Читать книгу Queen of the Free State - Jennifer Friedman - Страница 5

Marta does our housework, the washing and ironing.

‘When you were a little-little baby, M’Pho, I used to pick you up and hold you here …’ She pats her shoulder. ‘Then I would hug you hard, like so!’ She folds me in her arms and holds me close.

‘And then, Marta?’

‘Then I would wrap you tight-tight against my back in my brown-and-yellow blanket …’

Marta would sing and murmur to me on her back, whisper and hum; reach her hand up to pat and comfort me. She held me tightly and stroked my skin.

She never kissed me.

Her voice is tender and bitter.

‘You are my gift from God, M’Pho.’

When I close my eyes, I can still feel the vibrations of her hummed hymns beating through my chest, echoing like a second heartbeat. Like her lullabies, the smell of her smoky neck under her headscarf is coiled inside me forever. She is part of Ma’s story of Me.

My Sotho name is ‘M’Pho’. It means ‘Gift from God’. Marta and Isak gave me my name when I was born. Marta says now Ma’s and Pa’s names are ‘Ma’M’Pho’ and ‘Pa’M’Pho’ forever.

Marta lives in Phomolong location. She says that means ‘Vergenoeg’.

‘Far enough from where, Marta?’ I ask.

‘Far enough from town, M’Pho, from this house. The policemen told us we have to live in Phomolong, far away from our work …’

Every day, Marta’s small feet – feet that have never been on intimate terms with the comfort of shoes – are marbled grey with dust from the long, dry road leading from the township to our house. Under the pale sun in the smoky winter mornings, she is a sad and tender chrysalis enveloped in the cocoon of her Basotho blanket, invisible amid the yawning masses slowly trudging along the long road to start their day’s work.

In summer, she arrives at our back door shining with sweat. Leaning against the flyscreen, she sighs, wipes her hand across her face.

‘We have to walk ten miles to work before the sun comes up, M’Pho. Ten miles back again in the dark night to our houses in Phomolong.’ She sighs. ‘It is too far. That is why it’s called “Vergenoeg”.’

‘Oh, Marta!’ I take her hand. ‘Oh, Marta, you must be so tired …’

Marta teaches me to greet the people I meet along the dusty roads.

‘Dumela ntate,’ I say politely. ‘Dumela ousie.’

‘Dumela mosadi,’ they reply.

They lift their hands in greeting; I lift mine in return. We smile at one another.

Everyone speaks Afrikaans in the Free State. Marta scolds me, tells me stories in Afrikaans about the evil tokoloshe that creeps out under unprotected beds at night. She tells Ma to raise my bed on bricks so that the tokoloshe won’t find and catch me in the dark hours before dawn. Ma says, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Marta. You’re scaring the child.’

Marta shakes her head, grumbles to herself. I’m frightened.

‘Will the tokoloshe be waiting to catch me when I have to go to the lavvy in the night, Marta?’

She clicks her tongue.

‘Eh, M’Pho, you must make finished in the lavvy before you get in the bed!’

‘But, Marta, sometimes I just have to go!’

‘Eh-eh, M’Pho!’ Marta shakes her head and looks around to see if Ma’s listening. She sighs. The threat of impending disasters hangs heavily over our heads.