charged twice the price because it was Christmas. Afterwards, Mama bought me ice cream and we sat on the City Hall benches and watched the crowds. I dreamed of going to the drive-in. Mama said she would take me, but it was expensive, and in the end I had to choose between the drive-in and a brand-new present. Although I wanted to go, I preferred something that would last longer than a two-hour movie – a toy car, maybe.
I arrived from school one afternoon to find Mrs Nleya’s red, artificial nails clawing at the air next to Mama’s face. She was shouting at Mama, incomprehensible words at first because of the pitch.
“Madam, I do not do anything, I swear on my father on his grave, please, Madam, I did nothing. It was sir, he is the one who come to my room, Madam, I swear on my father on his grave.”
Mama had bent her knees, so that she would be shorter than Mrs Nleya, had locked the fingers of both hands and was twisting them in the air, professing innocence. Qhwa! Mrs Nleya slapped Mama. Mama cringed. Mrs Nleya began to cry. Behind Mama, Mr Nleya emerged from our khaya, hastily zipping his trousers. Mrs Nleya turned and ran into the house.
“Lily! Lily, wait . . . Lily!”
That was the day we left Mrs Nleya’s mansion in the suburbs and moved to the ugly avocado-coloured house in the township.
Mr Nleya visited frequently. He stroked Mama’s belly and said that he had already paid for the house, that she shouldn’t worry, it would be in her name soon.
“Do you think it’s a boy?”
“I’m definite it’s a boy. All this kicking! He is going to be a football player.”
Mr Nleya giggled like a child. Mama chased me out of the bedroom and made me sleep in the sitting room. I did not sleep. I placed my ear against the bedroom door and listened. Mr Nleya was hurting Mama. She was crying. I hated him. I did not understand why she allowed him to hurt her. When I asked her, she threw back her head and laughed, gave me fifty cents and told me to go and buy sweets.
One night, Mama’s shouting woke me up. There was blood on the sheets. I dashed out into the night to call Holly. Later, I learned that Mama had lost the baby. I was relieved. The pregnancy was obsessing her. She said a lot of frightening things. Like soon we would be staying in Mr Nleya’s mansion. She would have a heavy rock on her finger. She would be the new Mrs Nleya.
“You had better start calling him ‘daddy’. He’s going to be your father soon.”
“I shall never call that man ‘baba’.”
“Not ‘baba’, you little stupid. It’s ‘Daddy’: say it in English with an accent, the way that little brat child of his does. You will have to learn how to speak like the white people now. We are going to be one of them.”
I could not imagine Mama being the new Mrs Nleya. That was a polished woman. She wore fine clothes and put expensive weaves in her hair. And she had a Master’s degree in Communications, even though she was a housewife. Whenever visitors came to their house, Mr Nleya flaunted the degree certificate hanging on the wall, showing off his educated wife. Perhaps when Mama became the next Mrs Nleya, he could show off her dizzying beauty. Mama was always saying how beautiful she was, how men stuttered around her, how she could make any man think with the head in his trousers and do her bidding.
But after she lost the baby she failed to make Mr Nleya think with the head in his trousers. It was not Mr Nleya who came to see her after the miscarriage, but his wife.
“You can never have my husband, you hear? Never! You whore! You uneducated idiot! You shall never have his child, you hear!”
“Manje I will have it, I will have it! You who cannot give him a son, what can you say? Do you know where he comes to sleep, heh? Right here in these arms, let me tell you! Let me tell you, you had better start packing your bags. When I come to my house I don’t want to find you there!”
“Heh! Heh! You don’t want to mess with this daughter of Ngonondo. My grandmother is a sangoma, do you hear me? That womb of yours is now tied. You shall never as long as you live have another child again, do you hear? Over my dead body will you have my husband’s child! Nxx. Stupid. Uneducated fool.”
Afterwards, Mr Nleya came to ask Mama to leave his house. But Mama refused to go. He had already put the house in her name and given her the title deeds.
“This is my house! I worked hard for this house. I spread my legs for you. I wanted to have your child. So don’t come tell me your nonsense. Get out!”
“I’m coming with the police . . .”
“Bring them! What will they do? What will they do? I know the law! My friend Holly knows the law! There is nothing you will do. This is my house. Get out!”
That is how the ugly avocado-coloured house became Mama’s. After Mr Nleya left, she called Holly. They bought a crate of Castle Lager and congratulated themselves on their victory.
“You own a house, my friend! You, you! Doria Nkala from rural Nkayi, half-educated dimwit, you own a house!”
Later, after Holly had left, Mama sat on a chair, hugged herself and cried.
“What’s wrong, Mama? Aren’t you happy that we have a house now? I’m glad that man Mr Nleya is gone. I never liked him, Mama, he was not a nice man . . .”
Mama grabbed me by my arm, pulled down my trousers and gave me a good spanking. I sat in a corner, nursed my tears and watched her. I did not understand why she was so sad. She would not stop crying.
JesusJesusJesus!
On Sundays Mama makes sure to attend the morning service at the Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. She makes sure to attend the town service. She puts on her Sunday best, either a navy-blue or a red suit, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of lace gloves.
I wish every day was a Sunday.
I used to go to church when I was a child, when Mama worked as a domestic in the suburbs. We attended the Methodist service. The church was a big brick building with tall windows made of coloured glass. There was a grand polished piano at the front that fascinated me. I yearned to touch it. But I understood that we were in a white man’s place, and the piano was a white man’s instrument, and white people’s fancy things were not to be tampered with. And although the Nleyas were black, they were a different kind of black. They were a polished black. We were a black that did not have the shine. That was why Mama was their domestic. The sermons were dreadfully boring. Usually I dozed off.
Now Mama has been converted to one of those crazy Pentecostal churches where the pastors preach “Money, money, money,” and smack you to the floor so that you can be healed.
Unlike the Methodist church in the suburbs, the Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rents a building across from a nightclub called The Firefly. Some Sunday mornings the street is littered with bottles, and also teenagers high on music and alcohol. The building that the church rents is stuffy, with poor ventilation. The pastor is busy building a church for his flock. Each week there are donations for the building. Every sprouting church is busy building, these days.
Mama insists on dragging me along with her to her new church. Normally, I would not go. But church is such a big thing to Nomsa, and I prefer to go to Mama’s church where I don’t have to do anything, than to Nomsa’s church where I’d be subjected to
