, the Ncome River ran red with the blood of three thousand slain Zulus. No Afrikaners were killed in the battle and
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