Yellowbone

Mthatha

CHAPTER 1

The minute you saw Karabo’s father, Kojo Bentil, you knew at once he was a school teacher. He wore short-sleeved shirts with a raft of pens in his top pocket and had a patient, slightly repetitive way of speaking. He had arrived in South Africa from Ghana in 1989, eleven years before Karabo was born.

Everyone called him Teacher, even Karabo’s mother, Precious. As a child, Karabo marvelled that, with so many teachers in Mthatha, her father was special enough to have appropriated that particular name for himself. He was a permanent fixture in the Grade Twelve classroom at Mathanzima High School in Mthatha. The children used to joke that if Teacher took his shirt off, there’d be a stock-keeping number stencilled in black ink across his back. That Teacher might be absent from class for one day would have been more surprising to them than if they were to find their desks spray-painted in the ANC yellow, green and black.

Teacher taught mathematics and he practised it wherever he could. At the supermarket he’d calculate the bill in his head long before the last item had been scanned. Then, with a bashful smile, he’d hand over the exact amount in notes and coins to cries of amazement from checkout girls and shoppers alike.

‘Teacher! Teacher!’

It didn’t matter whether the Bentil family basket contained only one loaf of bread and a tin of floor polish, or if they had filled an entire trolley with groceries, an event that didn’t happen very often. Teacher was just as proficient with his sums, regardless of how many items they’d bought. People would follow Teacher around in the supermarket, creeping and chattering behind him in soft, animated voices, eager to see his prowess in mathematics for themselves.

Karabo’s mother, though, was much less inclined to applaud. She muttered darkly about Teacher showing off or, worse, she accused him of showing her up. She had stayed at home after Karabo’s birth and had only gone back to work when her daughter was much older and could look after herself. She said it was their fault, Karabo and Teacher’s, that she couldn’t do sums in her head.

Teacher would tell Karabo stories at night, smiling happily when her eyes grew wide with wonder. Once he’d told Karabo how his father’s tribe in what was then the Gold Coast, collaborated with the Europeans to sell his mother’s people into slavery.

‘What is it?’ Teacher asked when he saw Karabo frown.

‘Nothing,’ she said. But the thought troubled her for several days after that. She simply could not imagine Paa Kofi, her Ghanaian grandfather, whipping her grandmother across the face before dragging her off in chains to be sold. It was more likely to be the other way around.

Karabo had never been to Ghana but her grandparents had travelled to South Africa to visit on exactly three occasions. Karabo remembered each visit distinctly because each time her grandparents came, Teacher spoke less than before. It was as if the dial that controlled his speech had been turned deliberately counter-clockwise until it couldn’t go any further. And after they left, Teacher’s reticence would intensify until he only spoke in monosyllables, if he spoke at all. This would last anything from a few days to a couple of weeks. But there was another reason Karabo remembered her grandparents’ visits so clearly. For whenever Paa Kofi and Ma’ama came to visit, they seemed to talk incessantly about her.

The day of her grandparents’ first visit to South Africa, Karabo was playing outside when she saw Teacher’s faded blue BMW crawling towards their house. She ran excitedly behind it as it pulled into the yard. It came to an untidy stop with a loud clanking of gears as Teacher wrestled it to a standstill. Earlier that day Teacher had washed the car more thoroughly than usual and checked the oil and the tyres. But not much could be done to improve the loudly protesting engine that was only capable of propelling the vehicle at about twenty-five kilometres per hour. On family outings Karabo and her parents would drive around Mthatha at a dignified pace, overtaking donkey carts with the greatest difficulty. Not only could the car not go very fast, it couldn’t go very far either. Not unless Teacher opened the bonnet and coaxed a few extra kilometres out of it with the help of a screwdriver and a muttered prayer.

At least Teacher had made it home with his parents that day and as he drove in, he revved the engine for Karabo’s benefit because he knew she liked it when he did that. Then suddenly, everything went quiet. There was no sound at all, save for the clink of overheated metal and the Cape buntings calling out to each other in the trees. Then the passenger door creaked opened and a dark hand swathed in brightly patterned cloth gripped the window’s edge. Karabo’s grandmother emerged from the car, slowly, like a moth from its cocoon. Karabo was already sidling away when Ma’ama’s darting eyes came to rest on her face. She must have seen pictures of Karabo before but a look of astonishment flashed across the old woman’s features. It was as if she’d walked into her bathroom and found a stray dog perched on her toilet seat.

By then Teacher was out of the car.

‘Karabo,’ he said. ‘Come and greet your grandmother.’

Ma’ama recovered beautifully. She fussed over her outfit for several moments before bending down at the knees to peer at Karabo more closely. Ma’ama’s blouse, the heavy pleated skirt and the wrapper she wore on her head were all cut from the same decorated cloth and the ensemble made for a spectacularly colourful display. Karabo tried unsuccessfully to hide the mud stains on her shorts and T-shirt while stealing glances at her grandmother. To her, Ma’ama was an exotic bird that had lost its way and somehow wandered into their house.

In the two weeks thereafter, Ma’ama’s eyes followed Karabo constantly around the house and even into the yard. Karabo would be seated at the kitchen table, colouring in her picture book, only to look up and catch Ma’ama staring at her. Her gaze was at once hostile and contemplative, as if there was some vexing question playing on her mind.

On their first meeting Paa Kofi brushed past Ma’ama and lifted Karabo above his head. She looked down from a great height into Paa Kofi’s smiling eyes. His beard was square cut and flecked with grey and it took very little for peals of rumbling laughter to spill over his lips. He had none of Ma’ama’s birdlike fragility or Teacher’s stuttering restraint. He was large and bustling and spoke in loud torrents. To Karabo’s surprise, he was even darker than Teacher. Paa Kofi’s skin was so black he looked as if he had dusted himself in charcoal.

One night, when Karabo had gone to bed, she overheard Paa Kofi speaking to her father. ‘Kojo,’ he began. Karabo was supposed to be asleep but of course she wasn’t. It sounded like her father had done something wrong because Paa Kofi’s voice was unusually stern.

‘Karabo is almost seven,’ he said.

‘She’ll be eight in July,’ Teacher replied.

Karabo contorted on her bed in glee. She’d already pointed out the bicycle she wanted for her birthday. It was midnight blue with silver stars sprinkled across the frame. The best part about it was the tassels attached to the handlebars. When Karabo closed her eyes, she could see them streaming out on either side of her as she pedalled as fast as she could. As far as she was concerned, the seventh of July couldn’t come quickly enough.

Paa Kofi coughed several times. ‘She should have changed by now,’ he said.

‘Changed?’ Teacher asked. ‘What do you mean changed?’

But Karabo knew at once what Paa Kofi meant. She’d heard the older girls whispering about this at school. Umlaza. The blood. When it happened, a girl wasn’t allowed to eat eggs or tripe. She was forbidden to stand in doorways or enter a cattle kraal in case the animals all miscarried. And as for giving a man water to drink, that was a punishable offence. Yes, umlaza turned a girl into a poisonous, infectious being. Karabo frowned. Why would Paa Kofi, of all people, be in a hurry for that to happen to her?

‘You know what your father is talking about.’ This was Ma’ama now and her voice was as clear as if she were standing over Karabo’s bed. Karabo’s mother was still at choir practice and it was just the four of them in the house.

‘Babies are supposed to turn darker after a few months,’ she said. ‘But with Karabo it’s been the opposite.’

‘But Precious is not very dark either,’ Teacher said, only for Ma’ama to shriek at him in exasperation.

‘Kojo!’ she cried. ‘Karabo is lighter than a mulatto. In fact she is practically white!’

Karabo didn’t know what a mulatto was but it didn’t sound very pleasant. She turned on the bedside lamp and splayed her fingers in front of her face. How dark was she supposed to be? As dark as Teacher and Paa Kofi? Or like uMakhulu, her other grandmother? uMakhulu’s skin used to be the colour of the sweets she made from melted sugar. They came out in shades of swirling caramel that matched the colour of uMakhulu’s eyes. uTatomkhulu, her South African grandfather, even used to say uMakhulu had the eyes of an angel. But that was before Karabo’s aunt Thembeka went mad. After that, uMakhulu’s eyes turned dark and cloudy with grief. She didn’t make Karabo sweets anymore.

All this was very confusing for Karabo. Her mother always scolded her when she played outside in the dirt. She’d plant her hands on her hips and ask Karabo in a mocking tone if she wanted to be black like her. That was how her mother described herself even though she wasn’t really black at all. When Karabo drew her mother in her colouring book she always used the brown and yellow crayons. The black crayons were reserved especially for Teacher.

Karabo was her mother’s intombazana emhlophe. Her little white girl. She always said it with fondness but it didn’t make Karabo feel any better or, come to think of it, any worse. She wasn’t the only girl in school who wasn’t as dark as the others. Tracey and Joelene Jacobs were just as light skinned as her but they were Coloured and it wasn’t their fault.

At school, curly brackets were often drawn around Karabo to include her with the Coloured children. She didn’t really mind because the Jacobs sisters were fun to be with. But in Karabo’s head she was black and not Coloured. Sometimes, for the hell of it, she argued with the teachers until they threw up their hands in exasperation and reported her to Mr Jali, the headmaster. Mr Jali would sigh heavily and call her yinkathazo, the trouble maker, the moment Karabo stepped into his office.

‘But Karabo …’ Teacher began to say but Ma’ama cut him off.

Karabo imagined Ma’ama holding up an imperious hand, like the pointsmen at the intersection when the traffic lights don’t work. She called them traffic lights instead of robots because Teacher insisted that was the correct name.

‘The white man who came to the house the other day when you were at school,’ Ma’ama said. ‘Who was he? That old man in khaki shorts.’

‘That would be Bill Harrison,’ Teacher replied. ‘He lives just down the road.’

‘He was surprised to see us.’

‘Many things surprise Bill these days. That’s why he’s emigrating.’

Karabo could imagine Ma’ama tossing one end of her wrap over her shoulder right then.

‘A man shouldn’t go to another man’s house when the other man is not there,’ she retorted. ‘I’m just saying.’

Then Paa Kofi’s voice floated calmly through the night.

‘Kojo,’ he said gently. ‘Kojo. I know this must be difficult for you. After all, Precious is your wife. No man wants to believe …’

He lowered his voice and Karabo couldn’t make out the rest of what he said. It was long past her bedtime and she was falling in and out of sleep. Her grandmother’s was the last voice she heard and her words were sharp with irritation.

‘There are tests, Kojo! You can settle this thing once and for all.’

CHAPTER 2

Even when Teacher was asleep he had this look of mild astonishment on his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he was dreaming. Precious touched his nose and watched it twitch. Then she pressed one nostril shut until Teacher’s breathing became shallow and rapid. He woke up with a start.

She spoke quickly before Teacher could gather his thoughts. ‘How long are your parents staying?’

Teacher rubbed his eyes and groaned. ‘My parents? You know they can stay as long as they want.’

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘How long, Teacher? Two weeks? A month?’ It was too early in the morning to raise her voice but she raised it all the same.

He looked at her in astonishment. ‘What’s the matter, Precious?’

It was as if he didn’t live in the same house as she and Karabo. Their house was in proportion to a high school teacher’s salary and with Teacher’s parents in the house, they were practically living on top of each other. Precious snorted in frustration. How could he be so blind?

‘Your mother.’

It sounded like an insult but she didn’t mean it that way.

‘She doesn’t like me,’ she added.

Teacher smiled at her with that easy, broad-lipped smile that had made her fall in love with him in the first place.

‘She’s your mother-in-law,’ he said gently. ‘She’s not supposed to like you.’

‘I’m serious, Kojo. She doesn’t like Karabo either.’

Now this got Teacher’s attention and Precious felt a sudden stab of jealousy. Teacher propped himself up on one elbow and waited for her to continue, but she resisted the urge and stared blankly at him instead.

‘Did she hit her?’ he asked. There was a tremor in his voice.

Precious rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘And what would you have done if she had?’

Teacher’s lips tightened because they both knew he wouldn’t have done anything. Ma’ama was his mother, after all, and he was the dutiful son.

‘They’ll be gone in two weeks,’ Teacher said through clenched teeth. That made Precious feel bad because it was as if she was chasing his parents away. Her parents were right here in Mthatha but Teacher only saw his very rarely. She cupped his face in her hand and could feel the tightness in his jaw.

‘Paa Kofi can stay if he wants.’

She was trying to make light of the matter but Teacher could be just like the old BMW parked outside their bedroom window. When he got stuck on something, it was very difficult to get him going again.

Precious stroked his arm, thinking that might soothe away his anger. The slightest thing set Teacher off these days and she already regretted saying anything at all.

‘Your parents are next door,’ she said in a low voice. ‘We can talk properly after they are gone.’

To look at Teacher, one wouldn’t think he ever lost his temper. Not with his glasses slipping off his nose and his mild stutter. But sometimes he could get as angry as those young men in the ANC, the ones who began every sentence with ‘Amandla!’ and a clenched fist.

Precious stroked Teacher’s arm with greater urgency. ‘Karabo is sleeping. You’ll frighten her if you shout.’

That was Teacher’s magic word. Karabo. At the mere mention of her name, the sun came out in Teacher’s world and did not go down again. He made love to Precious that morning with a savagery that was most unlike a mild-mannered mathematics teacher. It felt as if he needed to punish Precious for something and as she clung to him, she realised she wanted the very same thing.

Something had changed between them since those early days when they first fell in love. As Teacher went back to sleep, Precious was still wide awake and as she looked at her husband, she remembered when she had first seen him.

Precious and her sister Thembeka were with their father that day in 1989 when the bus carrying the Ghanaians pulled into the Mthatha bus station. In those years many Ghanaian teachers and doctors emigrated to the then Transkei and the Mtakwendas had come to see the new arrivals for themselves. Their mother, however, had stayed at home. A Tswana woman, uMama was still not accustomed to how people in the Transkei stared at her. ‘It is as if they have never seen a light-skinned person before,’ she would complain. uTata would scold her and say she was imagining things. ‘Are we not all South African?’ he would growl through lips charred black by tobacco. But Precious, also fair skinned, knew their mother was right. People looked at her strangely too.

The Ghanaians spilled out of the bus with their ties still knotted and their jackets smartly buttoned. They looked as though they had boarded the bus less than an hour ago and not far away in Johannesburg. Among them was a man who stood out not only because he was the tallest and exceptionally dark, but because he looked like someone used to giving instructions. The men spoke a strange language with gentle, fluttering phrases that seemed to teeter on a ledge of melodious enquiry.

Precious, always the bolder of the two sisters, let go of Thembeka’s hand and began inching towards the group. She was halfway across the road when uTata came running up behind her and seized her by the scruff of the neck. He shook her hard and said gruffly, ‘These men are not from here.’

As uTata shepherded Precious and Thembeka away, the tall dark one called out in English and what he said were the first words Precious ever heard Teacher speak.

‘Where is our school?’

Those words made a deep and lasting impression on her. He hadn’t asked ‘Where is our guesthouse?’ or ‘Where can we find something to eat?’, but rather, ‘Where is our school?’ Later she would say that was Kojo through and through. No wonder they called him Teacher.

As Kojo’s reputation as a teacher grew, Precious’s excitement at one day being in his class grew in proportion. After all, she’d seen him first. She’d often watch Teacher from a distance as he strode purposefully through the Mathanzima High School grounds but she didn’t speak to him until she entered Standard Ten. He asked Precious her name on the very first day and she was so overcome that all she could manage was a stuttered response that had the entire class banging their desks with laughter. Teacher asked her again and this time she took a deep breath, smoothed the front of her dress, and said in her clearest voice, ‘Precious Mtakwenda’.

Teacher wasn’t married when he arrived in Transkei. Unlike most African men who came to South Africa, he didn’t have a wife or small children squirelled away in his home country, conveniently out of sight. Anyway, he was too absorbed by his teaching to have much time for women and that made the girls in Standard Ten even more determined to sleep with him. Teacher’s classes became a polite sort of scrum where the girls pretended not to understand the most basic formulae so Teacher would come over to their desks and help them. They even failed their tests deliberately so they would have to stay behind for detention. But soon there were so many girls in detention it was impossible for any of them to have a private moment with Teacher. So they abandoned that ruse and, much to Teacher’s delight, the average class mark went up again.

But unlike the other girls, Precious was genuinely atrocious at maths. It puzzled her that she should struggle so much with the subject when she tried so hard to be good at it. There were many at Mathanzima High School who equated light skin with ignorance and, conscious of this, Precious worked twice as hard to prove them wrong. She often envied Thembeka, her younger sister. With her dark skin, Thembeka took after uTata’s side of the family, and did not have to deal with the litany of bias and innuendo levelled at Precious. But despite all her frantic studying, it was not long before Precious was routinely the only one in detention.

Teacher listened carefully to Precious Mtakwenda’s shaky and hesitant logic and did his best to nudge her gently back to reason. He wrote out sums on the blackboard and explained the steps to her with such care that she marvelled at his patience while feeling ashamed by her inability to grasp the concepts. Teacher even wrote to a white school in Bloemfontein and asked them for a copy of their Standard Ten maths textbook in the hope that Precious might understand that better than the scant resources they had at Mathanzima High School. It was clear that getting Precious to understand differential equations and algebra was a personal challenge for Teacher. Sometimes he grew frustrated with her and spoke to her sharply but that only made the right answers flee in disarray from her head.

Precious tried pretending that she understood and nodded her head in what she hoped were all the right places, but of course Teacher caught her out. Her deception grieved him much more than her inability to do her sums. They were both exhausted by then and in time began talking about other things – mostly about him. Precious was curious to know about Teacher’s parents and what it had been like growing up in Ghana. But Teacher could be very shy and Precious had to coax the stories out of him. In those moments their roles oddly reversed, with Precious as the patient instructor, and Teacher the reticent pupil.

Precious’s family had been opposed to the marriage from the beginning. She did not understand why. After all, wasn’t Teacher highly respected? Didn’t he have a good job? When she asked uTata why this was, he’d stood up abruptly from his chair and went outside, muttering something about her taking the family backwards.

‘We all know Teacher is a good man,’ her mother had said at last. ‘And I am very fond of him.’ She took her daughter’s hands in hers and held them tight. ‘But he is so dark.’ She spoke in a whisper as if she did not want to be overheard. ‘Think of the problems you and he will face. The disadvantages.’

‘What disadvantages?’ Precious had asked.

But her mother had just sighed and said nothing more.

Following her restless night, Precious got to the kitchen and found Ma’ama already there. Her wax prints were as elegant as ever and a string of hand-painted beads hung from her neck. A look passed between Precious and Karabo. Ma’ama seemed to wear a different outfit every day.

At breakfast Precious did her best to play the part of the good wife. She looked down at her plate and said as little as possible, but both Ma’ama and she knew it was only an act.

‘I hope you slept well?’ Precious asked.

Ma’ama looked at her daughter-in-law with a mixture of regret and scorn. ‘How could I sleep? I was disturbed by some noises.’

The five of them were huddled around the small table, co-conspirators around a pot of porridge. Teacher and Paa Kofi kept their eyes averted. Only Karabo spoke up.

‘What noises, Ma? I didn’t hear anything.’

‘There were no noises,’ Precious said quickly. ‘Your grandmother must be mistaken.’

A small smile tugged at Paa Kofi’s lips.

‘At least we were not cold,’ he said.

Winter had not yet arrived but it had already sent its messengers to warn of its coming. Precious had had to light the cast-iron stove a month early because of Teacher’s parents. They were not used to the cold at all. They wrapped themselves up so tightly when they went outside it was as if Mthatha were caught in the depths of an Arctic blizzard. Teacher rarely helped to clean the stove but he was very proud to have it in the house. There was something about the way it banished the cold so completely that gave him a deep sense of achievement. It was as if in some small way he had wrestled against the elements and won.

Ma’ama didn’t allow Paa Kofi to serve himself. She fussed over him as if they had just met and she still needed to impress him. She filled his bowl to the brim with porridge but took hardly any for herself. When Precious followed her lead and served Teacher in the same way, he glanced up at her in surprise.

‘Ma’ama,’ Precious said when she had sat down again, ‘is there something wrong?’

Ma’ama’s spoon was suspended in the air and she was turning it slowly in front of her nose.

‘Hmm.’ She sniffed in a way that left no doubt as to her meaning. ‘Hmm.’

Precious grimaced behind her serviette. That would be another black mark against her name. She’d been in such a hurry this morning that she’d forgotten to lay out a matching set of cutlery for her mother-in-law. Ma’ama took mismatched cutlery as a sign of moral deficiency.

She knew Ma’ama blamed her for keeping Teacher in Mthatha. If it wasn’t for Precious, Teacher could have done much better for himself. He could be in Johannesburg or Cape Town, teaching in a proper school with black children who spoke like white children and with good food in the canteen.

He’d applied once for a teaching position in a school in Bloemfontein, the same one he’d written to some years before asking for a mathematics textbook for Precious. She’d thought him crazy to think he could get a job in Bloemfontein of all places, even if he did have a relationship of sorts with Gerhard, one of the teachers over there. But Teacher insisted he stood as good a chance as anybody else. After all and with the 1994 elections behind them, weren’t all the white establishments at pains to demonstrate that they were on the right side of history?

When three weeks later the letter arrived in the post, Teacher was left disappointed and angry. He called Gerhard for an explanation, only to be told they’d given the job to a Coloured man. Teacher remembered the man well. He’d met him in the waiting room and, as job applicants do, the two had struck up a conversation. It surprised Teacher that for a man who professed to be a mathematics teacher, this applicant had no idea who the great mathematicians, such as Descartes, Pascal and Nash, were. Teacher could have forgiven that. They were there to interview for a teaching job in mathematics, not history. But when he discovered the Coloured man didn’t even know what a Fibonacci number was, Teacher had been quietly confident he would get the job.

‘We were looking for a teacher the students could relate to,’ Gerhard said over the phone. ‘I hope you understand, Mr Bentil.’

‘You mean I’m too black,’ Teacher said, while Precious kneaded the knots in his neck. And Gerhard promptly hung up.

Secretly, Precious had been pleased for she had no desire to leave Mthatha. If she were honest, the thought frightened her a little. She still remembered what uTata had said to her the first day she’d seen Teacher all those years ago. Teacher wasn’t from here, he’d said. But she was.

CHAPTER 3

André Potgieter kept mostly to the modest house he shared with his mother in a quiet residential suburb of Mthatha. It had a lush green lawn in the front and piles of building rubble at the back. Even though the Potgieters had arrived in Mthatha two years ago, they still only offered the briefest of greetings to the other white people they met in the street or in the shops before hurrying away. André would have preferred things to remain that way, for he was reclusive by nature and was happiest when he played the violin. But his mother, Marietjie, was adamant that he had to do something to earn an income. And so, reluctantly, André began to give lessons.

‘Come now,’ his mother said one morning, rapping her knuckles sharply on the kitchen table to rouse André from his apathy. He had hardly touched his breakfast. ‘You have Mrs Harrison today.’

André pushed his chair back from the table. The strips of toast lay undisturbed on his plate in the same regimented order as his mother had cut them.

‘I don’t know why the woman bothers with lessons,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible for anyone to learn the violin properly at her age.’

Marietjie interrupted him with a raised finger. ‘Mrs Harrison pays us good money. Or would you rather we went back to Bloemfontein?’

‘Money isn’t everything, Ma.’

His mother sighed theatrically and folded the dishcloth in her hand. She placed it on the table in a neat square and patted it once before she spoke. ‘The only people who can afford to say that money isn’t everything are people who have money already. People like Mrs Harrison.’

‘Claire.’

‘Mrs Harrison,’ his mother repeated, emphasising the title. ‘So what if she is as tone deaf as your pa?’

At the mention of his father André felt the rush of blood in his head and for a moment his face contorted into a leer. ‘You know that’s not why I play,’ he said, conscious of the hint of petulance that crept into his voice. ‘I teach only because I don’t want to go back to Bloemfontein. But I don’t want to stay here either. If I do, I’ll go mad. Like that black woman in the next valley.’

Quickly, Marietjie made the sign of the cross. ‘Where will you go then?’

‘I don’t know. To London maybe. They’ve got very good music schools over there.’

On hearing this his mother’s pale skin lost the little colour it had.

‘To London?’

André shrugged as if to indicate he was not particularly fixed on England but the set of his jaw must have given him away.

‘You surprise me, André,’ his mother said in an unnaturally loud voice. ‘I thought we’d talked about this already. You know what the English are like. Your pa …’

‘Stop it, Ma! Just stop it!’

André looked down at his feet, embarrassed by his sudden outburst. His feet were large and splayed out on either side and looked out of place compared to his mother’s trim proportions. He rubbed his hand over the fuzz of hair that grew down the sides of his face and over his chin. ‘I’m not fighting the Anglo-Boer War with you, Ma,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. That’s just ridiculous.’

Marietjie’s lips tightened. ‘Ridiculous, André? Is it really?’

‘Yes, it is, Ma. You hate Pa because he was …. because