Driving Madoda

Margaret Clough

It all started with a seemingly simple request from our gardener that I didn't like to refuse. I should have known better. After all, I knew our gardener and I was well aware that there was nothing simple about him. His modest, gentle manner hid a will of steel and his bland, friendly expression, a mind sharp as a razor. He was always letting me in for more than I had bargained for. "A little manure" always turned out to be a lorry-load and "a few plants" four or five dozen.

His name was Madoda and he came with the best of references. My husband was very proud of having found such a good gardener for me. He was as proud as if he had invented Madoda himself. He was always boasting about him to our friends and all our friends were most envious. Many of them tried to steal Madoda from us behind our backs, tempting him with offers of higher wages, shorter hours and all kinds of extra perks, but to no avail. He refused them all. Unswerving loyalty was one of Madoda's most prominent virtues. And his virtues were many. He arrived at work early and left only when every task was done. He was always neat and tidy, always polite. He never came to work drunk as many of our previous gardeners had done. He never asked to borrow money, as all our previous gardeners had done. He understood plants and knew how to look after them. Our garden flourished under his care. He had only one fault. He was officious to the point of being overbearing. He loved to be in control.

Our garden became his garden. To him I existed only to serve it. He would inform me what was required in the way of plants, fertilisers or equipment and I would provide them. He always knew best. He knew the best time for planting, the best way of pruning and cultivating, and he was always right. It was infuriating, the way he was always right. He was always perfectly polite and respectful, but he was always right. It was no good arguing with him. I became used to falling in with his suggestions, so when he asked me drive him to the butcher to fetch the meat for his uncle's funeral, I agreed at once. After all, he hardly ever asked for favours.

"It won't take you long, Old lady," he said. "It isn't far."

That was another infuriating thing. He always called me "Granny" or "Old lady" and I felt I couldn't object because he meant it respectfully, but I didn't think I was as old as all that!

We set off, in my little run-about, quite early in the afternoon to miss the rush hour traffic. It had begun to drizzle, so gardening would have had to be abandoned for the day, anyway. Following Madoda's directions I took the main road out of town and then turned off into a wide thoroughfare going in the direction of the Cape Flats. We drove through a business district and some leafy suburbs, then more business districts and some rather less leafy suburbs. This was the first time I had been into this part of Cape Town and I was intrigued. I had no idea so many people lived out here or that there were so many little shopping centres, churches and mosques. By this time the soft drizzle had changed into a heavy downpour and it was becoming difficult to see the road ahead.

"Are you sure we are going the right way, Madoda?" I asked. "I don't see any butcher's shops around here."

"No Granny, don't worry. Just follow the taxis. Then you will know that you are going the right way."

The minibus taxi ahead of us swerved in and out of the traffic, accelerating suddenly every now and then for no apparent reason and screeching to a halt periodically without warning. I followed it with difficulty.

"Turn left here, Granny," said Madoda as we came to an intersection. I turned off and drove for several more minutes. We seemed to have been travelling for a long time

"How much further do you want me to go?" I asked irritably. "I can't be out all afternoon. I've got a lot to do."

"Not very far now, Granny," was the reply.

We had been travelling through neatly laid out townships but we now we left them behind to plunge through an informal settlement. There were a few brick houses but most of the dwellings were wood or iron shacks. The roads were narrow and were not tarred. In spite of the rain, they were crowded with scurrying children and scavenging dogs and chickens. At the sound of the car, women came to their doors to look out and stare at us.

Following Madoda's directions, I drove slowly down a muddy road full stones and potholes. At the end of it we came to a yard with a number of corrugated-iron sheds. There was a strong farmyard smell about the place. Madoda got out of the car and went into one of the sheds while I backed the car between the sheds and turned it to face the way we had come so that it would be easy to get out of the yard again, a precaution that I was to be very glad of later.

After a few minutes Madoda returned. With him was a large, bearded man wearing a butcher's apron and carrying a huge carving knife. Madoda introduced him as his friend, Thando.

Thando came towards the car and leaned in at the driver's window. He favoured me with a villainous leer. "Molo, Magogo," he said. "Kunjani?"

"Molo Thando," I replied nervously. "I am well and how are you?"

Thando then burst into a rapid stream of Xhosa, the gist of which seemed to be that the boot of my car was too small.

"How can it be too small?" I asked Madoda. 'You said one sheep, didn't you? I have often put that much meat in the boot and had room to spare. What is he talking about?"

Madoda then took Thando aside and a long discussion ensued, at the end of which some banknotes changed hands and Thando turned towards the nearest shed and shouted something. Immediately the doors opened and two men appeared. Carried between them, tied by its feet, was a large, smelly, dirty and very unhappy sheep.

"No, No!" I shouted. "You are not putting that in my car. I never said I'd transport a live sheep! Take it away!"

But it was too late. Before I could stop them the two men had bundled the poor unfortunate animal into the boot and slammed down the lid. I was furious.

"I won't have it, Madoda," I said. "Tell them to take it out at once."

But Madoda was on the other side of the yard, watching Thando haggle with a customer over the price of a fat black piglet.

"Thando, Madoda!" I called out. "Do you hear me? I want that sheep out of my boot and I want it out now!"

Just at this moment a dilapidated white bakkie drove up and four men got out of it. They advanced on us angrily, shouting and waving their fists. They looked evil and dangerous.

Madoda sprinted across the yard and jumped into the car. Thando came running after him and scrambled into the back sea, still clutching the piglet.

"Go, Granny, Go!" they yelled.

I didn't stop to argue. "Who are those guys? What do they want?" I asked as we shot out of the gate and careered down the muddy lane. "They're bad men," explained Madoda. "They want to take my sheep."

"Look!" shouted Thando, "they're coming after us in the bakkie. Drive Granny! Drive! Faster! Faster!"

I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator and we flew down the narrow road. The poor little car took a pounding as it bounced over the stones and potholes. The sheep in the boot struggled and kicked, threatening to break through the backseat. The piglet wriggled and squealed. I was glad that my earlier forethought in turning the car around had given us a head start. The bakkie might have been old and battered but it was catching up rapidly.

"Turn left here, turn left again, turn right." The car swerved and skidded as I battled to follow Madoda's directions.

"What was that noise?" I asked. "It sounded like a gunshot."

"They're shooting at us!" screamed Thando. "Drive faster, Granny. Drive faster!"

I did my best to comply. I didn't really believe that we were being shot at, but I wasn't going to take any chances.

"This is dreadful. We must go to the police," I said.

"No, no. Not the police," said Madoda.

"Why not?" I asked.

"I don't think the police will help us," he said.

"Madoda," I demanded, "why are these people really after us? Where did this sheep come from? Where did Thando get it?"

Madoda looked shamed-faced and didn't reply. A nasty suspicion entered my mind that our pursuers might be the rightful owners of the sheep and that far from being the victims of crime, Madoda, Thando and I were on the wrong side of the law.

We heard no more gunshots, and soon the sounds of pursuit faded away and the broken-down bakkie could no longer be seen in the rear-view mirror.

We came to a lane where a number of cars were parked. A tarpaulin had been stretched over two or three shacks to form a make-shift marquee.

"This is my uncle's house. You see they have put up canvas sheets to make space for all the people coming to the funeral. You can stop here," said Madoda. I pulled over thankfully. I was shaking. I couldn't speak. I thought I was going to faint.

"Hau, Granny, but you can drive fast!" said Thando admiringly.

"You see, Old lady. It didn't take long. It wasn't so far to go," said Madoda complacently.

I regained my breath at that, and turned on him in fury.

"You're fired!" I shouted. "How could you do this to me! I never want to see you again!"

"All right, Granny, all right," said Madoda, "but Granny must please just hold the pig while we take the sheep inside."

And the squirming, slippery, creature was thrust into my arms. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn't possibly have held it, and in a matter of seconds the piglet had pulled free and was skittering away down the muddy track towards Madoda's uncle's house with Thando in hot pursuit. As Thando frantically tried to grab it, the pig weaved its way between some chairs and ducked under a trestle table, knocking over a large pot of soup as it went, causing much shouting and commotion. A number of children who had been playing in the street came rushing over to join in the chase, shrieking with excitement and adding to the noise and confusion.

"Aren't you going to help Thando?" I asked Madoda, who was leaning against the car, shaking with laughter.

"It's his pig. He can catch it," replied Madoda, unconcerned.

"You have no conscience!" I said. "You have treated me shamefully, and now you don't even help your friend! Just wait until I tell my husband about this!"

Madoda had the grace to look a little abashed, but then he cheered up. "I think perhaps it's better you don't tell him," he said.

And on reflection I had to admit that, as always, Madoda was right.

The drive back was uneventful. The weather had cleared and we didn't see the white bakkie again. I was amazed to find when I got back home that it was still quite early in the afternoon, so much had happened since we had set out.

"What have you been up to today?" asked my husband when he came home that evening.

"I've been driving with Madoda. We went to fetch the meat for his uncle's funeral."

"That sounds nice," he said, not really listening. "What about us taking in an action movie tonight? After all that dull housework and gardening I'm sure you could do with a bit of excitement in your life."

Margaret Clough retired to Cape Town a few years ago from George where she worked as a soil chemist and later as a Physical Science teacher. Shortly after arriving in Cape Town she took a short course in creative writing at Bergvliet High School (the adult education programme) and was hooked. When not writing stories for her many grandchildren, she enjoys walking, hiking, dog training and reading novels.

LitNet: 19 January 2005

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