Layout 1, page 6
spying on the magistrate.
He continues the stake-out for some days, noting
down the time the magistrate leaves for work in the
morning and returns in the afternoon, never to leave the
house again until the next day. Her only companion is a
cat. She receives no visitors, nor does she visit anyone.
The cat has a lot of freedom to roam about but is always
waiting for her at the door when she arrives. Her face
lights up and she plays with it a bit even before she
unlocks the door and the folding security barrier.
She must live a very lonely and sad life, Shortie
concludes.
Before the week is out, he returns to Sun City to
report to Stevo. There are many other people visiting
prisoners—mostly women talking to their menfolk in
their orange prison jumpsuits. Shortie is already waiting
when Stevo is brought in. His orange prison uniform is
oversized and Shortie cannot help laughing.
‘I don’t see nothing funny, china,’ says Stevo, looking
at his brother suspiciously. ‘I hope you got something to
tell me instead of sitting there giggling like a schoolgirl.’
BLACK DIAMOND
57
But he has nothing to tell him. The magistrate lives
alone. Just she and her cat. There is nothing that he saw
as a weakness that could be exploited to make her suffer.
‘You didn’t do the job right, Shortie,’ says Stevo.
‘There must be something we can use. You didn’t watch
that house right, china. You didn’t follow her right.’
‘Sure, I did, Stevo, starting on Saturday. She came
back from somewhere with paper bags and stuff. After
that she didn’t leave the house. Sunday she drove to the
Dutch Reformed Church in Roodekrans. She came back
and stayed in the house. Monday she went to work . . .’
‘She came back and stayed in the house,’ Stevo com-
pletes the sentence for him.
‘I can’t spend all the time watching that house,
Stevo,’ says Shortie. ‘I gotta work, Stevo. Nobody’s doing
the work at the scrapyard if I spend all my life waiting in
Weltevreden Park. Ma is beginning to ask questions
because there’s no money coming in.’
Stevo is disgusted. If Shortie is not of much help
then he’ll have to think of something else. Somehow the
bitch must pay.
Kristin Uys has not been an attorney for more than a
decade—since she left the Transvaal side-bar to become a
prosecutorandthenamagistrate.Thoughshedidpractise
asaconveyancer,eventhenshehatedthataspectofthelaw.
It is the same today. She finds it tedious when she has to
settleacasethatinvolvesdisputesovertransfersofimmov-
able property. Today’s case was particularly irksome and
ZAKES MDA
58
itdraggedonforthewholeday.Sheislookingforwardtoa
bubblebathandaglassofwarmwine.
She is about to walk out of her office when the phone
rings.
‘You bitch!’ says a strange muffled voice. ‘You whore!
We gonna get you. We gonna fuck the shit out of you and
then kill you.’
‘Who’s this?’
Whoever it is has hung up. The magistrate is shaken.
She stands there for a while as if she does not know what
to do next. Then she decides to dismiss the telephone call
with the contempt it deserves.
She gets into her Fiat Uno and drives home.
It is almost eight-thirty in the morning but she is still
in bed. Her cat cuddles up beside her. She oversleeps
sometimes, especially when she has had a lot of wine the
previous night. She will make it to the courtroom by ten.
One of the joys of being a magistrate is that the cases
cannot begin without her.
Both she and the cat are rudely awakened by the
phone. She reaches for it.
‘Bitch!’ the voice screeches into her ear. It may or may
not be the same voice as yesterday’s. It is muffled, so she
can’t tell. ‘I am going to mess your face up so you’ll never
want to show it anywhere again.’
‘Who gave you my private number?’ she asks.
The caller is no longer there.
BLACK DIAMOND
59
Her number is not listed. What if the caller is already
in the house? For a moment she panics, but soon gets
in control of herself. She is a bit groggy as she climbs out
of bed. The room is in a mess. A skimpy skirt, fishnet
stockings, stilettos and various items of frilly underwear
are strewn all over the floor. There are three empty bottles
of wine and a wine glass on the floor. It looks like there
was a hell of a party here.
She trips on a feather boa as she stumbles to the
bathroom for a shower.
As soon as Kristin Uys gets to the Roodepoort magis-
trate’s court, she asks the security office to trace the two
threatening calls, and in no time she gets the report that
both calls came from Diepkloof Prison. She is relieved
because now she thinks she knows who is behind the
threats—Stevo Visagie. She can handle the petty gangster
and will not make him feel important by reporting the
matter to the police. Instead, she will go to the prison to
facehimandtoshowhimthatshecannotbefrightenedby
the likes of him, and that she will continue to do her work,
which to her is more of a calling, without fear or favour.
She examines the roll—there is no matter that is
so urgent that it cannot be postponed. She calls the
prosecutor.
‘We’ll start a bit late today,’ she says. ‘I have an emer-
gency to attend to. Inform the attorneys of the accused.’
She gets into her Fiat Uno and is about to drive away
when her cellphone rings. After rummaging through the
stuff in her handbag, she retrieves the phone.
ZAKES MDA
60
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
It is the impudent voice again.
‘My cellphone number too?’
‘This is only the beginning. We are going to get you,
and your family, and your cat,’ says the voice with muf-
fled glee. ‘I bet you’re shitting in your pants by now.’
The magistrate laughs mockingly.
‘You and who, you coward? You can’t face me, can
you? You have to make anonymous calls?’
She is the one who hangs up this time. She is deter-
mined more than ever to have a showdown with Stevo
Visagie, once and for all.
At Medium B, a warder ushers the magistrate into
the room that is used by lawyers to consult with their
inmate clients. She takes a seat facing the door. A few
minutes later Stevo is led into the room in shackles and
handcuffs. As soon as he sees the magistrate he displays
a defiant smirk.
He turns to the warder and winks.
‘A date with the magistrate!’ he says. ‘You guys really
do spoil me.’
The magistrate indicates to the warder to leave. He
shoves Stevo on to a seat across the desk and goes to stand
guard outside the door.
‘I have come to warn you, Stevo,’ says the magistrate
calmly. ‘Stop the stupid calls.’
‘You sent me to jail for nothing, lady. Now you come
to threaten me?’
BLACK DIAMOND
61
‘You stop threatening me, Stevo. I know you are
behind the phone calls.’
Stevo almost spits out the words: ‘I am in prison,
lady. How the fuck do I threaten you?’
‘I’ve been receiving some dirty telephone calls . . .’
‘Oooohhhhhh!’ swoons Stevo lasciviously. ‘Dirty
phone calls, hey!’
‘And they have been traced to Diepkloof Prison.’
‘How do you know I made the calls? Obviously you
are the most popular girl among the boys at Sun City.’
‘I am just warning you, Stevo, that’s all.’
Stevo explodes like a volcano, yelling at the top of his
voice that the magistrate will first have to prove that he
has something to do with the calls. This brings the
warder rushing in. He does not leave even after the mag-
istrate assures him that she can handle the situation. He
stands to attention next to Stevo.
‘Instead of harassing me, lady,’ says Stevo, ‘I think
you better focus on looking after yourself, in case some-
one decides to do something bigger than the phone calls.’
The magistrate stands up and hovers over Stevo
Visagie. The warder is really worried now.
‘If you think I’m a frightened little girl, you’ve got
another think coming, Stevo,’ she says. ‘You’re not man
enough to carry out your silly little threats. That’s why
you’re a pimp . . . playing with little girls . . . when bigger
and better criminals carry out cash heists and run big
syndicates.’
ZAKES MDA
62
Stevo is livid, the more so because he is powerless in
his shackles. The best he can do is hyperventilate.
‘You’re nothing but a scared little boy, Stevo. A
scared little boy. A worm, Stevo. A wiggly little worm.’
At this she wiggles her index finger like a worm in
front of his eyes. Tears stream down Stevo’s cheeks. She
glares at him with satisfaction.
He says feebly, ‘You’ll regret you ever said this to me.’
‘Do I look like someone who ever regrets anything?
And by the way, Meneer Visagie, who is going to make me
regret? A crybaby like you? Get real, boytjie! You call
yourself a gangster—you’re just a tickey-line gangster.’
Now he weeps uncontrollably.
The magistrate sings as in a lullaby, ‘Cry, baby, cry!’
She has put him in his place. She is convinced that
she will never hear from Stevo Visagie again.
Her gait is light and cheerful as she walks back to
her car.
6
THE CAT THAT CAUSED ALL THE TROUBLE
Don Mateza cooks for the love of it. He likes to experi-
ment, fusing dishes from various cultures to create
something unique. It is a gift he inherited from his
mother. Like most boys growing up in Soweto those days,
he learnt that there was no work for boys or for girls.
There was just work. Boys in Soweto were taught by their
mothers and big sisters how to cook, wash dishes and
polish the floors. The problems only came later in life,
when boys reached their late teens and thought they had
outgrown what they suddenly recognized as women’s
work and, like their fathers before them, felt the need to
assert their manhood after the emasculation they suf-
fered at the workplace and everywhere else they con-
fronted the white world. Staff Nurse Mateza made sure
that Don did not outgrow housework. She needn’t have
worried. Don had no intention of outgrowing at least one
aspect of domesticity—cooking.
Unfortunately, he does not get to practise his culi-
nary skills that much, living in the fast-paced middle-
class world of Johannesburg where men and women are
ZAKES MDA
64
busy chasing the almighty rand and cooking is left to the
maids. Tumi hasn’t got a live-in maid though; only a part-
time woman who comes twice a week to do the washing
and clean the house. But her pots rarely need cleaning
because only once in a while does anyone cook in them.
The couple lead such hectic lives that usually the only
meal they get to eat at home is a bowl of cereal in the
morning. Lunch finds them both at work. For Don it is
normally a boerewors roll from the Greek corner cafe and
for Tumi it may be a chicken salad at some restaurant in
Sandton where she may be treating a client or a favoured
model to a light meal. Most evenings Tumi is not home
because of a fashion show or a meeting or a photo shoot
or a cocktail party; Don, if not working overtime, orders
a pizza for delivery or buys takeaways.
Sometimes he comes home early enough to cook a
meal. Like tonight. Tumi phoned to say she didn’t have an
engagement and would be coming home earlier than
usual. For dinner he is going to surprise her with ting, the
favourite Setswana dish for which she goes especially to
her mother’s place in Soweto when she has the time to
spare. Tonight she is going to have it right here in her
apartment in suburbia. And she is going to have it with
tshotlo, the pulled beef briskets that are overcooked and
then pestled until they look like little strings in a brown
paste. He has cooked it with scallions and seasoned it with
salt, mixed masala and cayenne pepper. That’s all it needs.
It took him a lot of planning to come up with this
meal. He has always wanted to surprise Tumi with ting
BLACK DIAMOND
65
but didn’t have any idea how to cook it—until he learnt
that one of the office cleaners at VIP Protection Services
was from Botswana. He took notes as she explained how
to mix sorghum meal with a fermentation agent, also
made of sorghum meal, and how to cook the mixture as
one would cook porridge. She told him that the best meat
to accompany ting was tshotlo rather than tripe. This morning, she brought him the fermentation agent in a
small jar that women use to preserve fruit.
The meal is almost ready when Tumi arrives. Don is
still in his apron doing the finishing touches in the kitch-
enette. In the dining area, the table is extravagantly laid
with shimmering silver and expensive china and two
unlit candles. Tumi is in her business executive-type
trouser suit and is carrying a load of files and catalogues.
She starts sniffing and frowning as soon as she enters.
‘What’s up, Don?’ she asks.
‘I thought I should surprise you with a wholesome
meal of ting the way your mama cooks in the township.
And guess what? I have cooked tshotlo too. Do you know
tshotlo? The Basotho call it lekgotlwane.’
When Tumi is enthusiastic about something she
shows it. Now she just stands there looking dumb-
founded. Maybe she had a difficult day. She overworks
and often comes home almost half dead. Don thinks he
will give her time to sit down and relax a bit. The cat is
comfortably curled on the sofa. He picks it up and holds
it in his arms.
ZAKES MDA
66
‘Let’s rather get Chinese takeaways,’ says Tumi,
putting the files on the coffee table and spreading herself
on the sofa.
‘Hey, I went to all this trouble, Tumi.’
‘Give it to the cat. Let’s get Chinese.’
Don knows that Tumi has her ‘moods’, as he calls
them, but he cannot quite believe this.
‘You like ting, Tumi. We go to Soweto especially for
ting.’
‘It has its place, Don. Back there in the township.
What if my friends come and find this foul smell? They’ll
think that’s what I eat.’
‘But that’s what you do eat. That’s what we eat.’
‘They don’t know that. That’s why we eat this kind of
stuff in Soweto and not in North Riding. Here, as far as
everyone knows, we eat sushi and the like. Plus, you
know, Don, I don’t like my man to stand in an apron in
the kitchen cooking.’
‘You know I love cooking, Tumi. It’s my thing, man.’
‘I guess it was OK when you were in the township.
But you’re going to be a Black Diamond now, Don. You
must learn to behave like one. Cultivate more class. If you
like home-cooked meals that much, then I can employ a
full-time helper for you.’
When affluent blacks talk of a helper, they mean a
maid. It is one of those euphemisms that are meant to
assuage the guilt of having your own kind as a servant.
BLACK DIAMOND
67
When things get tense between him and Tumi, Don
always takes refuge in his cat. He is stroking its fluffy fur
with one hand while holding it to his bosom with the
other. This infuriates Tumi no end.
‘You’re not listening, Don,’ she yells. ‘That cat has
mesmerized you.’
‘Of course I am not listening,’ Don yells back. ‘What
is there to listen to?’
‘It’s either me or the cat, Don.’
Don does not respond.
‘Get rid of it, Don,’ Tumi says firmly.
‘It’s a pedigreed Himalayan cat, Tumi. How do I get
rid of it just like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Tumi dismissively. ‘Take it to an
He continues the stake-out for some days, noting
down the time the magistrate leaves for work in the
morning and returns in the afternoon, never to leave the
house again until the next day. Her only companion is a
cat. She receives no visitors, nor does she visit anyone.
The cat has a lot of freedom to roam about but is always
waiting for her at the door when she arrives. Her face
lights up and she plays with it a bit even before she
unlocks the door and the folding security barrier.
She must live a very lonely and sad life, Shortie
concludes.
Before the week is out, he returns to Sun City to
report to Stevo. There are many other people visiting
prisoners—mostly women talking to their menfolk in
their orange prison jumpsuits. Shortie is already waiting
when Stevo is brought in. His orange prison uniform is
oversized and Shortie cannot help laughing.
‘I don’t see nothing funny, china,’ says Stevo, looking
at his brother suspiciously. ‘I hope you got something to
tell me instead of sitting there giggling like a schoolgirl.’
BLACK DIAMOND
57
But he has nothing to tell him. The magistrate lives
alone. Just she and her cat. There is nothing that he saw
as a weakness that could be exploited to make her suffer.
‘You didn’t do the job right, Shortie,’ says Stevo.
‘There must be something we can use. You didn’t watch
that house right, china. You didn’t follow her right.’
‘Sure, I did, Stevo, starting on Saturday. She came
back from somewhere with paper bags and stuff. After
that she didn’t leave the house. Sunday she drove to the
Dutch Reformed Church in Roodekrans. She came back
and stayed in the house. Monday she went to work . . .’
‘She came back and stayed in the house,’ Stevo com-
pletes the sentence for him.
‘I can’t spend all the time watching that house,
Stevo,’ says Shortie. ‘I gotta work, Stevo. Nobody’s doing
the work at the scrapyard if I spend all my life waiting in
Weltevreden Park. Ma is beginning to ask questions
because there’s no money coming in.’
Stevo is disgusted. If Shortie is not of much help
then he’ll have to think of something else. Somehow the
bitch must pay.
Kristin Uys has not been an attorney for more than a
decade—since she left the Transvaal side-bar to become a
prosecutorandthenamagistrate.Thoughshedidpractise
asaconveyancer,eventhenshehatedthataspectofthelaw.
It is the same today. She finds it tedious when she has to
settleacasethatinvolvesdisputesovertransfersofimmov-
able property. Today’s case was particularly irksome and
ZAKES MDA
58
itdraggedonforthewholeday.Sheislookingforwardtoa
bubblebathandaglassofwarmwine.
She is about to walk out of her office when the phone
rings.
‘You bitch!’ says a strange muffled voice. ‘You whore!
We gonna get you. We gonna fuck the shit out of you and
then kill you.’
‘Who’s this?’
Whoever it is has hung up. The magistrate is shaken.
She stands there for a while as if she does not know what
to do next. Then she decides to dismiss the telephone call
with the contempt it deserves.
She gets into her Fiat Uno and drives home.
It is almost eight-thirty in the morning but she is still
in bed. Her cat cuddles up beside her. She oversleeps
sometimes, especially when she has had a lot of wine the
previous night. She will make it to the courtroom by ten.
One of the joys of being a magistrate is that the cases
cannot begin without her.
Both she and the cat are rudely awakened by the
phone. She reaches for it.
‘Bitch!’ the voice screeches into her ear. It may or may
not be the same voice as yesterday’s. It is muffled, so she
can’t tell. ‘I am going to mess your face up so you’ll never
want to show it anywhere again.’
‘Who gave you my private number?’ she asks.
The caller is no longer there.
BLACK DIAMOND
59
Her number is not listed. What if the caller is already
in the house? For a moment she panics, but soon gets
in control of herself. She is a bit groggy as she climbs out
of bed. The room is in a mess. A skimpy skirt, fishnet
stockings, stilettos and various items of frilly underwear
are strewn all over the floor. There are three empty bottles
of wine and a wine glass on the floor. It looks like there
was a hell of a party here.
She trips on a feather boa as she stumbles to the
bathroom for a shower.
As soon as Kristin Uys gets to the Roodepoort magis-
trate’s court, she asks the security office to trace the two
threatening calls, and in no time she gets the report that
both calls came from Diepkloof Prison. She is relieved
because now she thinks she knows who is behind the
threats—Stevo Visagie. She can handle the petty gangster
and will not make him feel important by reporting the
matter to the police. Instead, she will go to the prison to
facehimandtoshowhimthatshecannotbefrightenedby
the likes of him, and that she will continue to do her work,
which to her is more of a calling, without fear or favour.
She examines the roll—there is no matter that is
so urgent that it cannot be postponed. She calls the
prosecutor.
‘We’ll start a bit late today,’ she says. ‘I have an emer-
gency to attend to. Inform the attorneys of the accused.’
She gets into her Fiat Uno and is about to drive away
when her cellphone rings. After rummaging through the
stuff in her handbag, she retrieves the phone.
ZAKES MDA
60
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
It is the impudent voice again.
‘My cellphone number too?’
‘This is only the beginning. We are going to get you,
and your family, and your cat,’ says the voice with muf-
fled glee. ‘I bet you’re shitting in your pants by now.’
The magistrate laughs mockingly.
‘You and who, you coward? You can’t face me, can
you? You have to make anonymous calls?’
She is the one who hangs up this time. She is deter-
mined more than ever to have a showdown with Stevo
Visagie, once and for all.
At Medium B, a warder ushers the magistrate into
the room that is used by lawyers to consult with their
inmate clients. She takes a seat facing the door. A few
minutes later Stevo is led into the room in shackles and
handcuffs. As soon as he sees the magistrate he displays
a defiant smirk.
He turns to the warder and winks.
‘A date with the magistrate!’ he says. ‘You guys really
do spoil me.’
The magistrate indicates to the warder to leave. He
shoves Stevo on to a seat across the desk and goes to stand
guard outside the door.
‘I have come to warn you, Stevo,’ says the magistrate
calmly. ‘Stop the stupid calls.’
‘You sent me to jail for nothing, lady. Now you come
to threaten me?’
BLACK DIAMOND
61
‘You stop threatening me, Stevo. I know you are
behind the phone calls.’
Stevo almost spits out the words: ‘I am in prison,
lady. How the fuck do I threaten you?’
‘I’ve been receiving some dirty telephone calls . . .’
‘Oooohhhhhh!’ swoons Stevo lasciviously. ‘Dirty
phone calls, hey!’
‘And they have been traced to Diepkloof Prison.’
‘How do you know I made the calls? Obviously you
are the most popular girl among the boys at Sun City.’
‘I am just warning you, Stevo, that’s all.’
Stevo explodes like a volcano, yelling at the top of his
voice that the magistrate will first have to prove that he
has something to do with the calls. This brings the
warder rushing in. He does not leave even after the mag-
istrate assures him that she can handle the situation. He
stands to attention next to Stevo.
‘Instead of harassing me, lady,’ says Stevo, ‘I think
you better focus on looking after yourself, in case some-
one decides to do something bigger than the phone calls.’
The magistrate stands up and hovers over Stevo
Visagie. The warder is really worried now.
‘If you think I’m a frightened little girl, you’ve got
another think coming, Stevo,’ she says. ‘You’re not man
enough to carry out your silly little threats. That’s why
you’re a pimp . . . playing with little girls . . . when bigger
and better criminals carry out cash heists and run big
syndicates.’
ZAKES MDA
62
Stevo is livid, the more so because he is powerless in
his shackles. The best he can do is hyperventilate.
‘You’re nothing but a scared little boy, Stevo. A
scared little boy. A worm, Stevo. A wiggly little worm.’
At this she wiggles her index finger like a worm in
front of his eyes. Tears stream down Stevo’s cheeks. She
glares at him with satisfaction.
He says feebly, ‘You’ll regret you ever said this to me.’
‘Do I look like someone who ever regrets anything?
And by the way, Meneer Visagie, who is going to make me
regret? A crybaby like you? Get real, boytjie! You call
yourself a gangster—you’re just a tickey-line gangster.’
Now he weeps uncontrollably.
The magistrate sings as in a lullaby, ‘Cry, baby, cry!’
She has put him in his place. She is convinced that
she will never hear from Stevo Visagie again.
Her gait is light and cheerful as she walks back to
her car.
6
THE CAT THAT CAUSED ALL THE TROUBLE
Don Mateza cooks for the love of it. He likes to experi-
ment, fusing dishes from various cultures to create
something unique. It is a gift he inherited from his
mother. Like most boys growing up in Soweto those days,
he learnt that there was no work for boys or for girls.
There was just work. Boys in Soweto were taught by their
mothers and big sisters how to cook, wash dishes and
polish the floors. The problems only came later in life,
when boys reached their late teens and thought they had
outgrown what they suddenly recognized as women’s
work and, like their fathers before them, felt the need to
assert their manhood after the emasculation they suf-
fered at the workplace and everywhere else they con-
fronted the white world. Staff Nurse Mateza made sure
that Don did not outgrow housework. She needn’t have
worried. Don had no intention of outgrowing at least one
aspect of domesticity—cooking.
Unfortunately, he does not get to practise his culi-
nary skills that much, living in the fast-paced middle-
class world of Johannesburg where men and women are
ZAKES MDA
64
busy chasing the almighty rand and cooking is left to the
maids. Tumi hasn’t got a live-in maid though; only a part-
time woman who comes twice a week to do the washing
and clean the house. But her pots rarely need cleaning
because only once in a while does anyone cook in them.
The couple lead such hectic lives that usually the only
meal they get to eat at home is a bowl of cereal in the
morning. Lunch finds them both at work. For Don it is
normally a boerewors roll from the Greek corner cafe and
for Tumi it may be a chicken salad at some restaurant in
Sandton where she may be treating a client or a favoured
model to a light meal. Most evenings Tumi is not home
because of a fashion show or a meeting or a photo shoot
or a cocktail party; Don, if not working overtime, orders
a pizza for delivery or buys takeaways.
Sometimes he comes home early enough to cook a
meal. Like tonight. Tumi phoned to say she didn’t have an
engagement and would be coming home earlier than
usual. For dinner he is going to surprise her with ting, the
favourite Setswana dish for which she goes especially to
her mother’s place in Soweto when she has the time to
spare. Tonight she is going to have it right here in her
apartment in suburbia. And she is going to have it with
tshotlo, the pulled beef briskets that are overcooked and
then pestled until they look like little strings in a brown
paste. He has cooked it with scallions and seasoned it with
salt, mixed masala and cayenne pepper. That’s all it needs.
It took him a lot of planning to come up with this
meal. He has always wanted to surprise Tumi with ting
BLACK DIAMOND
65
but didn’t have any idea how to cook it—until he learnt
that one of the office cleaners at VIP Protection Services
was from Botswana. He took notes as she explained how
to mix sorghum meal with a fermentation agent, also
made of sorghum meal, and how to cook the mixture as
one would cook porridge. She told him that the best meat
to accompany ting was tshotlo rather than tripe. This morning, she brought him the fermentation agent in a
small jar that women use to preserve fruit.
The meal is almost ready when Tumi arrives. Don is
still in his apron doing the finishing touches in the kitch-
enette. In the dining area, the table is extravagantly laid
with shimmering silver and expensive china and two
unlit candles. Tumi is in her business executive-type
trouser suit and is carrying a load of files and catalogues.
She starts sniffing and frowning as soon as she enters.
‘What’s up, Don?’ she asks.
‘I thought I should surprise you with a wholesome
meal of ting the way your mama cooks in the township.
And guess what? I have cooked tshotlo too. Do you know
tshotlo? The Basotho call it lekgotlwane.’
When Tumi is enthusiastic about something she
shows it. Now she just stands there looking dumb-
founded. Maybe she had a difficult day. She overworks
and often comes home almost half dead. Don thinks he
will give her time to sit down and relax a bit. The cat is
comfortably curled on the sofa. He picks it up and holds
it in his arms.
ZAKES MDA
66
‘Let’s rather get Chinese takeaways,’ says Tumi,
putting the files on the coffee table and spreading herself
on the sofa.
‘Hey, I went to all this trouble, Tumi.’
‘Give it to the cat. Let’s get Chinese.’
Don knows that Tumi has her ‘moods’, as he calls
them, but he cannot quite believe this.
‘You like ting, Tumi. We go to Soweto especially for
ting.’
‘It has its place, Don. Back there in the township.
What if my friends come and find this foul smell? They’ll
think that’s what I eat.’
‘But that’s what you do eat. That’s what we eat.’
‘They don’t know that. That’s why we eat this kind of
stuff in Soweto and not in North Riding. Here, as far as
everyone knows, we eat sushi and the like. Plus, you
know, Don, I don’t like my man to stand in an apron in
the kitchen cooking.’
‘You know I love cooking, Tumi. It’s my thing, man.’
‘I guess it was OK when you were in the township.
But you’re going to be a Black Diamond now, Don. You
must learn to behave like one. Cultivate more class. If you
like home-cooked meals that much, then I can employ a
full-time helper for you.’
When affluent blacks talk of a helper, they mean a
maid. It is one of those euphemisms that are meant to
assuage the guilt of having your own kind as a servant.
BLACK DIAMOND
67
When things get tense between him and Tumi, Don
always takes refuge in his cat. He is stroking its fluffy fur
with one hand while holding it to his bosom with the
other. This infuriates Tumi no end.
‘You’re not listening, Don,’ she yells. ‘That cat has
mesmerized you.’
‘Of course I am not listening,’ Don yells back. ‘What
is there to listen to?’
‘It’s either me or the cat, Don.’
Don does not respond.
‘Get rid of it, Don,’ Tumi says firmly.
‘It’s a pedigreed Himalayan cat, Tumi. How do I get
rid of it just like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Tumi dismissively. ‘Take it to an
