Spilt Milk, page 15
The tirade ended and the DJ switched to an ad break and then there was another caller on the line asking for tickets to the J&B Met. Father Bill turned to God, looked him in the eye and with pain in his heart asked Him, “Were you angry when you saw her do that to me?”
21 March
Dear God
It makes sense that you don’t require us to will ourselves to breathe, to beat our hearts, to pump blood around our bodies, because many of us wouldn’t bother if it was up to us. And maybe there is much more to it than what we want at any given time.
Bill
And that was the last entry ever written in Father Bill’s journal, the last time it made sense to write anything at all, because after this entry the world seemed to turn upon itself and everything that once rang true no longer did.
It was as the curtains were about to be drawn, when children were called in from a day full of play, when little pots of rice were washed of their yellow starch and the gravy turned down from 4 to 2, that they locked the doors once open before.
It was as the darkness was about to fall, when the hot sun had had its final say, when black, square shoes were rested from their whole-day march and the rush-rush was over with not much left to do, that they forgot about where they’d been before.
At this point the author must take over and speak for those for whom this is more than just a story, for they do not know how to share the rest of it.
The man, the white man, the priest, the one the girl grew up knowing as Billy, the one with itchy blisters on his lips, the one called Father Bill, woke up the next morning, like all the other mornings since his arrival, and got ready to attend the morning assembly. He remembered her instruction to wear his priestly garb, forgot that she had also said not to come back; remembered she had said not to sneak back home, forgot she had said not to return at all; remembered she had said to learn the school song, forgot that he was no longer a part of the school.
The woman, the black one, the one who was the principal, the one the boy grew up knowing as Tshoki, the one who was always angry, the one called Mohumagadi, woke up that morning cold, shivering, stiff. She remembered everything that had happened the day before, how she had been humiliated, how she had been disrespected, how she had been attacked, how she had been ridiculed, how she had been undermined, how she had been deceived, how she had been targeted and destroyed again.
The child, the round one, the one with a pair of spectacles and a pair of dimples, the one who slept with his Bible under his pillow and his rosary in his hand, the one who believed deeply and fearlessly, the one called Zulwini, woke up that morning and cried. He remembered he was in trouble but could not remember why. He remembered he had done something wrong but could not remember what it was. He remembered being shouted at but could not say what for. He remembered thinking he should pray but wasn’t sure for whom.
The other child, the forward one, the one who spoke like she knew, the one who liked to paint her face and her heart, the one who tried to hide her hurt, the one called Ndudumo, woke up that morning and cried. She remembered the day before, she remembered everything that had happened, remembered it was her fault, remembered her mother telling her she should stay out of trouble, remembered thinking it was only because she wanted to impress her and her teacher, remembered thinking they would get a good mark, remembered not understanding why they didn’t, remembered being confused and afraid, remembered wanting to explain to her mother, remembered her mother not being there.
The other girl child, the thin one, the quiet one, the one who never wanted to be here in the first place, the one who was planning to leave anyway, the one called Moya, woke up that morning and cried. She remembered the shouting, remembered not being able to hear, remembered the words, remembered not understanding what they meant, remembered the cracked DVDs on the floor, remembered wanting to pick them up but feeling too afraid, remembered fear, remembered never feeling it before she came here, remembered she would escape some day, remembered how far away some day was.
The boy, the small boy, the beautiful clever boy with dark-dark skin and green eyes, the one who was bold, too bold, the one they thought was testimony to the success of the school, the one called Mlilo, woke up that morning but did not cry as little children should. Instead, he lay with his eyes wide open in his bed. He wanted to climb out but could not, could not get his body to follow the instruction to get up and go. He dug his elbows into the bed, perhaps they would lift his arms a little. He tried pushing his hands against the mattress, perhaps they would succeed in at least sitting him upright. His chest felt like it had bricks on it, like someone had snuck in in the night and plastered his entire body. He began to panic, what if someone had? What if someone really had come in in the night and hadn’t seen him, had mistaken him for a part of their construction and built a wall on top of his body? His heart began to beat fast as he fought to get up. There was no use pretending, the bricks were heavy and when he did finally stand up they came tumbling down, smashing onto his big toe, making him trip and fall. So there he sat, his head buried in his knees, a throbbing toe and a pile of bricks around him, but still he did not cry.
“What is it like up there, God?” Mlilo had never spoken to God before, not directly, not like this. He wasn’t even sure if God was available and when one could consult with him.
“Is it fun? What do you guys do there all day? Don’t you get bored? I can’t imagine a place where people are always happy.” Zulwini had told him that in heaven people were always happy. He had ignored Zulwini. Zulwini was stupid and stupid people irritated him. He immediately felt bad for his thoughts. He was bad, bad, bad, bad.
“I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry for being so bad,” he whispered. “Do you sometimes go and sit at the beach and watch the ocean, just to see how it is doing? Do you speak to it? Do you ask it how it feels? I did that once. It felt like something you would do,” he said to God.
“You can take me back if you like. I’m no use here. I just mess things up for everyone. Zulwini said we all came from you, and he remembers. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything – where we slept, what it smelt like, where we ate, what we used to speak about, I don’t remember any of that. It’s weird because I have a pretty good memory, one teacher told me it’s a photographic memory, so I told Zulwini if I didn’t remember it then it wasn’t true because I remember everything. I was lying, though. Because there was this one spelling test and I forgot a word. But Dr Kgomo gave me the mark anyway because she said she knew I knew it. So maybe it’s like that. Sometimes I get these feelings though, like a touch, like I feel warm, I can’t explain it, a funny touch, and sometimes I think that’s what Zulwini is talking about, but it goes away too quickly so I can’t really explain it.
“If you guys need an extra hand or anything, I wouldn’t mind coming back. Things pretty much stink down here and I’m just making it worse. I think I could be quite useful there. I’m a hard worker. I’ve been top of my class since Grade One. I’m pretty good at everything. I don’t even have to do fancy stuff, I can do filing, even cleaning. I don’t mind, anything, and maybe if I’m good, some day I can work my way up to helping with the decision-making stuff. But even if I don’t, that’s fine. And I promise not to get in anyone’s way.
“I know you’ll worry about Ma, but she will be fine. She’s so tough and she’ll still have Manzi. And Dad, well you know him. I don’t think he’ll even notice and when he does he’ll just make another baby someplace else.
“I’m just saying that if you needed just a little bit of company or something, I wouldn’t mind, that’s all. Even if I came for a weekend. Just a weekend, God, that would be okay.
“I’m always sad, God. I looked it up. It’s called anhedonia. It’s Greek or something. I don’t want it. I don’t know why I have it but I do. I don’t understand anything. I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking too many things. I’m lonely, but I don’t want to play with the other children. And I miss you. I miss you, God. I want to come home. I don’t want to be here any more, I don’t like it any more. Please, please, God. If you miss me, take me back.”
He waited, and waited, and waited, and waited until the sun came up and he was late for school, and even then he waited some more, but still God said nothing.
It had already been announced at the school that he would be leaving. Emails were sent out. Mohumagadi had not wasted a moment. Father Bill arrived to find no seat for him on the assembly stage and an empty classroom with only the few things he’d collected over the past two weeks packed into a box, the cracked DVDs too. There were no tables and no chairs. No letter, no note, no number to dial, but the message was very clear.
He walked out into the corridor, the gardens to his left, the staff lounge to his right, her scent everywhere, and smiled. They had found each other again after all. And as he was about to set off again, to away away, where lines were straight and circles round, there came a thundering down the corridor.
“Father Bill! Father Bill!” It was Mlilo, running fast.
“Father Bill! Father Bill!”
The boy nearly bowled Father Bill over as he grabbed him and flung his arms around him, so tightly and so abruptly that a gush of air leapt from the priest’s chest and he couldn’t speak. The boy looked up into his eyes, his green eyes into the man’s blue eyes, the green ones streaming with tears.
“Father Bill. You look just like my dad, almost exactly, but you are nothing like him,” Mlilo sobbed.
Father Bill felt the boy’s arms tighten around him, felt his head pressed into his chest, felt his shirt dampen from the little boy’s tears.
“Mlilo,” is all he could manage to say. What would words change anyway?
And it was at that very moment that Mohumagadi came round the corner. She wanted to make sure that the man had taken everything out of the classroom, that he had left no reminder of his ever having been there. When Mohumagadi saw him, saw them, Father Bill and her Mlilo, she started screaming.
“Mlilo Graham. Were you not supposed to report to my office this morning?”
The boy was startled by her voice and dropped his arms.
“Mlilo Graham, allow Father Bill to leave and come here right now.”
But Mlilo did not move. Mohumagadi said it again, but the boy did not budge. She warned him, told him that if she had to say it one last time then that would be it, the last straw. She had put up with enough and she was done, it was done, it was over. She would be finished with him if he didn’t move that instant. Mlilo did not move.
Mohumagadi went berserk and came running for him. Mlilo slowly backed away and then began to run too. She screamed and screamed after him. He ran. He ran as fast as his little legs would carry him. Down the corridor, out past Nehanda and Nandi, over Plaatjie and under Shaka, across the Pyramids of Gaza and through Fes, running and running and running, along Masai Mara, behind the cloud above Table Mountain, faster and faster, running away, as fast, as far, as quickly as possible, gone. Past their anger, their pain, their suffering, far away from their struggles, their hardships, their painful memories. Mohumagadi screaming and screaming all the time, watching him run faster, further away. Watching him climb the fence, quickly, swiftly. Running fast, too fast, too far. She watched him. They all watched. What with all that noise. Right into the road, that big road, the one that large trucks with their huge tyres came trundling down. He ran right into the middle of the road and a truck came. Of course it did, there was always a truck coming down that road. She screamed his name, but it was a different scream now.
“Wait world! Please world, wait.” But the world had never, never ever in all its years of existence, responded to that call. Not from kings who had stood at the head of their empires watching men in great numbers torch their homes, not from leaders of countries who had woken up to find their careers destroyed in the morning papers, not even from the eighteen-year-old soon-to-be mother watching two true stripes of venereal disease appear before her. The world never waited. Even as she cried those words watching Father Bill run across the road, watching cars slow down around them, watching Dr Booi push the children back into the school, behind the gate, she already knew that they had seen, and, yes, were old enough to remember forever, that the truck and the cars and the people in them had slowed down too late and would now only be spectators, that Father Bill was carrying a corpse in his arms, that the world would not, could not wait.
And as if her mind had decided that it could not wait either, could not wait to first allow the heart to moan, and the eyes to well, and the stomach to knot, it started to draw conclusions and make decisions. She would leave the school. She would go some place far away. She had failed the children, fed them the bitter milk from her withered breasts. She had especially failed Mlilo, destroyed Mlilo, denied him a future in this country. She had burdened these children with foul emotion that did not belong in their little minds. So she would leave. But first she would put her hands in the white man’s and ask him to pray for her. She imagined they would be soft and even though she knew she would not, could not believe his words, it was a good place to start.
“We are all here this evening …”
They were all there that evening, all the school children, all the teachers, all the parents, even Ms Mntambo who was known never to leave the house after dark; they were all there, except Mlilo.
“We are all here this evening to remember the life of Mlilo Graham.”
It was supposed to be Father Bill speaking, but when he had Googled the words ‘death of a child’ in an attempt to prepare for his sermon, the pages would not open and the mouse refused to click, making drops of salty water fall from his eyes and his fingers skid across the keys, so much so that Miss L had to pull the cord out at the wall. It was suggested that the bishop speak instead.
Speak words of encouragement and consolation that Father Bill could not. But read a passage from the Bible, that much he could manage. His personal favourite, he told everyone there, and one that he thought Mlilo might have liked, despite himself.
We are often troubled
but not crushed,
sometimes in doubt
but never in despair,
there are many enemies
but we are never without a friend,
and though badly hurt at times,
we are not destroyed.
(2 Corinthians 4:8 – 9)
And as if the bird of realisation had perched on all the children at the very same time, their little eyes lit up because they knew those words well, every single one of them, for those were the words of their school song! But how was it that they were in the white man’s Bible too? How strange, how odd, how frighteningly marvellous that they were in the white man’s Bible too! And as they sang their school song together, Mohumagadi began to weep as the walls of the hall resounded with their voices, baby voices, the voices of a room full of young people who were destined to change the continent, to change our history, to change the world, and did they even know? And there stood Father Bill, happy that he could finally sing the words of the school song effortlessly, but did he know the secret that the children in the hall shared? That the words he had struggled with for so long were exactly the same as the words that were written on his heart? We will never know, because before anybody could point out this marvellous coincidence to him, Mohumagadi got up and held his hand. She had never stood up from her chair during assembly before, let alone to hold someone’s hand, a white man’s hand, but even Mohumagadi knew that we had to stop hating at some point.
Thank you to Ntate Nape ’a Motana for
compiling our Sepedi proverbs for all the world
to see and enjoy. They were such a treat to work
with in the writing of Spilt Milk. Re a go leboga.
Thank you to my family and friends for your
support once again, and to you, reader, for
encouraging me on. Here’s to milk!
Proverbs are taken from Ntate Nape ’a
Motana’s Sepedi Proverbs, first published
by Kwela Books in 2004.
Kopano Matlwa, Spilt Milk
