Once upon a time, last year in fact, an old woman lived alone in her house. Her children were grown up and successful and all lived far away. She loved her house and her garden, which brimmed with all shades of green. Her favourite plant was an exotic cactus that bore one pink flower for a single day every ten years. She was excited because for the last nine years she had faithfully watered and fed this plant with the fat green leaves that stuck out in all directions. She could already see the knob where the flower would grow.
She received an invitation, with a plane ticket attached, to visit one of her beloved children, close to the date of the ten year flowering. Her quiet world was invaded by a difficult choice she had to make. She missed her child and the grandchildren. But then the flower would go unseen. What to do?
She sat with her predicament. What to do? She waited. She longed to see how the grandchildren had grown. She could hear their squeals of delight when she kissed the soles of their feet after their bath. She ached to be near them. What to do, because the flower always reminded her of the evanescence of life. The flower shares its lifespan with her for one day only. She waited for an answer from within.
She stayed. She watched the birth of the exquisite pink of the translucent petals early in the morning. She shared the magnificence of this life form until the flower wilted and fell on her mother, earth, at dusk. She sighed with delight at being able, once again, to witness this wonder of nature for which she waited ten years. Her heart glowed as the cactus revealed, and shared, her pinnacle of pride with the old woman.
She did visit the beloved child and her progeny soon afterward. They shared time and much fun and laughter. She divulged her treasured recipes as they prepared food together. At night she told the bright young eyes that watched her every move, all her old stories of ancient times. She shared her wisdom, accumulated over all the years of her life.
The pink cactus never bloomed for her again.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Missing
Missing
Tsitsi struggled to concentrate on her work. The dream she had, haunted her past lunch time. What was missing? What had she been overlooking? Who was missing? What was her subconscious bringing to her attention?
Out of the blue the name of a long forgotten aunt came up. She didn’t have a single photograph of this aunt to put into her memory album. When she tried to obtain one from other family members, she was rebuked. Nobody wanted to be reminded of her.
Ariadne went missing that same week. Tsitsi was in tears: her cat with the green eyes no longer jumped onto the table in the kitchen to investigate if some tasty morsel wasn’t accidentally left in her bowl. No soft brush against her legs in the passage. The spot in the sun on the bed remained empty. Tsitsi’s heart had a hole in it.
Aunt Cathy was a teacher. Her long term boyfriend ended their relationship and she went dancing with another teacher. She was pregnant after their very first date. Uncle Brent was not in love and did not want to marry her, as was culturally expected of him in the late nineteen forties. To avoid an even bigger scandal, they were married in a hurry.
Uncle Brent qualified as a dentist while Aunty Cathy worked as a teacher to support them. He eventually had his own practice and his own secretary and was a respected man in the community. His secretaries would become younger as Aunty Cathy became older and redder in the face. He worked long hours, so he claimed, to service the teeth of important people.
As far as Tsitsi can remember, there was no cousin. She was sure of that. The details were blurred by the mists of time and were certainly never openly discussed. Perhaps Uncle Brent forced her to have an abortion, and it was called a miscarriage? What Tsitsi did remember was that Aunty Cathy had bottles of whiskey hidden in the most unlikely places in her house. Once Tsitsi went in search of a towel and found a bottle hidden in the linen cupboard. Another time there was a full half jack concealed in a saucepan in the kitchen.
Tsitsi cried often the following day. She had a feeling that her tears were for more that her beloved cat. It must be so hard to live with a man that never loved you, she kept thinking. Aunty Cathy probably loved Uncle Brent, otherwise she would not have been hurt so much or put up with the humiliation for so long. She filled her emptiness with food and dulled her pain with whiskey and soda.
The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon in the late nineteen seventies, when apartheid was in full force. It was discussed in hushed hissing voices by the few people who were privy to what had happened. There was a serious division as to what had to be done, anger even.
The abuse of power came to pass. Uncle Brent called on an influential client who obliterated all records of the accident. The dent in Aunty Cathy’s car was fixed without question.
Tsitsi was sad. Ariadne was still missing. What made matters worse for her was that she was now crying for the family of the black man that was killed by Aunty Cathy thirty odd years ago. Somewhere in South Africa there is a mother who will never know what happened to her son. Perhaps he had a wife and children. He was an unknown name on the long list of missing people. His destiny was to meet Aunty Cathy on a quiet and otherwise deserted road one Sunday afternoon, long ago.
Aunty Cathy died within a year. She could not bear her miserable life any longer. Uncle Brent did not grieve for long. He remarried before the clods of earth on Aunty Cathy's grave were dry.
Ariadne was rescued by a gardener after three days cornered up a tree by a neighbour’s vicious dogs. She was cold, wet and hungry. She returned as the new queen of the household, and the Jack Russell had to abdicate with one green flash of her eyes. If only Aunty Cathy could have been queen of her own life . . . .
Tsitsi felt that she needed to go to the police and tell this story. It would be the right thing to do. Perhaps insist on restitution of some sort. Then she realized that she could not because she had no name and no date.
Tsitsi started to question the details of the accident for the first time. She knows that humans are capable of doing strange things without knowing. Who actually saw the body of the black man? Was there ever a body? Perhaps the dent on Aunty Cathy’s car was caused by a tree that she ran into. She was so intoxicated that she could not remember at all what had happened. She was told repeatedly, no doubt, that she had killed a man. She believed it. However, one is innocent until proven guilty,
Tsitsi struggled to concentrate on her work. The dream she had, haunted her past lunch time. What was missing? What had she been overlooking? Who was missing? What was her subconscious bringing to her attention?
Out of the blue the name of a long forgotten aunt came up. She didn’t have a single photograph of this aunt to put into her memory album. When she tried to obtain one from other family members, she was rebuked. Nobody wanted to be reminded of her.
Ariadne went missing that same week. Tsitsi was in tears: her cat with the green eyes no longer jumped onto the table in the kitchen to investigate if some tasty morsel wasn’t accidentally left in her bowl. No soft brush against her legs in the passage. The spot in the sun on the bed remained empty. Tsitsi’s heart had a hole in it.
Aunt Cathy was a teacher. Her long term boyfriend ended their relationship and she went dancing with another teacher. She was pregnant after their very first date. Uncle Brent was not in love and did not want to marry her, as was culturally expected of him in the late nineteen forties. To avoid an even bigger scandal, they were married in a hurry.
Uncle Brent qualified as a dentist while Aunty Cathy worked as a teacher to support them. He eventually had his own practice and his own secretary and was a respected man in the community. His secretaries would become younger as Aunty Cathy became older and redder in the face. He worked long hours, so he claimed, to service the teeth of important people.
As far as Tsitsi can remember, there was no cousin. She was sure of that. The details were blurred by the mists of time and were certainly never openly discussed. Perhaps Uncle Brent forced her to have an abortion, and it was called a miscarriage? What Tsitsi did remember was that Aunty Cathy had bottles of whiskey hidden in the most unlikely places in her house. Once Tsitsi went in search of a towel and found a bottle hidden in the linen cupboard. Another time there was a full half jack concealed in a saucepan in the kitchen.
Tsitsi cried often the following day. She had a feeling that her tears were for more that her beloved cat. It must be so hard to live with a man that never loved you, she kept thinking. Aunty Cathy probably loved Uncle Brent, otherwise she would not have been hurt so much or put up with the humiliation for so long. She filled her emptiness with food and dulled her pain with whiskey and soda.
The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon in the late nineteen seventies, when apartheid was in full force. It was discussed in hushed hissing voices by the few people who were privy to what had happened. There was a serious division as to what had to be done, anger even.
The abuse of power came to pass. Uncle Brent called on an influential client who obliterated all records of the accident. The dent in Aunty Cathy’s car was fixed without question.
Tsitsi was sad. Ariadne was still missing. What made matters worse for her was that she was now crying for the family of the black man that was killed by Aunty Cathy thirty odd years ago. Somewhere in South Africa there is a mother who will never know what happened to her son. Perhaps he had a wife and children. He was an unknown name on the long list of missing people. His destiny was to meet Aunty Cathy on a quiet and otherwise deserted road one Sunday afternoon, long ago.
Aunty Cathy died within a year. She could not bear her miserable life any longer. Uncle Brent did not grieve for long. He remarried before the clods of earth on Aunty Cathy's grave were dry.
Ariadne was rescued by a gardener after three days cornered up a tree by a neighbour’s vicious dogs. She was cold, wet and hungry. She returned as the new queen of the household, and the Jack Russell had to abdicate with one green flash of her eyes. If only Aunty Cathy could have been queen of her own life . . . .
Tsitsi felt that she needed to go to the police and tell this story. It would be the right thing to do. Perhaps insist on restitution of some sort. Then she realized that she could not because she had no name and no date.
Tsitsi started to question the details of the accident for the first time. She knows that humans are capable of doing strange things without knowing. Who actually saw the body of the black man? Was there ever a body? Perhaps the dent on Aunty Cathy’s car was caused by a tree that she ran into. She was so intoxicated that she could not remember at all what had happened. She was told repeatedly, no doubt, that she had killed a man. She believed it. However, one is innocent until proven guilty,
Monday, January 4, 2010
Feral Pigeon Chicks
Tsitsi is aware of the new cycle of life on her window sill because she wakes up to the sounds of wings that land to delightful squeals of anticipation. Most mornings Tsitsi is aware of the early morning ritual outside her window, and she lets them be. This morning, however, she is annoyed with them. Tsitsi remembers that when she reversed her car out of the driveway yesterday, she looked back and saw two chicks sitting in the middle of the spot where her car had been. After recovering from a small heart attack, Tsitsi realized that they are too young and are therefore unable to fly back to the safety of the window sill.
Strong mother instincts are required to love feral pigeon chicks, probably because only a good mother can see the potential of the naked pink body that shows the red veins underneath. The legs are clumsy and the wings have no feathers, except for the blue beginnings of the shafts that will eventually float the bird into the air. The two halves of the beak are almost permanently open in a squeal for food which is a trigger for the caregivers to gather nourishment all day.
The art of flying is learned by trial and error on the chick’s part and great anxiety on the part of the caregivers who sit on the roof and watch. They know that other eyes are watching too.
Tsitsi has a busy day ahead of her and leaves the house, dressed in one of her nicer and therefore less comfortable outfits with high heels. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that the chicks hide behind the front wheel of her car. She waves her handbag at them in frustration, and to her astonishment they move away from the car. She drives off into her day.
The next day she remembers about the chicks as she walks to her car. She peers underneath. They sit there as though they were in their nest. They make no attempt to move away. In the end, Tsitsi persuades them with a broom to rather hide underneath a shrub in the garden. She can almost feel the sigh of relief from the roof from where the other pigeons have a good view of the spectacle.
That afternoon Tsitsi watches as the parents feed the chicks. They do not attempt to fly at all. Suddenly the parents fly off and the two small ones huddle together. Tsitsi is the last one to notice one of her cats wander onto the scene. Tsitsi holds her breath. The cat strolls past, ignoring the easy catch.
Tsitsi has to admit that the workings of nature are a mystery to her. She tried to do her human best for the chicks by putting them back onto the window sill a few times, only to find them on the ground again the next morning. And then the cats’ behavior also baffles her. They walk straight past the chicks with not a sign of their usual inquisitiveness.
The chicks grow each day. Their feathers grow quickly and within a few days they can fly almost onto the roof. Tsitsi is as pleased as though they were her own offspring flapping their wings to fly off into their future.
A day later Tsitsi returns home to disaster. In the passage, where the cat catches are displayed for approval, she finds the two feral pigeon chicks. Her heart cracks open.
Tsitsi remembers another time, a time in her own fledgling years when she was about ten years old; a time when she was on the brink of testing her wings in the world; a time when small children are nourished, cherished and held safe.
Circumstances necessitated that she start boarding school in Standard 2. Her father would drive her to town early every Monday morning in time for school and the beginning of her school week. In her suitcase would be the freshly washed and ironed clothes for the week. He would see her to the door of the hostel, and give her two shillings, enough for the outing on Wednesday afternoon, the highlight of her week. The other highlight was that he would be there on Friday afternoon to take her home for the weekend. Always.
Tsitsi remembers the matron of the boarding school as a large dark shadow with no facial features whose name she can not remember. She upheld discipline. She walked, talked and breathed authority. Eating and sleeping was at fixed times, whether you were hungry or tired or not. Rules were rules. There was no choice.
All the standard 2 inmates of the hostel had to take a bath on Thursday night, their only bath of the week. Tsitsi had to stand in the queue, naked with her clean towel in her one hand, prescribed sleepware in the other. The small girls were not allowed to cover themselves with their towels. In winter it was cold. It was only later that Tsitsi became smart enough to scurry for the front of this queue, as close as possible to the favorite.
Matron would blow a whistle and allocate a bath to the next two girls in the queue. The others had to wait in line for their turn, which sometimes felt like for ever to Tsitsi. You had three minutes to bath. The whistle would blow again, and you had to get out and dry yourself, fast, before the next whistle. Then it was the turn of the next two girls, in the same water. Tsitsi frowns as she remembers and wonders if that could be the reason why she so much relished taking her time in the bath, even adding hot water when it cooled too much.
Matron slept in the dormitory. Her bed was by the door. Tsitsi had a bed second from the corner. If she made the slightest movement, the hard mattress would complain, and matron would threaten with a hiding to whoever was making such a noise. Tsistsi got used to sleeping in one position the whole night.
Tsitsi learned not to cough even though she had to when she had a cold, because that was also considered a disturbance. Tsitsi learned to be invisible, to follow all the rules as closely as she could so that she could be a good girl. She never questioned anything, because she learned with a hiding not to.
Tsitsi stares out of her window, at the spot where she last saw the feral pigeon chicks. A desire to howl fills her. She ignores it.
A cold hand moves over Tsitsi’s body as she finds the cause of her invisibility. She sits at the window for such a long time that a passer by could be forgiven for not seeing her there.
Then she howls, so loud that she would make a wild wolf proud.
Tsitsi is aware of the new cycle of life on her window sill because she wakes up to the sounds of wings that land to delightful squeals of anticipation. Most mornings Tsitsi is aware of the early morning ritual outside her window, and she lets them be. This morning, however, she is annoyed with them. Tsitsi remembers that when she reversed her car out of the driveway yesterday, she looked back and saw two chicks sitting in the middle of the spot where her car had been. After recovering from a small heart attack, Tsitsi realized that they are too young and are therefore unable to fly back to the safety of the window sill.
Strong mother instincts are required to love feral pigeon chicks, probably because only a good mother can see the potential of the naked pink body that shows the red veins underneath. The legs are clumsy and the wings have no feathers, except for the blue beginnings of the shafts that will eventually float the bird into the air. The two halves of the beak are almost permanently open in a squeal for food which is a trigger for the caregivers to gather nourishment all day.
The art of flying is learned by trial and error on the chick’s part and great anxiety on the part of the caregivers who sit on the roof and watch. They know that other eyes are watching too.
Tsitsi has a busy day ahead of her and leaves the house, dressed in one of her nicer and therefore less comfortable outfits with high heels. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that the chicks hide behind the front wheel of her car. She waves her handbag at them in frustration, and to her astonishment they move away from the car. She drives off into her day.
The next day she remembers about the chicks as she walks to her car. She peers underneath. They sit there as though they were in their nest. They make no attempt to move away. In the end, Tsitsi persuades them with a broom to rather hide underneath a shrub in the garden. She can almost feel the sigh of relief from the roof from where the other pigeons have a good view of the spectacle.
That afternoon Tsitsi watches as the parents feed the chicks. They do not attempt to fly at all. Suddenly the parents fly off and the two small ones huddle together. Tsitsi is the last one to notice one of her cats wander onto the scene. Tsitsi holds her breath. The cat strolls past, ignoring the easy catch.
Tsitsi has to admit that the workings of nature are a mystery to her. She tried to do her human best for the chicks by putting them back onto the window sill a few times, only to find them on the ground again the next morning. And then the cats’ behavior also baffles her. They walk straight past the chicks with not a sign of their usual inquisitiveness.
The chicks grow each day. Their feathers grow quickly and within a few days they can fly almost onto the roof. Tsitsi is as pleased as though they were her own offspring flapping their wings to fly off into their future.
A day later Tsitsi returns home to disaster. In the passage, where the cat catches are displayed for approval, she finds the two feral pigeon chicks. Her heart cracks open.
Tsitsi remembers another time, a time in her own fledgling years when she was about ten years old; a time when she was on the brink of testing her wings in the world; a time when small children are nourished, cherished and held safe.
Circumstances necessitated that she start boarding school in Standard 2. Her father would drive her to town early every Monday morning in time for school and the beginning of her school week. In her suitcase would be the freshly washed and ironed clothes for the week. He would see her to the door of the hostel, and give her two shillings, enough for the outing on Wednesday afternoon, the highlight of her week. The other highlight was that he would be there on Friday afternoon to take her home for the weekend. Always.
Tsitsi remembers the matron of the boarding school as a large dark shadow with no facial features whose name she can not remember. She upheld discipline. She walked, talked and breathed authority. Eating and sleeping was at fixed times, whether you were hungry or tired or not. Rules were rules. There was no choice.
All the standard 2 inmates of the hostel had to take a bath on Thursday night, their only bath of the week. Tsitsi had to stand in the queue, naked with her clean towel in her one hand, prescribed sleepware in the other. The small girls were not allowed to cover themselves with their towels. In winter it was cold. It was only later that Tsitsi became smart enough to scurry for the front of this queue, as close as possible to the favorite.
Matron would blow a whistle and allocate a bath to the next two girls in the queue. The others had to wait in line for their turn, which sometimes felt like for ever to Tsitsi. You had three minutes to bath. The whistle would blow again, and you had to get out and dry yourself, fast, before the next whistle. Then it was the turn of the next two girls, in the same water. Tsitsi frowns as she remembers and wonders if that could be the reason why she so much relished taking her time in the bath, even adding hot water when it cooled too much.
Matron slept in the dormitory. Her bed was by the door. Tsitsi had a bed second from the corner. If she made the slightest movement, the hard mattress would complain, and matron would threaten with a hiding to whoever was making such a noise. Tsistsi got used to sleeping in one position the whole night.
Tsitsi learned not to cough even though she had to when she had a cold, because that was also considered a disturbance. Tsitsi learned to be invisible, to follow all the rules as closely as she could so that she could be a good girl. She never questioned anything, because she learned with a hiding not to.
Tsitsi stares out of her window, at the spot where she last saw the feral pigeon chicks. A desire to howl fills her. She ignores it.
A cold hand moves over Tsitsi’s body as she finds the cause of her invisibility. She sits at the window for such a long time that a passer by could be forgiven for not seeing her there.
Then she howls, so loud that she would make a wild wolf proud.
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