witnessed, and she kept her word. He had been through hell and didn’t need to deal with public shame as well.
‘There’s no discouragement – shall make him once relent – his first avowed intent – to be a pilgrim.’
Theodora Ngcobo does not need to look at the Order of Service because she knows the words. Instead, as she watches the pepper-and-salt perm of her former employer bobbing in front of her, she thinks, Poor Madam, she’s hating this big service and the crowds. And that black dress doesn’t suit her. She should have worn the cream linen.
Theodora can feel sorry for Shirley now that she is no longer in bondage to the big house which needed so much dusting and cleaning. Shirley wasn’t a bad madam; didn’t shout or demand or create a scene over a mistake. It was just that the hours were long and the pay was never enough to meet the needs of the children living at home in Babanango with their grandmother.
If it hadn’t been for the pillowcases Theodora embroidered in her khaya every night, working at the fine stitching she’d learnt from the nuns at mission school, her children would never have made it past primary school. The 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling was dim and embroidery silks were expensive.
Theodora’s designs were the pictures her mother had drawn in smoothed clay on the river bank when she was small: cattle and goats and clusters of huts, women hoeing in the fields, rocky crags with aloes, the sun and the moon and the stars. All the things country people missed when they lived in poky backyard rooms in cities. She embroidered her pillowcases for women who asked for names and birth dates to be woven into the borders of vines and flowers: children, sisters, mothers, gogos, friends – but seldom their men, whom they may not have seen for months or years. Theodora’s husband had deserted her when their youngest child was in her belly, saying that he was going to Joburg to look for work and would return for sure. Hayi-bo, that one!
As she grew older she realised that it had been for the best, but she cried into her own embroidered pillow for years because she had loved him and life was hard. Now she thinks, I’m still here and Master has gone. My children are successful. I have grandchildren. I have a vote. I have a decent house and a good life. I want for nothing. Who is the madam now?
She smiles as the organ pauses before launching into the next verse, and looks around with a proudly lifted head.
‘Who so beset him round with dismal stories – do but themselves confound – his strength the more is.’
Nelisiwe has an Apostolic pastor grandfather and was brought up singing in the choir of the church where he preached fire and brimstone, though she is no longer terrified by his visions of hell. At twenty-eight she is a partner in a leading Durban firm of architects specialising in sustainable communities: an accomplished career woman with an MA in town planning.
She’s also the main breadwinner in her marriage. Hugh’s academic salary doesn’t go far, but it’s okay. He’s sensitive to her feelings and aspirations, unlike the hip self-centred boyfriends who preceded him. A bit old, maybe, though it makes for a peaceful home life. She knows the marriage won’t last, but it suits her at the moment. He does most of the cooking and treats women with respect, even his former wife who left him and his dreadful old aunt.
She looks sideways at Barbara whose bright red mouth opens and closes, only pretending to sing. Needs a cigarette, Nelisiwe guesses. I wonder why she never married? Too stuck up. Or maybe tries too hard. Dresses like a parrot and tries to cover her wrinkles with too much makeup. Smoking is even worse for the skin than lightening creams; just look at those fissures round her lips.
With a shiver, Nelisiwe tugs her designer jacket into place and goes on singing, ‘No foe shall stay his might – though he with giants fight –’
Barbara is thinking, This
‘There’s no discouragement – shall make him once relent – his first avowed intent – to be a pilgrim.’
Theodora Ngcobo does not need to look at the Order of Service because she knows the words. Instead, as she watches the pepper-and-salt perm of her former employer bobbing in front of her, she thinks, Poor Madam, she’s hating this big service and the crowds. And that black dress doesn’t suit her. She should have worn the cream linen.
Theodora can feel sorry for Shirley now that she is no longer in bondage to the big house which needed so much dusting and cleaning. Shirley wasn’t a bad madam; didn’t shout or demand or create a scene over a mistake. It was just that the hours were long and the pay was never enough to meet the needs of the children living at home in Babanango with their grandmother.
If it hadn’t been for the pillowcases Theodora embroidered in her khaya every night, working at the fine stitching she’d learnt from the nuns at mission school, her children would never have made it past primary school. The 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling was dim and embroidery silks were expensive.
Theodora’s designs were the pictures her mother had drawn in smoothed clay on the river bank when she was small: cattle and goats and clusters of huts, women hoeing in the fields, rocky crags with aloes, the sun and the moon and the stars. All the things country people missed when they lived in poky backyard rooms in cities. She embroidered her pillowcases for women who asked for names and birth dates to be woven into the borders of vines and flowers: children, sisters, mothers, gogos, friends – but seldom their men, whom they may not have seen for months or years. Theodora’s husband had deserted her when their youngest child was in her belly, saying that he was going to Joburg to look for work and would return for sure. Hayi-bo, that one!
As she grew older she realised that it had been for the best, but she cried into her own embroidered pillow for years because she had loved him and life was hard. Now she thinks, I’m still here and Master has gone. My children are successful. I have grandchildren. I have a vote. I have a decent house and a good life. I want for nothing. Who is the madam now?
She smiles as the organ pauses before launching into the next verse, and looks around with a proudly lifted head.
‘Who so beset him round with dismal stories – do but themselves confound – his strength the more is.’
Nelisiwe has an Apostolic pastor grandfather and was brought up singing in the choir of the church where he preached fire and brimstone, though she is no longer terrified by his visions of hell. At twenty-eight she is a partner in a leading Durban firm of architects specialising in sustainable communities: an accomplished career woman with an MA in town planning.
She’s also the main breadwinner in her marriage. Hugh’s academic salary doesn’t go far, but it’s okay. He’s sensitive to her feelings and aspirations, unlike the hip self-centred boyfriends who preceded him. A bit old, maybe, though it makes for a peaceful home life. She knows the marriage won’t last, but it suits her at the moment. He does most of the cooking and treats women with respect, even his former wife who left him and his dreadful old aunt.
She looks sideways at Barbara whose bright red mouth opens and closes, only pretending to sing. Needs a cigarette, Nelisiwe guesses. I wonder why she never married? Too stuck up. Or maybe tries too hard. Dresses like a parrot and tries to cover her wrinkles with too much makeup. Smoking is even worse for the skin than lightening creams; just look at those fissures round her lips.
With a shiver, Nelisiwe tugs her designer jacket into place and goes on singing, ‘No foe shall stay his might – though he with giants fight –’
Barbara is thinking, This
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