the fields.”
We’d been noticing this, that she’d sometimes say things that made you think she’d been having a conversation with herself
and your presence was only incidental.
“Who said you’re fat?”
“I heard English whites don’t like fat women. The Boers like them fat.”
“I’m not English.”
“I’m bored,” she says. “Aren’t you bored?”
I watch her scratch her left ankle with her right toes. I stoop and pick up Tomo. I want, for a moment, to be closer to her
feet. I start to bounce Tomo on my knees, but he goes for my eyes and I drop him. He snatches up my margarine tub and tosses
it in the fire. She doesn’t seem to notice any of this. She looks at me, her eyes too big. Pohamba said no woman should open
her eyes that wide, that a woman who advertised like that was either lying or crazy. I stare back at her with what I’m thinking
looks like sensuous, but also intellectual, meaning.
She looks back at the pot.
“Why don’t you cook inside in the kitchen?”
“It seems my sister thinks my morals contaminate the food.”
“She said that?”
“She said I’m a slut.”
“Sluts don’t use kitchens?”
“Apparently not.”
I lean toward her sideways, with my eye on the small scoop in her neck, thinking this is the right angle for something, but
she’s already off the bench, moving fast into the darkened veld, up and down a small koppie and out of sight.
She shouts to me, “Feed him for me, will you, please? Wait for it to cool.”
I spoon the pap into his bowl and set it on the bench. I watch the steam rise for a while. Then I call the monster and the
monster comes. He plumps himself down against my leg and waits for his bowl.
Down the road, Antoinette hollers wash. “You boys, I want you washed, scrubbed, and pious. Ten minutes!” And the boys shout
it back in all their languages. A babel of voices hollering wash.
In the house, there’s the subtle flick of the constantly changing white light. Miss Tuyeni laughs at something she thinks
she sees. I watch Tomo eat.
46
WALLS
A boy in the hostel has night terrors. We are all accustomed to it now. We wait for him. It’s as if he does our screaming for
us.
He’s screaming right now.
Pohamba bangs the wall. “Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Which boy do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s he afraid of?”
“Look, let’s try and —”
“Mobutu can’t sleep either.”
“What?”
“Mobutu Sese Seko and his leopardskin hat. What keeps him awake? What’s he fear?”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“He fears Patrice Lumumba. Want one? A bedtime story?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come now. We’ve nowhere to go but sleep. Answer. Why does Mobutu fear Patrice Lumumba?”
“I have no clue.”
“Good. You shouldn’t. Because Lumumba’s gone. They chopped him up in pieces and threw him in a barrel of acid.”
“So he’s dead. Let Mobutu and me go back to sleep.”
“Is the mind always logical? Mobutu lies in his big golden bed and he can’t sleep for fear. So he calls in his security chief
and says, ‘Security Chief, I want you to do something for me. Go kill Patrice Lumumba.’ ‘But, master,’ the security chief
says, ‘The postal worker’s been dead for years.’ ‘You think I don’t know that? The people—don’t you understand?—the people
still love him.’ So the security chief calls his men and tells them what to do. They’re confused also, but the security chief
shouts at them, ‘Do I pay you clods to ask questions?’ His men shrug. It’s not hard. They go out and murder a guy. The security
chief brings the body to Mobutu. ‘Here’s Lumumba, master.’ ‘Good,’ Mobutu says. ‘Now go and do it again.’”
Pohamba blows his nose, honks. “So every night, in Kinshasa, they murder Patrice Lumumba. Well, it’s Africa, no?”
“Good night,” I say.
“You think
this
isn’t Africa?”
“What?”
“You’re not
We’d been noticing this, that she’d sometimes say things that made you think she’d been having a conversation with herself
and your presence was only incidental.
“Who said you’re fat?”
“I heard English whites don’t like fat women. The Boers like them fat.”
“I’m not English.”
“I’m bored,” she says. “Aren’t you bored?”
I watch her scratch her left ankle with her right toes. I stoop and pick up Tomo. I want, for a moment, to be closer to her
feet. I start to bounce Tomo on my knees, but he goes for my eyes and I drop him. He snatches up my margarine tub and tosses
it in the fire. She doesn’t seem to notice any of this. She looks at me, her eyes too big. Pohamba said no woman should open
her eyes that wide, that a woman who advertised like that was either lying or crazy. I stare back at her with what I’m thinking
looks like sensuous, but also intellectual, meaning.
She looks back at the pot.
“Why don’t you cook inside in the kitchen?”
“It seems my sister thinks my morals contaminate the food.”
“She said that?”
“She said I’m a slut.”
“Sluts don’t use kitchens?”
“Apparently not.”
I lean toward her sideways, with my eye on the small scoop in her neck, thinking this is the right angle for something, but
she’s already off the bench, moving fast into the darkened veld, up and down a small koppie and out of sight.
She shouts to me, “Feed him for me, will you, please? Wait for it to cool.”
I spoon the pap into his bowl and set it on the bench. I watch the steam rise for a while. Then I call the monster and the
monster comes. He plumps himself down against my leg and waits for his bowl.
Down the road, Antoinette hollers wash. “You boys, I want you washed, scrubbed, and pious. Ten minutes!” And the boys shout
it back in all their languages. A babel of voices hollering wash.
In the house, there’s the subtle flick of the constantly changing white light. Miss Tuyeni laughs at something she thinks
she sees. I watch Tomo eat.
46
WALLS
A boy in the hostel has night terrors. We are all accustomed to it now. We wait for him. It’s as if he does our screaming for
us.
He’s screaming right now.
Pohamba bangs the wall. “Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Which boy do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s he afraid of?”
“Look, let’s try and —”
“Mobutu can’t sleep either.”
“What?”
“Mobutu Sese Seko and his leopardskin hat. What keeps him awake? What’s he fear?”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“He fears Patrice Lumumba. Want one? A bedtime story?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come now. We’ve nowhere to go but sleep. Answer. Why does Mobutu fear Patrice Lumumba?”
“I have no clue.”
“Good. You shouldn’t. Because Lumumba’s gone. They chopped him up in pieces and threw him in a barrel of acid.”
“So he’s dead. Let Mobutu and me go back to sleep.”
“Is the mind always logical? Mobutu lies in his big golden bed and he can’t sleep for fear. So he calls in his security chief
and says, ‘Security Chief, I want you to do something for me. Go kill Patrice Lumumba.’ ‘But, master,’ the security chief
says, ‘The postal worker’s been dead for years.’ ‘You think I don’t know that? The people—don’t you understand?—the people
still love him.’ So the security chief calls his men and tells them what to do. They’re confused also, but the security chief
shouts at them, ‘Do I pay you clods to ask questions?’ His men shrug. It’s not hard. They go out and murder a guy. The security
chief brings the body to Mobutu. ‘Here’s Lumumba, master.’ ‘Good,’ Mobutu says. ‘Now go and do it again.’”
Pohamba blows his nose, honks. “So every night, in Kinshasa, they murder Patrice Lumumba. Well, it’s Africa, no?”
“Good night,” I say.
“You think
this
isn’t Africa?”
“What?”
“You’re not
Similar Books
