The Madonna of Excelsior by Zakes Mda Read Free Book Online Page A

member of the committee that organised the cherry festival—The Jaycee Cherry Festival Committee—even though he hailed from Excelsior, which did not grow any cherries. Some Ficksburg residents complained about this. Those who wanted to hog the festival and keep it to their district. But His Worship, the Mayor of Ficksburg, told them that people like de Vries worked very hard to make the festival—only in its second year—possible. His legal services had been indispensable. In any case, when the Jaycees had decided to organise a festival around a product unique to this part of South Africa, the intention was to bring to the attention of visitors the charms of the entire region, not just of Ficksburg.
    The rest of the Excelsior men were in safari suits. And in a party mood. They had left their wives at home to take care of business. Those who had wives, that is.
    The wifeless Johannes Smit was there in all his bulk, squeezed into a brown safari suit, fawn stockings and brown veldskoene. In addition to partying, he had come to sell his cherry liqueur. He was proud of this product. It had taken him many months of patience to achieve its fine quality. First he had acquired Black Big-gareau cherries from the neighbouring district of Clocolan. He had pricked each one of them with a darning needle. Then he had dissolved sugar in brandy and poured it over the fruit in a woodenbarrel. He had stored it in a dark room in his farmhouse. After three months he had strained the concoction, put it into bottles and corked them tightly. He had then stored the bottles for another three months. Six months of tender loving care.
    Now he had a stall at the Hennie de Wet Park where he sold his Excelsior Fine Cherry Liqueur. Another cause for snide remarks from the chauvinists of Ficksburg. How could Excelsior have a cherry liqueur when they did not grow any cherries? Shouldn’t they be talking of a sunflower liqueur instead—if there could ever be such a thing?
    Johannes Smit couldn’t be bothered. Envy, that’s all it was. They couldn’t make as fine a cherry liqueur as his, so they opted for rubbishing him and his district, he concluded.
    He sat at a vantage place where he could see all the parades go by. Next to his stall was one that sold biltong. This was Stephanus Cronje’s biltong, also made with tender loving care at his Excelsior Slaghuis. Unlike the hands-on Johannes Smit, Stephanus Cronje did not man the stall himself. While he went from stall to stall sampling the pleasures of the festival in the form of cherry crumble, cherry pudding, koeksusters, braaiwors and brandy—with the likes of off-duty Sergeant Klein-Jan Lombard, Groot-Jan Lombard and the Reverend François Bornman—Niki looked after the stall. Niki in her pink overall and grass conical Basotho hat to protect her from the November sun.
    She sat at a wooden table on which a variety of biltong and dry wors was displayed. Under a big red garden umbrella. Johannes Smit sat at a wooden table on which cherry liqueur bottles were displayed. Under a big blue and white garden umbrella. Each pretending the other one did not exist. Each fussing over customers who wanted to taste the potent liqueur or to chew the spiced biltong.
    Not many people were buying at that moment. Everyone was more interested in the procession of floats led by the colourful team of donkey and boy. It was followed by a tractor pulling a trailer with bales of hay, on which a number of Afrikaner childrensat singing Afrikaans songs. The next float was also pulled by a tractor. It comprised a big red polythene cherry in a polythene bowl with all the colours of the rainbow in their proper order. All eyes were fixed on this float. On top of the cherry sat the Cherry Queen and her two princesses. The Cherry Queen was a twenty-one-year-old sashed blonde, chosen the previous night at the Andrew Marquard Hall by the mayors of Ficksburg and the surrounding cherry towns of