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

Clocolan and Fouriesburg. The Cherry Queen was smiling and waving to her subjects. She was followed by a procession of polychromatic floats on tractor-trailers and lorries, like shapeless cakes in a confectionery. These were sponsored by local firms and cultural bodies, and sported the names of the sponsors prominently.
    Johannes Smit had been at the Andrew Marquard Hall when the Administrator of the Orange Free State had crowned the Cherry Queen the previous night. He had been one of the boisterous whistlers rooting for her amid stiff competition from the beautiful Afrikaner girls of the region. The mayors had a good eye for beauty, choosing her from a bevy of twenty. He had been one of those who applauded loudly and wolf-whistled when the girl was handed her prize of vouchers for a two-week holiday trip to Durban and fifty rands pocket-money. Occasionally he had taken a swig from his flask of Klipdrift brandy. By the time Esme Euv-rard and her Spanish Troupe were entertaining the guests, he was already sloshed. He saw dimly that on the stage, radio personality Frans Jooste was compering. His head was spinning as people all around him laughed at Jooste’s jokes.
    Of course, Niki was seeing the Cherry Queen for the first time. She would not have been allowed into the Andrew Marquard Hall even if she had wanted to attend the pageant. The hall—named after the first principal of the volkskool—belonged only to the volk. And to those visitors whose bodies were blessed enough to have melanin levels that were as low as those of the volk.
    Niki had no desire to attend the events at the Andrew Marquard Hall. She was happy with the street parades. With the localhigh school band and smartly-uniformed drum majorettes that passed a few steps ahead of the donkey. With the Afrikaner school children in fancy dress and comic outfits. With the whole festive atmosphere. With the Gape Coon Carnival on the very first day of the festival on Thursday. That had been funny!
    She heard that it was the first time these banjo-strumming minstrels from Cape Town had performed in the Orange Free State. The satin-clad minstrels carried with pride the derogatory name they had inherited from American performers—Negroes, as they called them then—who had visited the Cape in the 1800s. The Cape Coons revelled in the coon image and cherished it. Their faces were painted black with exaggerated white lips. Or white with exaggerated black lips. They wore white panama hats and suits of shimmering red and white. Yellow and white. Purple and white. Matching umbrellas. They were strumming
Daar Kom die Alibama
—singing about the ship that their slave ancestors thought was coming to save them, only to witness it sink in the stormy seas.
    The antics of the Cape Coons had made her laugh so much that she had forgotten her concern for Viliki. She had left him with her friend, Mmampe, for the duration of the festival. She knew he would be safe, even though she had never before left him with neighbours for so many days. The entertainment had even enabled her to shelve her constant thoughts about Pule. Her deep longing for him. The emptiness that his long absence caused. The fact that even on those rare occasions when he came home, he was drifting more and more into the murky moods of her dead father. The control. The drinking. The jealousy. Niki should not be seen walking on the same side of the street as a man. But Pule had his beauty as well. He never stopped supporting his family.
    After the procession of floats had left the park for the streets, Johannes Smit—his head pounding from last night’s drums—turned to Niki. For the first time in the three days of the festival. “Give me a stick of biltong,” he said without looking at her. “How much is it?”
    Niki told him. He bought a stick.
    Silence again.
    Then out of the blue he asked, “Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
    â€œWhere I always