came from.
The neckline of the dress scooped low to expose the swell of Karabo’s breasts. Precious was about to send her back inside to put on a bra, but she didn’t want Karabo to think of her as the prudish old matron Teacher had said she’d become, so she let it go. She followed her daughter through the gate.
‘You don’t have to pay,’ the driver said to Precious as they boarded the taxi. It was not unusual. This happened to Precious rather often, when a black man in awe of her complexion would offer her a random favour. And with the even lighter-skinned Karabo by her side, the effect was only magnified.
‘But I must pay,’ insisted Precious. Had she been alone she would gladly have accepted the driver’s offer but she didn’t want to teach her daughter the wrong lesson. However, Karabo barely looked at the driver and quickly took her seat. It was as if she was already used to such acts of colour-induced largesse.
Karabo kept asking where they were going until Precious had to pinch her to be quiet. She was too embarrassed to say they were going to see igqirha. His house was in a much less respectable part of Mthatha than where they lived. There all the fascia boards were askew and the paint was falling off the houses in leprous, greying scabs. A pavement special kept pace with Precious and Karabo for a while after they got out of the taxi to walk the short distance to Jabu’s house. The dog trotted alongside them like a guard of honour.
Precious raised her hand and shouted at it. ‘Get away!’ It froze and stared at her with one paw raised off the ground. ‘Get away!’ she cried again, but it slunk away only when she bent down and pretended to pick up a stone to throw at it.
A group of boys ahead of them heard Precious shout and they turned to see who it could be. They were teenagers, about Karabo’s age, all dressed in drab cotton trousers and faded shirts. Precious held Karabo’s hand tightly and as they hurried past, one of the boys called out in a loud voice, ‘Yellowbone!’ The boys laughed loudly and made obscene sucking noises. Precious felt Karabo stiffen and slow down. She had to tug on her hand to keep her walking.
‘Look, we’re here,’ Precious said with a happy cry. She wasn’t really feeling happy but she thought she should put on a show for Karabo.
But Karabo kept looking back at the boys and Precious had to bundle her into Jabu’s yard. She cursed Teacher under her breath for telling Karabo to always stand up for herself. That sort of chat-show life lesson could get you killed in Mthatha.
‘Wait for me here,’ she said to Karabo, pointing to the next room. She would have sat with her for a few minutes but it wouldn’t do to keep igqirha waiting.
She patted Karabo on the shoulder to reassure her but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked pensive, like she was working out one of Teacher’s bloody sums in her head.
Precious knocked on the door and when she entered she found Jabu Molefe seated cross-legged on the bare floor. He was still in his blue overalls, the ones with yellow reflective stripes around the elbows and ankles. He looked more like the municipal labourer he was than a man who wrestled daily with spirits and imparted wisdom to allcomers. There was a straw mat spread out in front of him and on it were neat bunches of herbs tied with blades of dried grass, an assortment of coloured beads and an enamel cup half full of water.
Precious felt a little cheated that Jabu hadn’t bothered to change out of his overalls. The last time she’d seen him he’d been wearing a grass skirt with leather amulets tied around his biceps. At least he could have messed up his hair a little.
‘You have come.’
His voice was deep and resonant, just how igqirha’s voice should be.
Precious smiled. Perhaps she’d get her money’s worth after all.
‘What brings you here, my daughter?’
She wished Jabu wouldn’t call her that. He’d been two classes behind her at school. She shut her eyes and tried to focus on the fact that he was igqirha now, at least when he wasn’t cutting grass for the municipality.
‘You know why I am here. It is my husband.’
She thought his eyes glimmered but it was difficult to tell in the half light.
‘The teacher?’
‘Yes – Teacher. My husband.’
Jabu bent his head and stirred the beads with a dry twig. Then he dipped his hand into the cup of water and, without warning, flicked his fingers at Precious. She recoiled and cried out in alarm, feeling strangely humiliated, as if he had spat at her. But she did not dare wipe her face.
‘Does he know you?’
‘What do you mean, Jabu? He is my husband. Of course he knows me.’
Jabu slipped his hand between his legs and cupped his crotch.
‘My daughter, I asked whether your teacher knows you.’
Precious’s face burned with shame at the turn Jabu’s questions had taken.
‘No, Jabu,’ she said quietly. ‘Not for several months.’
He bent his head again and rummaged among the items on the mat. His hands were dry and covered in small scars. He muttered a few words to himself, then handed Precious a brown kidney-shaped nut.
‘Eat,’ he said.
Precious reached across and took the nut from him, taking care not to let her hand touch his. When she bit into it a peppery taste flooded her mouth. Jabu watched her carefully until she had swallowed the last piece.
‘I see the cause of your troubles, my daughter.’
‘Tell me,’ she said eagerly.
‘It is a woman.’
What woman? Did Teacher have a girlfriend? Precious ran through the women she’d seen around Teacher, scoring them against their likelihood of mischief. She didn’t trust Dorothy Mpetla. The bitch read the notices in church and spoke isiXhosa like an Englishwoman, clicking her tongue in all the wrong places. But it was common knowledge that Dorothy only had eyes for the Nigerian pastor, so Precious struck her off the list. But what about Eunice Matabela, the new school principal? Teacher spoke of her often and with admiration. Eunice was married, not that it mattered these days. If not Eunice or Dorothy, could it be that Venda girl in Grade Twelve, the one whose parents paid Teacher to give her extra maths lessons after school? She was tall and sullen with a body that spoke more than she did, the sort of body a man liked. Precious was still trying to remember her name when Jabu’s voice rolled through the gloom.
‘She is here.’
Confused, Precious glanced quickly behind her. ‘You mean Karabo? But she’s not a woman, she is my daughter.’
‘I have answered your question,’ Jabu said firmly. A fly whisk appeared in his hand and he began to beat himself gently about the shoulders with it.
Precious thought the firmness of his tone was ironic for Jabu had never been able to answer any questions at school.
‘No, you are mistaken. Karabo is not to blame,’ Precious said anxiously. ‘She is only a child.’
‘There are no children in this house,’ Jabu said and a chill ran down Precious’s back. Then he dipped his hand in the cup and flicked his fingers at her again. The water tasted like it had been drawn from a dark and ancient well and this time Precious wiped her face with the back of her hand.
She had been hoping Jabu would tell her something else. That it was indeed Dorothy Mpetla or Eunice Matabela who was the cause of her troubles. Or the Venda girl with the long slim legs whose name she couldn’t remember. She’d rather it was one of them instead of Karabo. It would have been much easier that way. She felt angry and bewildered and ashamed, all at the same time. She couldn’t bear to think of what Jabu had just said, for how does a mother denounce her own daughter?
Then Jabu lit a small candle and she was grateful for that because the room had