The Valentine Frenzy

Chapter 10

I returned to my base at Madiba's compound after what felt like the longest day in my life. His amiable wife, Mrs Madiba, welcomed me back with an unfamiliar but widely used greeting.

"Molo," she said and smiled.

"Molo to you too, madam." My accent sounded funny, and she knew that I wasn't comfortable with the language. Zulu was the one my ancestors identified with.

Receiving me at the entrance gate was rather flattering. Not sure if she did on her husband's instruction, I didn't want to chat with her for long. The huts in the neighbourhood had people gawking at us already.

Though the villagers had proved earlier that looking at me amused them, it wasn't clear if my unusual height kept them gaping or the odd scene of the new teacher having a chat with his landlord's wife.

Mrs Madiba was much younger than her husband. From my gages, she should be a few months away from forty. But she still had youthful vigour, and she bounced well in all the right places. Her parabolic features were even eye-catching.

She wore a low-neck blouse that left a good portion of her bust exposed. I quickly shut my imaginative instinct preferring to lower my gaze. I would have to learn to look at the floor more as long as I lived in this compound.

"Is Madiba around, ma'am?" I asked as objectively as I could.

Silence.

Without uttering a word, or even a frown to suggest her mood, she dashed into one of the huts. I had to bring to mind all that I'd said again to be sure she didn't feel insulted. I didn't think so.

"Maybe that's how married women relate with young men here. Greet, smile and walk away."

As I stepped into the room and began to undress, I heard a knock on the door. I quickly put on a shirt and peeped outside. The same woman – my landlord's wife – brought me pressing iron, a hotplate and kegs for storing water. She also placed a table at my doorstep, which would be suitable for reading or pressing clothes.

Surprised at her gestures, I thought a teacher once lived in my hut. I'd been thinking of travelling to town to buy those items.

She then beckoned on me to come out of the hut and led me towards the gate where she pointed at a running tap outside the compound. I understood that it was the place to do my laundries or fetch water for domestic use.

"Thank you so much, ma'am. I'm grateful."

She smiled again, and she did it well. The glee on her face sailed through the traditional markings that threatened to hide her good temper. I then reckoned that she wasn't cross as earlier assumed. She wanted to make my stay convenient.

I thanked her yet again, expecting her to respond. But she uttered some Xhosa words, clapped and then walked away. I would later find out that each time I tried to address her in English, she only smiled and spoke in Xhosa.

English wasn't one of the languages she understood, I thought. And the pride she showed in speaking her native languages, like many others around the village, was admirable.

I brought in the items offered me and lodged them in the room. Then I began to unpack my things within the available spaces. My shirts and trousers rested on the nails drilled into the walls; shoes took solace under the bed; Lotions, perfumes and the likes queued up on the portmanteau—the only platform that could hold stuff.

As I brought things out from my bags one after another, I saw a pack of condoms that I didn't recall putting there. Peeved, I sank into the bed with a hand under my chin. Words came out of my mouth mechanically.