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      JENNIFER FRIEDMAN

      Queen

      of the

      Free State

      Tafelberg

      Ken jy die pad na die hemel toe?

      Hoe kom ek daar

      en met watter draaie moet ek ry?

      (From Heimwee, Jennifer Friedman, Standpunte No. 153)

      Tell Me a Story

      ‘Tell me a story, Ma.’

      ‘A story? Come here …’

      Ma’s sitting in the lounge on the big rocking chair. The sun is pooling on the polished floor and the air is sweet with the smell of orange peels heaped on the coffee table beside her. Ma leans forward, takes my hands and pats the small space beside her.

      ‘Squeeze in here next to me. I’ll tell you your very own story, shall I?’

      Her hands smell of oranges. I wriggle my bottom between her hip and the soft green corduroy armrest. My three-year-old legs are straight on the seat in front of me, my hands on my knees.

      Ma pulls me up close. Her mouth is against my hair. I can feel the faint warmth of her breath as she briefly rests her lips on my head. I lean the side of my face against her and rub my cheek against the scratchy wool of her jersey. I can only see the side of her face. I turn, perch on my knees. The toes of my red shoes kick against the armrest behind me. I rest my head in the palms of my hands and look up into her face. She looks down at me, smiling and tender as she tries to smooth the cowlick in my fringe. She puts her hand on my feet.

      ‘Don’t kick the chair, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘It’ll get dirty … Well,’ she begins, ‘once upon a time in a magical place called the Free State, in the Union of South Africa …’ She pats my arm.

      ‘I know that, Ma!’ I shout. The red ribbons around my pigtails swing down to my chin.

      ‘The best place in the world!’ she continues. ‘Well, on a special day – it was a windy day in autumn – a big white stork flew in through the open window of a room where I was waiting for you. It dropped you off right into my arms. Pa and I had been waiting for you for a very long time and we were so happy to see you, especially because you arrived on Our Queen’s birthday.’

      Ma’s smile is tight with pride. Ma loves Our Queen.

      ‘I was so proud my daughter and Her Majesty shared the same birthday,’ she says. ‘I also share something special with Her Highness – look.’ She pats her hair, her fingers shaping the two kiss-curls framing her forehead. Ma likes to wear silk scarves like Our Queen; she pins them to her jerseys with the gold and rose quartz brooch Pa gave her when I was born. Pa gave it to her because he was so happy. Ma’s devoted to Her Majesty, committed to all things royal. That’s why I’ve got the same name – Anne – as Our Queen’s little princess. Jennifer-Anne. That’s my whole name.

      Ma’s wearing my favourite tweed skirt, the one with lots of coloured knobbles and bumps and flecks. Ma says Our Queen loves tweed. I rub a fold of her skirt between my fingers. Look deep into the colours. I can see the hills on Grandpa’s farm and blue specks of fountain. Behind the little flecks, willow-green, golden-orange and the hills’ rusty red shift into focus.

      ‘Your skirt looks just like the veld on Grandpa’s farm, Ma!’

      ‘Does it? You’re a funny little girl. More?’

      ‘Yes please, Ma!’

      ‘Pa came to fetch us in the Studebaker and took us home …’ Ma smiles. Her fingers are stroking my back.

      ‘Was Marta waiting for me at home, Ma? And Sandy-my-dog and Isak?’

      Ma opens her eyes wide. ‘Of course they were, sweetheart – they couldn’t wait for you to arrive.’

      Sandy and Willie-Venter, who lives in the sideboard in our dining room, are my best friends. Only Sandy and I can see Willie-Venter. Isak’s my friend too. He works in our garden and he can fix anything. He rolls brown-paper cigarettes and smokes them until they’re flat. Then he throws the soggy ends into Ma’s flowerbeds. I picked one up once and tried to smoke it, but it made me cough. I know Isak’s my friend because he doesn’t mind if I talk to him when he’s working. He told Ma he planted all the flowers in the garden just for me, to welcome me home.

      I look down at Sandy lying against the side of the chair. His ears are pricked up, his sleepy eyes half-open. He doesn’t move his head, just swivels his eyes around until they meet mine. I lean down to stroke the smooth dome of his head.

      ‘You’re my best friend, Sandy-my-dog.’

      His stubby tail beats his love for me against the floor.

      Marta’s Gift from God

      Marta does our housework, the washing and ironing.

      ‘When you were a little-little baby, M’Pho, I used to pick you up and hold you here …’ She pats her shoulder. ‘Then I would hug you hard, like so!’ She folds me in her arms and holds me close.

      ‘And then, Marta?’

      ‘Then I would wrap you tight-tight against my back in my brown-and-yellow blanket …’

      Marta would sing and murmur to me on her back, whisper and hum; reach her hand up to pat and comfort me. She held me tightly and stroked my skin.

      She never kissed me.

      Her voice is tender and bitter.

      ‘You are my gift from God, M’Pho.’

      When I close my eyes, I can still feel the vibrations of her hummed hymns beating through my chest, echoing like a second heartbeat. Like her lullabies, the smell of her smoky neck under her headscarf is coiled inside me forever. She is part of Ma’s story of Me.

      My Sotho name is ‘M’Pho’. It means ‘Gift from God’. Marta and Isak gave me my name when I was born. Marta says now Ma’s and Pa’s names are ‘Ma’M’Pho’ and ‘Pa’M’Pho’ forever.

      Marta lives in Phomolong location. She says that means ‘Vergenoeg’.

      ‘Far enough from where, Marta?’ I ask.

      ‘Far enough from town, M’Pho, from this house. The policemen told us we have to live in Phomolong, far away from our work …’

      Every day, Marta’s small feet – feet that have never been on intimate terms with the comfort of shoes – are marbled grey with dust from the long, dry road leading from the township to our house. Under the pale sun in the smoky winter mornings, she is a sad and tender chrysalis enveloped in the cocoon of her Basotho blanket, invisible amid the yawning masses slowly trudging along the long road to start their day’s work.

      In summer, she arrives at our back door shining with sweat. Leaning against the flyscreen, she sighs, wipes her hand across her face.

      ‘We have to walk ten miles to work before the sun comes up, M’Pho. Ten miles back again in the dark night to our houses in Phomolong.’ She sighs. ‘It is too far. That is why it’s called “Vergenoeg”.’

      ‘Oh, Marta!’ I take her hand. ‘Oh, Marta, you must be so tired …’

      Marta teaches me to greet the people I meet along the dusty roads.

      ‘Dumela ntate,’ I say politely. ‘Dumela ousie.’

      ‘Dumela mosadi,’ they reply.

      They lift their hands in greeting; I lift mine in return. We smile at one another.

      Everyone speaks Afrikaans in the Free State. Marta scolds me, tells me stories in Afrikaans about the evil tokoloshe that creeps out under unprotected beds at night. She tells Ma to raise my bed on bricks so that the tokoloshe won’t find and catch me in the dark hours before dawn. Ma says, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Marta. You’re scaring the child.’

      Marta

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