Zakes Mda - The Madonna of Excelsior

Today’s session had been different from the other modelling sessions. Niki was at ease and was not self-conscious. There was no need to cover her pubes with her hands. She was fully clothed in a white caftan that the trinity had given her, after telling her to take off her brown seshweshwe Basotho dress. And her grass conical hat and plastic sandals. She looked like a prophet of the Zionist Church in the flowing robes.

Niki walked to the canvas and took a hard look at it. This madonna was radiant. And serene. Though Niki had been the model, she did not look anything like her. This was not strange. Previous mother-and-child creations had borne no resemblance to Popi-and-Niki of the flesh, even though Popi-and-Niki of the flesh had been the models. What was unusual about this madonna was that she had Popi’s features. The Popi who was supposed to have posed for the child and not for the mother. But both the madonna and the child looked like Popi. The madonna had Popi’s flowing locks. Except for the fact that they were blue. Her face was Popi’s. Not the five-year-old Popi. The way Popi would look when she was older.

And the gown the madonna wore was blue, even though the caftan Niki had been wearing when she sat for the trinity was white. The trinity, by a few strokes of wizardry, had planted Popi’s face onto Niki’s body. White was blue. Niki wondered what gave the trinity the right to change things at the dictates of his whims. To invent his own truths. From where did he get all that power, to re-create what had already been created?

“Popi, come and see,” said Niki sweetly, hiding her disapproval of the trinity’s distortions of reality. “The Father has painted you twice. You are now your own mother.”

But Popi did not respond. She sharply turned her head the other way, making it clear to everyone that she was not on speaking terms with her mother. She was sulking.

She had been sulking the whole day. Since early in the morning. Since her mother had slapped her bottom very hard for farting in bed before they woke up. Early, at dawn, when both their heads were covered with the blankets. She had cried. And she rarely cried. She never cried, for instance, when her mother slapped her for stealing her condensed milk and sucking it from the hole in the tin. Then she knew that she had been naughty and deserved to be punished. She was never bothered by Niki’s shouting at her, because that’s how Niki was. Even at five she had accepted that her mother communicated with her and Viliki by shouting at them. Even when she was happy, she shouted and talked to them in stern tones. To the extent that the children were finding it increasingly difficult to tell when she was really scolding them for some wrongdoing or when she was just talking to them normally or even happily. But the slap this morning had made Popi cry so much that Viliki had woken up from his bedding on the floor, climbed onto the bed and held his sister in his arms.

Popi’s deep hurt was due to the fact that she did not understand what wrong she had done. After all, Niki herself farted all the time. And said nothing about it. Not even a “sorry.” And no one complained. Popi had therefore never considered farting a crime.

Popi had sulked all the way from Mahlatswetsa Location to Thaba Nchu. On the rickety bus that took them the bumpy forty-three kilometres to the trinity’s mission station, fellow passengers had tried to be “nice” to her. Coochi. coochi. coooo! They had commented on the beauty of the blue-eyed child with flowing locks. She was a white man’s child, they had said. “Her mother must be one of the Excelsior 19,” one woman had observed. “Or perhaps those who came afterwards,” another one had said. “It happens every day.” They didn’t seem to care whether Niki could hear them or not.

Niki was used to such remarks and had learnt to ignore them. They did not come from any malice on the part of the passengers, but from insensitivity. One could not crucify people for being insensitive.

An old lady had tried to give Popi a sucker. But she had sharply turned her head and looked the other way.

“Popi, how can you be rude to this grandmother who is trying to be nice?” Niki had asked.

But Popi had not responded. Instead, she had filled her mouth with air until her cheeks bulged like a balloon. She had not invited anyone to be “nice” to her. She was not used to niceness.

“This child has an ugly heart,” Niki had said to herself, as she walked from the Thaba Nchu bus rank to the Roman Catholic Mission. “She is only five, yet she can hold a grudge for the whole day. What kind of an unforgiving child is this?”

Perhaps Niki had forgotten that even a child could not forgive someone who had not asked to be forgiven. Who had shown no remorse.

The trinity brayed like a donkey. Popi was determined to be strong. The trinity brayed and brayed. He was bent on coaxing her out of her anger. Popi’s face began to melt a little. But just before she could break into a smile, she remembered that she was supposed to be sulking, and became stone-faced again. The trinity jumped up and down around her, braying even louder. She couldn’t help but smile. Then she laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

Niki joined in the laughter. She had never heard Popi laugh so much. It was good to hear Popi laugh. Just as she rarely cried, she rarely laughed. Very few things made her laugh. Yet she was the source of other people’s laughter. When other children saw her in the street, they shouted, “Boesman! Boesman!” And then they ran away laughing. At first she used to cry. Then she decided that she would not go to play in the street again. She would play alone in her mother’s yard. She was only good for her mother’s ashy yard. She did not deserve to play with other children in the street.

She blamed her flowing locks for all her troubles. Perhaps it would be better if her mother shaved her head bald again. Then no one would know that she was different. Although her blue eyes would continue to betray her. The blue eyes and the fair hair were the main culprits. Not so much the light complexion. Many normal black people had light complexions. And no one complained about that.

The blue eyes were an aberration she could do nothing about. But the hair, she could definitely do something about that. Her mother used to shave it off with a Minora razor blade. And then she had been known as the bald-headed girl. Cheesekop tamati lerago la misis. Head that looks like a white woman’s buttock! Until Niki was seized by a spirit of defiance. And left the locks to grow once more. No one would call her child’s head a white woman’s buttock again.

But Niki’s defiance was not Popi’s defiance. She had never been consulted on the matter. She did not want the hair. It was the curse that other children pulled when they were fighting her for being a boesman. Or that Viliki tied in knots during his wicked moments.

Popi’s anger had completely melted by the time Niki carried her on her back on their way to the bus rank. Thanks to the trinity’s impersonations of a donkey.

It was getting late, and Niki was worried that the bus would get to Mahlatswetsa Location after sunset. The modelling had taken longer than usual. But at least there were crisp notes hidden in her bra. Her “dairy”, as she called that hiding place.

Niki wanted to be home before sunset to see to it that Viliki was home. She was very strict about that. Viliki had to be home by sunset, even though he thought he was a big boy of nine years old and should be allowed to stay out late. She had good reason to be worried about Viliki. He had started running around with older boys. Good-for-nothing boys like Sekatle, Maria’s brother, who was at least six years older than him. That bothered Niki. What did Viliki have in common with fifteen-year-old boys?