Lise Day graduated from Rhodes aeons ago (Guy Butler’s era) and has taught literature and creative writing for many years. Now she is semi-retired, so she’s only a wife, mother, grandmother, gardener, painter, potter, quilter, writer and in her spare time she teaches communications at the Saasveld campus of PE Technikon.

A Gift is Given

Nomsa crouched in the hot sand of the spruit and carefully arranged the chosen pebbles in small squares. She was making a house with many rooms. She had collected the sun-warmed pebbles, trying to find as many colours as she could. Small sticks made the boma around the house; the cows were the fruits of the Koo-boo berry bush. She kept a half-hearted eye on her two younger brothers as they trundled their intricately wired cars along a complicated network of roads and bridges that they were constructing further down the spruit. It was the first day of the school holidays and Nomsa was lonely. Her friend, Mandisa, had gone to visit her mother in the big city of Pietermaritzburg.
     The last days of school had been filled with activity. They had drawn Christmas pictures, spiky pine trees like those in the plantations that smelt of gum in the summer heat. The trees in the pictures had silver and gold stars stuck on them to turn them from ordinary pines into Christmas trees. They had also made pictures of the baby Jesus in the kraal with the animals standing near. Sipho had asked the teacher what colour the baby should be, and the teacher said, “Baby Jesus is no colour, he is for everybody”. Nomsa did not have a no-colour crayon in her box, so she made him yellow, because that was her favourite, bright like the sunshine. In the picture the teacher showed them the baby had a round circle on his head like a flat hat. The teacher explained that this was his “hallo” because he was special and good and the Son of God. Nomsa did not really understand the hallo hat so she drew him a small cap like the one her brother liked to wear backwards on his head. It was funny about the hallo hat because Christmas really meant good-bye. “Good-bye, teacher, I am going to be in grade three, Mrs Makoena’s class. Good-bye, Mandisa, enjoy the big city”.
     Nomsa was jealous of Mandisa’s visit to Pietermaritzburg where her mother worked in a big house with a swimming pool. She had seen pictures of blue square pools, and now she decided to make one outside her pebble house. She dug carefully with a stick trying not to get too muddy. When she filled the square with water it was disappointing as the blue was not there, just a brown little pond that quickly drained away to nothing. She thought she would go home and draw a picture of the pool with her blue crayon instead. She instructed her brothers not to stray near the deep water and trailed home.
     Her mother scolded her for the muddy skirt and took it to wash and iron for the trip to Bergville tomorrow. Nomsa was excited about going with her mother alone. Her small brothers would stay at home with their grandmother, uGogo, and she would enjoy her special status, the oldest child. They would catch the bus to go to the market and the shops and the post office to see if money had come from father in the city. It was not yet time for this month’s money, but Nomsa’s mother had telephoned and asked for a message to be given so that they may have the money to celebrate Christmas.
     The town was full of colour and activity. Gold and silver tinsel decorated shop windows, gaudy and bright in the sunshine. Even some of the taxis had blobs of cotton-wool to look like snow and funny Father Christmas faces painted on them. The hawkers had spread out an enticing array of cheap, bright objects for sale on the pavements, so that one had to step over and around. Nomsa particularly liked the muti man with his mud smeared orange dreadlocks and the pungent scent of the neat herb parcels tied with grass, strangely shaped roots and sweet smelling slivers of bark. While her mother went to stand in the post office queue Nomsa was allowed to go and look in the CNA next door. She would visit there to buy the clean white books, full of the promise of blank pages for next year’s school, and new pencils and, if the money came, new crayons — but that was next month — now the shop was a treasure trove of toys.
     Nomsa walked down the aisles, careful not to touch. She knew what she wanted and desired above all else. Mandisa had been given one by her mother’s employers last Christmas. The little girls had spent many hours, dressing and undressing, talking in high-pitched English voices, making houses, combing the long blonde tresses. The Barbie dolls were there, stiff and pointy, with their houses, clothes, cars and even a horse to ride. She knew exactly which one she wanted, the one with yellow hair and a small pink swimming costume. On her toes were fluffy slippers, and there was a flimsy robe to wear over the top. Nomsa gazed transfixed the Barbie dolls’ bright blue sightless eyes stared back at her.
     “Nomsa come, we must buy the tea and mielie-meal for Granny.”
     “Look, Mama, look. Please, please, please can I have this one for Christmas?” she tugged at her mother’s arm.
     Her mother bent down and took her gently in her arms. “Dear Nomsa, I am sorry, but the money was not there from your father.”
     “But Mama, why can’t we just ask Father Christmas? He brings presents for good boys and girls. I have been very good, Mama.”
     “Yes, my precious, you have been good, but I think Father Christmas is only for the rich people, not poor people like us.”
     That night Nomsa lay under her blanket and puzzled over Father Christmas. Why did he visit only rich people? Her teacher taught them that all people are special and equal. The rich people already had many things, surely Father Christmas should be for the poor people? Her mother also lay awake and worried. The money had not come the previous month either. All they had now was her mother’s pension, and the small amount she earned once a week cleaning Mrs Smalberger’s house. Before she had gone three times a week, but Mrs Smalberger’s husband had died and the new law said that Mrs Smalberger had to pay Agnes more than she could afford. Agnes said she would work for less, Mrs Smalberger was kind and good, but it was the law and there was no way around that.
     Nomsa and her two brothers, one older and one younger, were beloved, good children. How her heart longed to give them a special Christmas treat. How her mother’s face would light up at the sight and smell of a chicken for lunch with vegetables and gravy and, perhaps, something sweet afterwards. Agnes wondered what had happened to James. He was a good man but easily influenced by his friends. She worried when she did not hear from him, and now she had heard nothing for over seven weeks.
     She thought back to their wedding, he had been so proud. Her father, was still alive then, they had slaughtered a goat and had a great feast. Her aunts had worked hard to make her a wedding day cape. She remembered well how contentedly they had sat in the sun against the wall of the hut, on upturned paraffin cans. Their mouths had worked as hard as their quick fingers. Every aspect of village life had been discussed and every personality dissected, the gossipy tales and legends woven in with the glass beads forming bright patterns. Her wedding cape was made mainly of white beads as they represent purity, cleanliness, true love and hope. These qualities Agnes knew she had in abundance on her wedding day, but now the latter, hope, was less strong. A series of blue crosses stood for the faithfulness of the dove who flies across the sky to return to his home. There were few black bands as these meant grief; loneliness and disappointment, so many would not be suitable in a wedding cape. Perhaps still there were too many? Agnes tried not to be downhearted as she thought of the silent James. After the aunts had completed the strips they were joined to create the cape that she had worn so proudly. Suddenly she remembered that her friend had told her about a man in the town who was buying old things like masks and even wooden milking pails, was it possible that he would desire her wedding cape?
     Next morning early Agnes took the cape from the rickety chest of drawers, she held it briefly to her cheek and the smoky smell brought the happier, more carefree times back in an overwhelming rush. Resolutely she wrapped it carefully in a yellow Checkers bag and caught the bus to town. She asked directions and was pointed the way to a curio shop. The shop was in the posh part of the town on the main street, the windows were full of wooden masks and carved animals, and indeed there were beaded necklaces there. Hesitantly she pushed the door and was startled by the loud bell that clanged in the deep regions of the shop. The man there was kind as she nervously fumbled the cape from the bag. “Yes,” he said, “it is very nice, uNkosazana, I will give you a hundred rand for it.”
     On Christmas morning Nomsa built her pebble house and the boma. In the middle, arms and legs splayed stiffly sat the pink Barbie doll, in her wisps of chiffon and sparkly net. Two little yellow plastic trucks, pushed by her brothers, made a path to the front door. The house was rich with the scent of cooking chicken.
     On the Internet, www.africangallery.co.za, a new item appeared for sale:

Ngwane wedding day cape
Isikoti, Zulu, South Africa
Glass beads fabric cotton
Size: 120cm x 80cm
Price: $1,480,00

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