“If we can. That would be cool.” Peter’s tone lacked conviction.
Chad said, “We must. That’ll be great. What do you South Africans say, lekker?”
As Roger meandered through the remaining crowd, giving nods and handshakes as he went, Chad leaned close to Peter and whispered. “Damn limey. Man! He is so full of shit.”
Peter chuckled and shook his head in amazement as he watched Roger’s head bob above everyone else’s. He whispered back to Chad, “Yeah, what an arrogant son of bitch.”
As cleanup of the braai began, an older gentleman arrived. He was no doubt kin to Simon: slightly more rotund, considerably grayer, bifocals and rustic wrinkles highlighting brown eyes and a dark complication. It was George, pastor of St. Stephens, Simon’s father.
He held up his hands and hushed the remaining two dozen well-fed parishioners, “Unfortunately, I had an emergency visit at hospital. I do apologize. But I see you have indeed enjoyed yourselves and have no doubt given a warm welcome to our American friends.” He turned toward Peter and Chad and waved them to come forward. “We have so looked forward to you joining us, sharing in the ministry with us. We anticipate a wonderful contribution from you two.” He then offered prayers.
As George strutted to the other side of the courtyard, Peter leaned near Chad and said, “Wonderful contribution? Wonderful contribution?”
Chad patted his shoulder. “No worries, Pete. It’ll be a breeze.”
CHAPTER 7
Themba, Themba
Peter and Chad had their feet propped on an eight-foot-long table sitting in the far corner of the dimly lit church hall. Sandwiches had been quickly devoured, and they were gearing up for another round of heavy thinking and arduous planning. With his right foot, Peter pushed an empty teapot toward Chad and said, “I do believe it’s your turn to make tea.”
With his left foot, Chad pushed the teapot back toward the middle of the table, which was cluttered with notepaper and notepads. “If you want tea, you may indeed go fix it.”
Chad and Peter had brainstormed the whole of Saturday morning: drawing up a list of ideas, discussing goals, and setting some objectives for the various youth programs in the church.
As they prepared to continue the marathon planning session, Steve, whom they had met the day they arrived, tapped on the window. With a monkey-like grin, he waved at them. A moment later, he came through the door with a young lady by his side. “You two know Sarah, don’t you? Don’t tell me you started without us! George did say after lunch, didn’t he, Sarah?”
“You’re fine,” Chad said as he got up to greet the two helpers assigned by George to assist them. “We’ve just been brainstorming – only I think the storm died down hours ago.”
Steve said, “Well, look out. Another storm’s about to blow in wreaking havoc and mayhem. Did you meet Sarah yet? This is Sarah. She was my first-ever girlfriend when I was ten. I plan to marry her. She knows that and is eagerly waiting for me to get the courage to ask her.”
“Shut up, Steve. I met you okies at the braai. My dad is Johan. I’m sure you remember him.”
“Yeah, of course I remember.” Chad had hardly noticed the tall, slender girl at the braaivleis. As he shook her hand, he glanced at her face; her dark complexion and oversized brown eyes blended in a stunning manner with her golden brown, shoulder-length hair – hair that glistened like silk and begged to be stroked. Chad wondered how he had missed this one. “Chad. That’s Peter.”
“I know,” she said with a glance into Chad’s eyes, which sent an unexpected sensation down his spine. “Shall I fix you okies some tea? We need to get started. I must be home by five.”
“Sure,” said Peter, “but I wouldn’t be calling Chad an Okie. He’s from New Jersey. I’m from Oklahoma. I’m the Okie.”
Along with Steve, she laughed. “No, no ... okie is ... well, it’s a word we use, it … well it means you guys, you people. You okies. Nothing to do with … what was it? Oklahoma?” She grabbed the teapot and asked, “Milk? Sugar?”
Chad responded, “Milk, one sugar. Pete just wants milk.”
Chad’s eyes remained fixed on Sarah as she walked toward the kitchen area in the back of the hall. He leaned toward Peter and whispered, “Damn! She’s amazing!”
Peter shook his head and said rather loudly, “Geez! Don’t go chasing after the first female you see. Good God, slow down.”
Steve laughed and winked at Chad.
Sarah returned with four fresh cups of tea. Chad scrutinized her with his practiced eye; her confident gait, her coy and measured smile, and her curious eyes impressed him. Then their eyes met. Chad feared his face had turned pink, maybe red, for she had caught him scrutinizing her. She smiled. Both held their gaze longer than is socially expected and acceptable at initial meetings. They sipped their tea and began their planning session.
By five p.m., all ideas had been exhausted, and their brain cells cried for mercy.
As Sarah walked out the door, she asked dispassionately, “My parents wanted me to ask if you would be able to join us for dinner tomorrow.”
“We’re busy tomorrow. What about Monday? Would that work for your parents?” Chad responded in a subdued manner, though a quick rush of blood had filled his head.
“I’m sure it would be fine,” Sarah answered as she and Steve got into her mom’s yellow VW Beetle. She drove off and gave a brisk glance toward Chad as she shifted into into second gear.
***
Dinner’s enticing smell filled the flat as Chad and Peter returned after the eternal meeting. They sat down with Simon for a homemade meal.
Themba glided back and forth from the kitchen, bringing plates of food and various condiments, refilling drinks, and meeting every need and desire. Chad smiled with satisfaction each time she entered the room, and Peter felt uncomfortable every time she left the room. He asked Simon what he knew about his maid.
Simon paused for a moment, then said, “She is Xhosa. Her English is very adequate when you consider that, like many Africans, English is probably her fourth language after Xhosa, Zulu, and Afrikaans. She lives in Alexandra, a township about eighty kilometers north of Jo’berg. I believe she has four, maybe five children there. I don’t remember their ages … the youngest is four I think, and the oldest is ten or eleven.”
Peter asked, “Good God! Who takes care of them every day? That’d be an awful commute.”
“She actually stays here most of the week and goes home on weekends. And I am sure the children are well cared for by their grandmother and plenty of other relatives.”
“Where’s her husband, the dad?”
“I think she mentioned that he is in a township well north of Pretoria, in Bophuthatswana. I do know he works in Pretoria.”
“Wait a minute! That’s ridiculous. You’re not serious? Why would he live so far away?” Peter’s voice vacillated between shock and indignation.
Chad spoke rather curtly. “Maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe that works for him. Probably got himself a babe on the side somewhere else.”
Simon responded, “Well it is certainly not good for building fidelity among the Bantus. He was probably assigned there. They have no choice in these matters.”
Peter clasped his hands on his head. “Assigned? What the hell are you talking about? You mean the government tells the Bantus where they have to live, not giving a flip about their families?”
Simon sighed and shifted his chair. “Peter, it does seem so. I do not understand their reasoning. I don’t think anyone does. Still, Themba does not complain. She usually works Tuesday to Friday and goes home on the weekends. Her youngest was ill this week, so she asked if she could get some extra days. That’s why she’s here for us this weekend.”
Themba nodded as she came through to refill their drinks, “Yes, I am very, very fortunate Master Simon helps me this way.”
“Yes, thank you Themba. We do appreciate it.”
“Dankie, Master,” she said as she wen
t to begin the washing up.
“So she stays in Vanderbijlpark. Where does she go every night?”
“No Peter. She stays here,” Simon said, moving his index finger in a circle and pointing to the floor.
“What? Where does she sleep? There’s no room here.” Peter had seen no spare room.
Simon folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and slowly said, “Themba sleeps in the back room during the week.”
“Back room?”
“It is the small room behind the house, between the two flats.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s horrible.”
Simon shook his head and said, “Peter, it is quite cozy.”
Peter had noticed the so-called ‘back room,’ though he would not have called it a room at all. It was outside the back door, an eight-by-six-foot area. He initially assumed it was a shed for garden tools or everyday junk. The door was covered by black drapes, which actually looked more like bedspreads when he looked a bit closer. When he glanced through the window, he had noticed a cot, a small table, three candles, and two buckets. He assumed the children next door used the shed as a playhouse. He was shocked to learn this was Themba’s home for four days a week. “You are kidding me! Surely, there’s no way someone can sleep … live there. Simon, is this your South African sense of humor?”
Simon’s word came out quickly. “She is very comfortable. She has no complaints about it. Peter, this is the situation with many workers. They accept it, and they appreciate it.” Simon called out, “Themba!”
She came into the room drying a large pot.
“Your room here, do you have any problems with it? Is there anything you need? Can we make it more comfortable?”
“Ag nee.” Themba chuckled at the inquiry. “No. Indeed no. Dankie, Master. I am quite happy there. I shall now bring dessert.” She returned to the kitchen.
“I just don’t get it,” mumbled Peter.
Chad blurted out, “Peter, just leave it alone. This is Africa, not America. It’s different. It’s the way it is. Just forget about it.”
Simon then noted, “Themba is better paid than most home workers and treated much better than most. You need not worry about her.”
Peter drew in a few slow breaths. He told himself it was not his place to argue about this. This was not his country, and he should not judge the nuances, the protocol, and the expectations of Simon’s homeland.
Satisfied from a hearty meal, the flat mates moved to the comfortable chairs on the other side of the room, taking with them fresh cups of tea. Simon turned on his nineteen-inch black and white television.
Chad said, “I still can’t believe this country just got television in January. What’s up with you South Africans?”
Simon chuckled. “Blame the government. It was the National Party’s decision not to allow television for so long. Some say it’s because they feared television would corrupt the country’s morals. Others might say the reluctance was motivated by a fear that Blacks would be exposed to Western culture and start demanding more power and privilege. But people have gone wild over it. I got this set just to see what it was all about. Quite honestly, I think we were better off without the blasted thing.”
Chad laughed and said, “Wow! An entire country, all at once, discovered the joy of television and is already entranced by its seductive nature. I still can’t believe there’s only one channel. What’s on tonight, Afrikaans or English?”
“English.”
“Thank God. Isn’t that program on that Steve’s been raving about? The New Avengers or something?”
“I believe so.”
The popular British program had just begun when Themba poked her head in from the kitchen and said, “May I, Master?”
Simon nodded. Themba entered the den and sat in the corner of the room on the floor. She could just see the television from her angle.
Peter and Chad glanced at one another. Chad shrugged his shoulders, and Peter winced. He felt awkward and embarrassed and assumed Themba must feel the same. “Let me get a chair,” Peter said.
Simon looked back toward Themba and said, “Oh she’s fine, she’s fine. Themba, would you prefer a chair?”
“Oh no. That would not be good. This is very fine, dankie.”
“Not many employers would allow this,” Simon said with some pride, “but she enjoys the television, and it helps her to relax before bed.”
Themba nodded with a smile as Simon said this.
Peter wanted to insist, “Please sit here. We’ll make room on the sofa,” but he said nothing more. He told himself again, This is Simon’s world.
CHAPTER 8
South Africa’s Fears
Peter walked up to the lectern and quickly surveyed the congregation of seventy or so. His mind froze, and his stomach turned inside out. George could have warned them, told them in advance that they would be invited to share in the morning church service. His mind had been wandering when George invited him and Chad to “Come forward and share something about yourselves and your journey here.”
He set his gaze toward a lonely stained-glass window above the front door of the modest sanctuary as he waited for words to come and sentences to form, but nothing came. He forced a nervous smile and simply opened his mouth, hoping some words would surface. “I … I’m studying … um … psychology at Oklahoma University. It’s exciting to be here and help with your church. I’m looking forward to it. I’m sure it will be great. Just the people I’ve met already … well this seems to be a special place. Thank you for having us. I hope we can help out.” That was the best his brain could produce with no notice; it let him down and mortified him once again. Peter sat down and prayed he would melt into nothingness and never be seen again.
Chad smiled as he walked slowly to the front. He climbed the three steps to the podium, took hold of the top of the lectern, and leaned forward. It was as if he had morphed into a seasoned preacher. In colorful fashion, he described his growing friendship with Simon. He spoke of his burgeoning fascination and intrigue as he had learned about South Africa from Simon over the past year. Then, looking intently from one side of the room to the other, he said, “It’s hard to believe, but already I feel very much at home here.” He finished by proudly stating he was studying pre-law with plans to be a lawyer and follow in his father’s footsteps.
When Chad proclaimed this aspiration to be like his father, Peter’s mouth dropped. What a blatant lie! And in church, nonetheless. At least he didn’t embarrass both of us by talking about being a cheerleader.
***
Steve ushered Chad and Peter into his home after the Sunday service. He barked commands to his three younger brothers to “Quiet down!” and introduced the Yanks to his parents, Sharon and Les.
Throughout their three-course meal, the four brothers worked hard to outdo one another in precociousness; each vied for attention, competing fiercely to see which brother could incite the most laughs. Puns, corny jokes, and anecdotes about bizarre friends at school flowed nonstop. Chad added a few jokes of his own.
As the family and guests devoured raspberry Pavlova, Chad looked around the table. He felt tears welling up as he watched this family laughing with one another, enjoying one another. This family, at least on this Sunday afternoon, appeared to be what a family should be – comfortable, relaxed, accepting, and loving. Images of Sunday lunches at his home flashed through Chad’s mind: those dreaded after-church lunches where wearing Sunday dress was the only option; where free bantering was forbidden; and where his father would declare war on all Republicans and never invite a second opinion. Chad pushed down the tears that begged for freedom.
Sharon went to prepare coffee, and Les dismissed the three younger boys who eagerly joined a cricket match in the street outside their house.
“It’s one of our neighborhood’s Sunday traditions,” Les declared. In a now-quiet dining room, with coffee cups in hand, Les smiled and asked, “So what do you Americans think about
South Africa? The politics I mean. What do you Yanks make of our country so far?”
Peter looked at Chad, who promptly raised his left brow and gave a nod to Peter. He can damn well speak up for once.
Peter eventually spoke, though his words barely seeped passed his lips. “Most folks don’t pay much attention. I suppose what little they know … well it’s apartheid, and no one agrees with that. No one understands it. And … well, you know, most just think things are in chaos over here, with all the rioting being reported.”
Steve and Les chuckled.
Peter turned white and looked back to Chad.
“Ohhh, the riotous South Africa,” Steve happily declared.
“No. I don’t know. I guess some might think that,” Peter said apologetically.
Les asked, “What about these so-called riots? What do they think has been happening here?”
Peter looked again at Chad, now with a pitiful gaze in his eyes. Chad despised that look; he was certain Peter used it to manipulate him. Chad caught himself just before he rolled his eyes at Peter. He spoke up, “The news does give a picture of riots everywhere, terrorists wreaking havoc. The reports can be pretty negative. But most Americans – at least those who know anything at all – do support South Africa and are worried about what’s going on. They know it’s a great country facing some problems.”
Les grinned and said, “Heavens! I know the whole world finds apartheid offensive and hates South Africa with a passion.”
Chad, determined to remain optimistic, said, “Yes, well … yes. There are lots of questions about it for sure, but there are plenty who support South Africa.”
Les continued to push. “And what about you two? You have had a chance to see it firsthand. What do you think so far?”
Chad drew a breath and was about to respond when Peter interrupted. “Apartheid is … well, it’s just so wrong. Is it really necessary? It just seems so … so backwards. Apartheid, it’s so …” Peter stopped.
Chad saw Peter’s hands trembling. He would have to save him once again. “It’s just so hard for people on the other side of the world to understand, and it’s true that they are quick to judge.”