Nadine Gordimer - No Time Like the Present

It seems there are more occasions to be together, get together than usual. Lesego’s brother is down from Uganda where he’s in some international conflict-resolving position, the brothers in general are spread all over, now, in various opportunities. There’s a big bash on Saturday, it’s a family reunion but you and Jabu must come along, open house and go on most of the night into Sunday, a getaway from the troubles in Uganda and ours, here. Marc comes back from rehearsals in Cape Town of the play he’s at last found — may have found — financial backing, only here for three days, up to the eyes in hassles with the money bags, but will Jabu and Steve, must see them…Peter and Blessing have a calendar when they come over. — There’s the long weekend, ay? Njabulo said something the other day, all the boys at school talk about the parks they’ve been to, elephants round the camp at night, lions eating a kudu, I don’t know what else — but we’ve never taken our kids. And you? Your Sindi and Gary Elias ever seen their Africa. They all know it on TV like the English and the Yankees, right?—

He and Steve take, grinning privately: ‘our Africa’ shared in Umkhonto bush camps — but this, something other, their children ought to have now outside the animal prison of a zoo: a sense of the birthplace they share with animals. Used to be a luxury only white children had, the Kruger Park; while blacks were barred entry, except for warders and camp servants. Peter made the booking and Blessing would provide the food from her catering business. — What are we going to bring, my man? — The booze of course. Steve, you load up the beer, Coke for the kids. — They occupied thatched rondavels with bathroom blocks and took their place in bush and riverbed, shared the vast enclosure of freedom with animals as the ancestors must have shared the whole of Africa — Sindi contributing unexpectedly what she had learned at her enlightened school. Africa is the origin of all humans in the world — despite that the Suburb comrades were moving in warders’ vehicles not on foot among the three-toed elephants, the hooves and claws of buck, leopard and lion. Time out. Nothing to do with either present or departure.

While they were away Wethu continued her comfortable habits as if they were there, church on Sunday, settled that evening to the house TV with its wide screen in contrast to her small set, all there was space for in her cottage. The volume high for her to follow while she was heating inkomo stew to accompany ground corn isitambu , but she heard a repeated call from what must be the back gate, imploring again and again. She remembered to switch off the gas flame beneath the pot, picked up the gate key and went out into the twilight yard: must be one of her friends calling to the cottage. She pushed up her glasses, they were only for TV, she was farsighted but in this half-light couldn’t recognise either of the figures at the gate, just hands stretching through the bars as she appeared — Ousie, mama, please some water! Please please, just some water, water, we been running far, please. — In English like hers, whoever they are, expecting a white person to come from the house.

Poor boys — she signalled a hand and went back into the kitchen; didn’t want strangers drinking out of one of Jabu’s good glasses, filled a plastic mug and hurried, slopping water a little, to the gate. As she handed the mug between bars it was dashed from her hand, the key chain dragged from her wrist tearing the skin over knuckles and twisting fingers. Panic knows no pace. At once, the two men were in the yard, she screamed and a fist was half in her mouth, she gagged and was thrust arms pinned behind her back, to the kitchen door, thrown into the house. — Where they keep the money, the guns — One was pushing her into the passage, a smooth strong young arm tight round her neck against the chin, the other man legs wide prancing backward— Checha wena!

You know! Money and guns! — She struggled her head free, gasping a shout — Don’t know! How can I see they put… — There was a hefty canvas boot tramping on her belly, she was screaming and suddenly saw the youth’s face as it came up in the moment before he hit her — I can be your grandmother!—

As it was still too cold for the pool to keep him on form one of the Dolphins working out on his bicycle and making for home in half-dark after completing four kilo metres he’d set himself, heard screams coming from the direction of Steve’s house. The Suburb’s not a squatter settlement or sleazy Hillbrow where domestic quarrels and gang rivalries mean this is normal; but sometimes the children of these straight comrades play games that raise alarms. Once home, he thought he better call the Steve and Jabu house anyway, to see if all was well. When the phone rang and rang, not picked up, he hitched the mountain bike out of its stand again, thought he’d go round. No one came when he shouted at the front gate against the screams and gabble for help coming from the house, the back gate was open and light was a path from the open kitchen door. Kitchen empty. In what must be Steve and Jabu’s bedroom the woman who’s some sort of relative of Jabu lay sobbing and calling, tied up, in the midst of wardrobe doors gaping, desk drawers spilled to the floor, a dressing table with mirrors pushed wildly away, reflecting make-up, purses, a rifling search, bedside tables overturned — that’s where there’d be a gun…

The Dolphins were wonderfully efficient; more than could be expected even of comrade neighbours. They summoned police and watchfully accompanied them in the search of the house — these days some of them might be light-fingered — helped hysterical Wethu with her statement, made coherent her familiarity with what she could tell had been taken, the widescreen she had been enjoying, the machines — didn’t know what a word-processor, fax, photocopier, were called — all was gone along with clothes, DVD player. Cut loose of her bonds she went frantically from room to room taking stock — even Sindi’s TV shame, shame, they should be ashamed of themselves — She had Steve or was it Jabu’s cell number but for some reason it made no connection, Wethu knew they’d gone to look at animals but didn’t remember the name of the place. The comrades from the Gereformeerde Kerk transformed in the time of the country’s freedom and their genders also, took Wethu home with them for the night, calmed and cared for her. As if she had been their grandmother.

Steve, Jabu, Sindiswa and Gary Elias arrived back in the Suburb on Monday afternoon of the weekend apart.

That was what was happening while we were reconciling with Africa in the bush. He doesn’t say it. As if it could be heard as some contribution to justification for the approach of November.

The house: it was not there. He was seeing it, deserted, displaced. She is with Sindi and Gary Elias at the Dolphins’ being cared for in shock along with Wethu.

The house.

Things were gone — material things , don’t matter: order is gone. In advance. What’s been taken? Perhaps that’s relief, fewer things, less stuff to be packed up with what’s stacked already.

Jabu took Wethu for an extensive examination at the family doctor. She was badly bruised, trampled purplish the brown pigment of her flesh, fortunately no ribs cracked or vertebrae damaged. While describing over and over under the doctor’s attention to her body, what the attackers had done to her she included or perhaps his hands released recollection — one of the men was someone among the out-of-work she’d seen often hanging about the garage where she’d come to know a petrol-pump attendant, he gave them odd jobs in return for some bread or a couple of cigarettes.