Sunday was quiet; it had been a while since I had the whole day to myself. I couldn't go to church since I located none around the school. Going by reports, the only place of worship available was closer to the neighbouring village, Centane.
I'd never been a regular church-goer, anyway. Back in Rosebank, only when serious personal issues bedevilled me did I remember that the church was two streets away.
As everything was going on well for me here in Glenmore, the congregation could go on singing praises of the Lord without me.
I spent the better part of the day chatting with Yenzo and we enjoyed a two and a half hour phone conversation. When network connection issues came up, we resorted to instant messaging.
"Yenzo, Menzo. My one and only cantankerous damsel."
"Call me whatever you wish. I hope you are behaving like a gentleman over there."
"Of course, I am. I see your name in the skies every time I look upwards. You are the best thing to happen to Africa."
"la..la..la.. You are in a good mood today, right?"
"Always in a good mood when talking to my cool babe. You know that, don't you?"
"Did you go to church?"
"I shouldn't be here now if I did. But I searched around, asked about, missed my way and turned back when I got lost. Then I retraced my steps and was told that it's closer to the next village—"
"Cut the long story short, you didn't."
"No, because I don't want to appear on the state television as the man who got lost looking for a place of worship. I quickly negotiated with my feet to take me back home. After all, God answers prayers everywhere."
"Good point, but I hope it's true."
"You hope? Have I ever lied to you before?"
"Well, only sixty-two times."
"Fair enough. Not a hundred yet."
I showered praise on her for being present in my life. Sometimes, we didn't appreciate people until when far from them. Being hundreds of miles away from my woman, I realised how much I missed the times we spent together in Johannesburg. Fond memories of our exploits filled my heart this day, and I reassured her that she had built a mansion in my heart where she belonged.
"If you remain the person you are, not changing one bit, nothing would come between us."
Yenzo yelled in joy at my choice of words, but the frailty of her voice was hard to miss. My sweetheart was love-sick. All the same, hearing her familiar voice tickled me to bits. But it wasn't my ears alone doing the listening. The bulge in my trousers heard her voice too, and it responded with a standing ovation.
"Goodbye, my love," she said before signing out. Her last words had come through in whimpers.
Listening to her sobs hurt me. I hadn't been calling her regularly because frequent phone calls do Jo'burg many times in a day would quell my zeal on the students. So, the long weekend calls still sounded fair for now.
Later in the evening, as I was drawing up plans for the coming week, I had cause to think about my first week's activities in Glenmore. I scored myself a pass mark about my conducts and dedication to my duties.
I maintained a cordial and formal relationship with my students; not once did I have reasons to meet any of them privately.
Mike definitely won't believe that I didn't hobnob with my students. He always thought I couldn't cope without a lady by my side. To him, that I stayed loyal to Yenzo for two years was a miracle. But here Jack stood keeping his libido in check. Anytime my trouser bulged too hard, I poured cold water on it, and that always kept it silenced.
The only baffling issue was the note pasted on my door the day before. Choosing to discuss it with my students could give them the impression that pranks troubled me. I'd rather keep my worries to myself.
But which one of them had the guts to tell me that I could run but couldn't hide? Was it about some knotty Maths problems? Or some of them sought to have a personal relationship me? I would be on the watch out for further clues.
Knock. Knock.
Mr Madiba was at the door. "Umfundisi, " he called by the local name for a teacher.
"Yes, sir." I opened the main door, leaving the half-door untouched.
"You always busy day by day. After school, you lock up in the room. You don't have time to drink with me. Today is Sunday, and my wife did a special meal for us. School closed today, so no excuse for you. Please come, we have chairs outside."
The man was right. It'd been a week since I got introduced to him, but we hadn't met since then. I didn't have much to say in protest. I felt like joining him this afternoon.
"Okay, sir."
With my jeans and sandals on, I came out to the veranda to find that a few people were seated already.
On one side, Madiba sat alone on the bench waiting for me to join him. On the other side of the meadow, his wife watched over a fire pot. She then returned to a long bench where two girls sat, one being the caregiver who attended to my injury the day before.
As I walked towards Madiba, the girls caught my attention. As if on cue, each looked at me, flinched, and then turned their faces away.
Their traditional attire had colourful beads all over. White dots sprinkled across their faces. And they had pieces of clothing covering their bust. The adornment was pleasing to see, and I took my time doing so. But I was careful enough not to let Madiba see me ogling at those girls.
Before taking my seat, I greeted.
"Molweni to you all." I'd since learnt how to greet a group of people.
His wife answered warmly, as usual, and then stood up to dish out some food. A meal of roasted chicken, olive oil and pap were in the offing. The smell of fresh Umqombothi, the local beer, filled the air.
Though I'd eaten snacks earlier, I couldn't resist the tantalizing aroma oozing from the chicken. It was hot and spicy, and my nose twitched as I salivated. The heat from it forced me to wait a while before dabbing into it. This wasn't the type of meal for fork and knife, Madiba had a drumstick in his hand already.
Apart from the chicken, I caught a whiff of a different kind of meat that looked unfamiliar. I then recalled that the man once mentioned that he was a hunter. Perhaps he brought home some grass-cutters or rabbits from the bush. My tongue vibrated at the prospect of eating something new. I repositioned on the bench, warming up for the feast.
"I'm here today, Madiba."
"Ha-ha, this is good. We are one family here since we live the same compound."
I nodded as he spoke. The aroma of chicken breezed through my nose, and my tummy roared in anticipation. When last did I set eyes on KFC or Chicken Licken? Here was Madiba village chicken oozing aroma that was hard to ignore.
"You can take your food."
As if I needed to be urged. I pulled the plate closer and colonised it. As soon as I started eating, Chief Madiba did not even ask if I would drink before pouring beer from the calabash into two wooden cups and pushed them towards me.
"Thank you, Chief."
"Tall men like you must not shy. You work hard every day and come late, so I don't disturb you at evenings. I sleep quickly. If night come, my eyes close no matter wherever I stay then. But weekends like today is good to relax and enjoy the weather with family."
"Yes...yes. That's true. The weather is nice this evening. In fact, it's always nice." A mouthful of chicken didn't stop me from talking. The taste of the food made the weather better. And the sight of the girls in the yard made the weather more soothing.
Unsure if alcohol played a role or he was happy that I sat patiently, ready to listen to him, Madiba was eager to share his past experiences and the history of the village. He delved into the origin of Glenmore, narrating how the village grew from a small fort where travellers stopped to relax while on a long journey.
"During the Anglo-Boar war, this town was where travellers hide if they don't want attack from the enemies. As you see, it is valley. That mountain there far, far at the distance was the battleground and meeting point. " He pointed at a huge hill that separated Glenmore from Centane.
I wasn't certain if stories about wars and travellers would make good hearing, but the glee on his face and the passion he brought to the narration captivated me. I listened with rapt attention while sipping from the cup. I was conscious not to drink too much so as not to put myself in a tight corner the following day.
Some yards away, his wife and daughters chatted away in the local dialect, which made it difficult for me to follow their gist. While listening to the war tales of Mr Madiba, I stole glances at the girls. Those babes looked damn pretty. The brightness of their faces matched the early-afternoon sun.
One of them wasn't partaking in the discussion. She peeped at me every now and then, and our eyes met a few times. She looked smart, well-proportioned and should be about eighteen years old. Her dimpled cheeks added to her overall beauty. When she smiled, and frequently so, she revealed a nice set of teeth that exuded her pubescent attractiveness. I smiled every time she did, and it felt as if our hearts worked in sync.
Carried away by the girl's beauty, my mind veered away from the tales of battles and gunshots told around me. The man observed that my smiles were too frequent and didn't match the flow of his tales.
"Not funny story, my friend," he said, jerking me back to consciousness.
"No, not at all. War times are never funny," I replied, hoping that he didn't observe that his gory tales bored me. "Sir, you talk as if you had some military training. Have you fought in a war before?"
The man sat next to me and could have heard if I whispered, but I'd raised my voice as if addressing seventy people. My playacting didn't go unnoticed as the girl with whom I'd been exchanging glances adjusted on her seat and peeked in my direction the more.
Madiba thought my loud voice was because I found the story interesting. He changed posture, gulped a mouthful, and deepened his voice. He then heaved a long sigh and tightened his eyes as if on a battleground. His narration had just begun.
"Yes, I have. I'm veteran. During apartheid, I was one of those who planned the Soweto riot of 1976. The day of the protest, we fought like wounded lions." – Sticking his fingers out –" I lost seven of my friends to the riots even if I'm not proud to talk about it. But there is nothing I can do to reverse it. I... "
The man went on with the details of all that happened many years ago. When he concluded one story, he jumped to another and gave accounts of government policies and how the people were affected. I regretted asking him that question in the first place.
Luckily, he switched over to how he met his first, then second wife. Apparently, the woman seated there with us, the mother of the two girls, was his third wife.
He had eight other kids, but they lived outside the Eastern Cape. Most of them resided in Cape Town or Tshwane. They were either married with kids or working somewhere in those cities. Chief Madiba, his wife, younger brother, and daughters were the only residents in the compound.
The girls seated were Funeka and Deliwe. The older one, Funeka, was in the process of gaining a university admission, but she had completed a six-months nursing school programme. Deliwe – the one exchanging glances with me – attended Landmark and was in grade-eleven. The manner they interacted suggested that the girls were obviously close to each other.
It must have been one of them who appeared to me like a ghost a week before. "Could they have been the ones behind the 'Worried Girl' note?"
After more than three hours of talking, Chief Madiba began to doze off at the onset of dusk. The cooler evening wind had replaced the hot afternoon breeze.
My lips quivered, and I couldn't cope staying outside any longer. Not even the presence of the chatting ladies could make me stay a minute longer.
As usual, my skin got swapped with gooseflesh, and it puzzled how the ladies remained unperturbed in that biting cold, despite their scanty clothes.
Feeling uneasy, I woke my landlord up. "Chief, you are off already. I'm going inside."
"Oh, thank you very much. I really enjoyed talking to you," he said, with one eye open.
"I enjoyed your stories too. I hope you'll continue later again."
"Yes..yes, later." His head tilted to one side as he dozed off again.
Before walking back into the hut, I drifted towards the ladies' bench.
"Madam, thank you very much. I enjoyed your meal."
"Thank you too," Deliwe said, and Funeka repeated it.
The woman smiled and clasped her hands together. "Thank you."
"Oh, at least she replied this time reading her daughters' lips. How interesting."
Waving at both girls, I turned on my winky-smile. They raised their hands, waved back and let out generous smiles.