Mohapi did not answer. Lulama watched him walk out of the room. She strained her ears to listen to the conversation that would follow. Everything was quiet. It appeared that the TV set was also off. Mohapi came back less than five minutes later.
“She’s already sleeping in her room, and the lights are off,” he said as he kicked off his slippers, adjusted his pillow and got into bed. “I really don’t understand why these white people exaggerate their emotions of happiness and sadness towards animals like cats and dogs.”
“But that’s what they believe in,” said Lulama in the darkness of the bedroom. “There’s nothing wrong with that. They believe that cats invite peace and happiness into their homes.”
“Whites are a very strange bunch of people. I mean, it was only two weeks ago that the Moerdyks invited us over for a braai because the same bloody dead cat had returned from a successful vet operation.”
“Shame, and all that money they paid for the operation is wasted now.”
“Exactly! Honestly, I only went to that braai because you insisted we honour their invitation.”
“But, honey, for white people a cat is more than just a cat. Just like a dog is not just a dog to them. They are their friends. Their dogs are not only for hunting and scaring criminals, nor are their cats only for killing rats and practising witchcraft.”
“But do you think they would come if we invited them over to slaughter a goat to appease our ancestors?”
“That’s different. We kill animals for food and to satisfy our ancestors. Most white people want animals to live because they’re emotionally attached to them.”
“Bullshit. They also eat meat, don’t they?”
“True, most of them still do. But they’re friendly to animals. Look at white people’s eyes, honey. Don’t their eyes look like cat’s eyes to you? That’s probably why they see another human being in a cat – one of their own.”
“I guess you’re right. Do you remember when Bonaparte injured Ousie Maria that time, and they blamed her for provoking the cat instead of sending her to the clinic? She had scratches all over her face and hands! And yet, when the cat was sick they sent it to the vet for an operation. I swear to you that if Auntie Nurse gets sick, they’ll simply send her home.”
“Yes, but the cat had medical aid.”
“And poor Auntie Nurse doesn’t. You know, the Moerdyks spoke to Bonaparte as if it were a real person. They would apologise, plead and pamper that bloody cat . . . Please Bonaparte, sorry Bonaparte, come on darling, be careful – all that nonsense, talking to an animal. When these Moerdyks speak to Auntie Nurse their friendliness fades. They order her about like a slave.”
Lulama sighed. She suddenly felt very tired. “Oh, why did that cat choose to die in our swimming pool? I thought cats have nine lives.”
Ousie Maria was in the kitchen the next morning cleaning the stove after flicking a fried egg onto a piece of toast waiting on a plate. Mohapi walked in and Ousie Maria dropped the hissing frying pan into the sink before carrying the plate to the table for his breakfast. After greeting her, he put the kettle on to boil water for a cup of tea. Ousie Maria waited until he was seated at the table with his mug of rooibos next to his plate of food before she spoke what was pressing on her heart.
“Baba ka Mbuso, sorry for intruding,” she began while looking at the tag and string of the teabag that dangled over the side of Mohapi’s steaming mug. “What are you going to do with the cat situation? It cannot just die here. There’s a meaning to it.”
Mohapi smiled awkwardly. “Don’t worry, I will get the gardener to clean the pool today.”
“I’m not just talking about cleaning the pool with the chemicals. I’m talking about traditional cleansing.”
“What? We are Christians, Ousie. We don’t believe in that.”
“You must not forget that the traditional healers are older than your Christianity. I didn’t sleep last night. I had a bad dream, and this yard was full of black spiders. One bit a grey cat, and as the cat was trying to run away it became dizzy and fell into the swimming pool. Then several cats appeared out of nowhere and started to whine with their mouths closed.” She paused to catch her breath. “With their heads very straight and ears more pricked up than ever, they came around the swimming pool. All of a sudden it was you, Baba ka Mbuso, floating in the water. All the cats, about nine of them, raised their heads and watched you drown. Their tails were erect and far away from their legs.”
Mohapi’s eyes where wide with shock. “How . . .” His mouth hung open before he seemed to regain control of his lips. “Ousie, I also had a dream last night,” he admitted. “I dreamt of Bonaparte standing on one hind leg next to the swimming pool. He was going to fall over. I tried to scream, but the cat’s head and neck remained poised in the air, unaffected by the movement of the rest of its body.” He thought for a bit. “But in this dream Bonaparte was not a grey cat. He was black. He was standing at a distance at first, but then edged closer and sat next to you, Ousie. His dark-yellow eyes kept moving slowly from you to me, and back again.”
Ousie Maria rubbed her hands over the goose flesh on her arms.
“Suddenly the cat tried to run away, but he kept running on the same spot,” Mohapi continued. “The dream ended with Bonaparte floating in the swimming pool.”
Mohapi’s dream, with the pattern so close to her own, terrified Ousie Maria. Was it just a coincidence, she asked herself.
She looked at Mohapi, but his eyes shot to the mug in his hand. He frowned.
“Let me speak to Lulama about the cleansing first,” he mumbled.
Ousie Maria was quiet while he ate his food and drank his tea. “Yhuu,” she said eventually, “I’ve never seen a person cry so much when nobody has hit them.”
“Who are you talking about?” Mohapi asked, getting up from the table.
“I’m talking about her, Sandra.” Ousie Maria pointed a thumb next door. “She was crying for a dead cat as if her husband had beaten her up. Auntie Nurse who cleans for her tells me that she stares at your house without blinking her eyes. Yhuuu, white people.” She clapped her hands together. “They are very strange people indeed.”
“You know,” Mohapi began thoughtfully, “I remember I once went to buy groceries at the Pick n Pay in Rosebank Mall. This was about a year ago. Anyway, there was an old white woman behind me in the meat section who had also come to buy the meat bones like me. Her trolley was full of dog and cat food, as well as flea powders and a bathtub. While I was trying to compare the prices, the woman tried to strike up a conversation with me. She asked me how old my dog was. I said I didn’t have one. ‘I have a bulldog and a Chihuahua,’ she said. ‘They love these bones.’”
Mohapi looked at Ousie Maria and there was a cold ferociousness in his eyes.
“I only realised after I had left the store that the woman had assumed I was buying the bone meat for a dog. I felt offended because I was buying those meat bones for my samp dish, my favourite Sunday meal.”
Five days have passed since the burial of Bonaparte, and for Lulama they were marked by a growing distance
