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Authors: Zoë Wicomb
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courage. I have no doubt that they have been asked to support the boycott. But they will think their defiance heroic and stifle the unease by marching soldier-like to mourn the Prime Minister.
Their measured tread marks the short minutes that go on sounding long after they have disappeared. I scribble wildly these words that trip each other up so that the page is defaced by inches of crossed-out writing and full stops swelled by a refractory pen that shrinks before a new sentence. Just as I finish, the gilt braid of fleece overhead slips under cover of a brooding raincloud. There is no time to make a fair copy. It is nearly three oâclock and I do not have the courage to wait for a bus or a lift at the main entrance where tall, fleshy cacti with grotesque limbs mockthe human form. With difficulty I slip the essay without an explanatory note under Retiefâs close-fitting door then brace myself for the bush, for I must find the path that leads to the little station and wait for the Cape Flats train.
Tamieta shifts in her seat and lifts her wrist to check again the ticking of her watch. If this thing should let her down, should wilfully speed up the day so that she is left running about like a headless chicken amongst her pots . . . But she allows her wrist to drop in her lap; the unthinkable cannot be developed any further. And yet she has just fallen breathless in her chair, the first in the last row, only to find no one here. Not a soul. All the chairs in front of her are empty, except for the first two rows where the Boers sit in silence. Only two of the lecturers are women who, in their black wide-rimmed hats, are curious shapes in the distance.
Tamieta had no idea that the ceremony was for white people only. Oh, what should she do, and the shame of it flames in her chest. Wait until she is told to leave? Or pick up the bag of working clothes she has just tucked under her chair and stagger off? But a few heads had turned as she sat down; she has already been seen, and besides how can she trust these legs now that her knees are calcified with shame and fear? She longs for a catastrophe, an act of justice, something divine and unimaginable, for she cannot conceive of a flood or a zigzag of lightning that will have her tumbling in scuffed shoes with her smoking handbag somersaulting over or entwined with the people at the front. There is no decent image of a credible demise to be summoned in the company of these mourners, so she fishes instead in her handbag for the handkerchief soaked in reviving scent. Californian Poppy, the bottle says, a sample that Beatrice had written away for and which arrived in thepost with the picture on the label hardly discernible as a flower, just a red splodge, and as she inhales the soothing fragrance her mind clears into a sharp memory of the supervisor. Mr Grats said distinctly as he checked the last consignment of plates, âTomorrow is the ceremony, so close up straight after lunch. It wonât last more than an hour so you still have an afternoon off.â
Unambiguous words. Mr Grats is a man who always speaks plainly. Besides, they would not have put the chairs out if Coloureds were not allowed, and her new-found security is confirmed by the arrival of the first students. She recognises the young men from the seminary, the future Dutch Reformed or rather Mission Church ministers, and her chest swells with relief which she interprets as pride in her people. They slip noiselessly into the third row but there are only eleven and they have no effect on the great expanse between her and the front.
Tamieta looks at her watch. It is five minutes past two. She would not expect students to be late for such an important ceremony; why should they want to keep Coloured time on an occasion like this and put her to shame? Where is everybody? And she sniffs, sniffs at the comforter impregnated with Californian Poppy.
The rector strides across from the Administration block in his grand
Their measured tread marks the short minutes that go on sounding long after they have disappeared. I scribble wildly these words that trip each other up so that the page is defaced by inches of crossed-out writing and full stops swelled by a refractory pen that shrinks before a new sentence. Just as I finish, the gilt braid of fleece overhead slips under cover of a brooding raincloud. There is no time to make a fair copy. It is nearly three oâclock and I do not have the courage to wait for a bus or a lift at the main entrance where tall, fleshy cacti with grotesque limbs mockthe human form. With difficulty I slip the essay without an explanatory note under Retiefâs close-fitting door then brace myself for the bush, for I must find the path that leads to the little station and wait for the Cape Flats train.
Tamieta shifts in her seat and lifts her wrist to check again the ticking of her watch. If this thing should let her down, should wilfully speed up the day so that she is left running about like a headless chicken amongst her pots . . . But she allows her wrist to drop in her lap; the unthinkable cannot be developed any further. And yet she has just fallen breathless in her chair, the first in the last row, only to find no one here. Not a soul. All the chairs in front of her are empty, except for the first two rows where the Boers sit in silence. Only two of the lecturers are women who, in their black wide-rimmed hats, are curious shapes in the distance.
Tamieta had no idea that the ceremony was for white people only. Oh, what should she do, and the shame of it flames in her chest. Wait until she is told to leave? Or pick up the bag of working clothes she has just tucked under her chair and stagger off? But a few heads had turned as she sat down; she has already been seen, and besides how can she trust these legs now that her knees are calcified with shame and fear? She longs for a catastrophe, an act of justice, something divine and unimaginable, for she cannot conceive of a flood or a zigzag of lightning that will have her tumbling in scuffed shoes with her smoking handbag somersaulting over or entwined with the people at the front. There is no decent image of a credible demise to be summoned in the company of these mourners, so she fishes instead in her handbag for the handkerchief soaked in reviving scent. Californian Poppy, the bottle says, a sample that Beatrice had written away for and which arrived in thepost with the picture on the label hardly discernible as a flower, just a red splodge, and as she inhales the soothing fragrance her mind clears into a sharp memory of the supervisor. Mr Grats said distinctly as he checked the last consignment of plates, âTomorrow is the ceremony, so close up straight after lunch. It wonât last more than an hour so you still have an afternoon off.â
Unambiguous words. Mr Grats is a man who always speaks plainly. Besides, they would not have put the chairs out if Coloureds were not allowed, and her new-found security is confirmed by the arrival of the first students. She recognises the young men from the seminary, the future Dutch Reformed or rather Mission Church ministers, and her chest swells with relief which she interprets as pride in her people. They slip noiselessly into the third row but there are only eleven and they have no effect on the great expanse between her and the front.
Tamieta looks at her watch. It is five minutes past two. She would not expect students to be late for such an important ceremony; why should they want to keep Coloured time on an occasion like this and put her to shame? Where is everybody? And she sniffs, sniffs at the comforter impregnated with Californian Poppy.
The rector strides across from the Administration block in his grand
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