Woman On Top

Cramped inside a minibus taxi with the sourness of perspiration and vile halitosis from a long day’s toil hanging about; Thandi and fifteen other commuters are homebound. Not that there is anything homely about that matchbox shack she shares with her two siblings and son but she can’t wait to get there anyway. She’s aching to kick off her shoes, unhook her bra, and throw herself atop the jalopy bed she restyled from recycled material.

Thandi sighs deeply when she thinks about the misery of overcrowding that’s affixed itself like a shadow to the African child’s destiny. They’ve gotten used to living and operating in confined spaces so much that they’ve learned to thrive in those spaces: prisons, townships, marketplaces, hospitals, schools, cemeteries, and public transport facilities. Like most working-class South Africans, Thandi leaves home in darkness and returns in darkness – the dawn-to-dusk gang.

The taxi driver swerves this way and that, skillfully maneuvering through the Jo’burg CBD traffic as frantic hooters, piercing whistles, loathsome blaspheme, vile cat calls, and desperate sale cries persist – sounding angrier or louder or desperate each day. The hustle and bustle of the city never cease. Growing up in rural Bergville, Thandi used to wonder why they referred to Johannesburg as the city of reverberating walls, until she also became a part of this place’s chaos. During Thandi Ntombela’s early days in the city of gold, she would feel like a bat trapped inside a beehive. She had to quickly adjust. The concrete jungle has no place for weaklings.

Among the three passengers she’s sharing the backseat with is a stout woman in her mid-50s who is clad in an all-black attire for the recently widowed who are still mourning their husband’s death. Poor woman, Thandi pities her. The hatred and disdain that the public subjects such women is shameful, to say the least – an unfathomably heartless treatment no different from rubbing salt on a scowling wound. A gaudily intoxicated pair of rowdy males make up the rest of the four passengers seated at the back of the taxi. Thandi occupies the seat by the window while the woman in black is seated between her and the drunken duo. One of the many unspoken rules of public transport etiquette is that oversized people shouldn’t occupy the backseat. One can tell by the looks received from the already-seated passengers if it’s okay for one to sit at the back or not. Also, society long decided that a widow in mourning garments should stay away from public spaces as her aura is believed to be contaminative and bound to bring bad luck to those around her. As if those around her are exempted from misfortunes such as death.

After lengthy uncomfortable stares from the inebriated fellow closest to her – stares that could make a stone flinch – the woman in black is wishing for a hole to open up and swallow her up already. Unable to contain himself any longer, the fellow bursts out forcefully.

‘A man can’t even breathe, what with this gogo suffocating us.’

His friend joins in the assassination with gusto.

‘Today couldn’t get any worse,’ he complains with exaggerated pain. ‘Surely bad luck is following me.’ He says, throwing furtive glances at the unfortunate woman.

Meanwhile, the taxi is moving at high speed, now on the highway, headed straight for the township. The other passengers are surprisingly quiet and pretend to be preoccupied while they secretly follow the developments at the back. Thandi observes that the driver seems to be uncomfortable with the brewing backseat drama as he occasionally glances at his rearview mirror to monitor the proceedings with a worried frown. He must be new in these streets, she concludes after intuiting some sense of morality about him. He is a ‘Jimmy comes to Jozi’ as the city klevas often refer to newcomers from the rurals. In an attempt to discourage the slanderous attack on the widow, the driver switches on his stereo – full blast. A discussion on the radio about the ‘woman-on-top’ sex position is evidently at its peak as listeners are calling in excitedly to voice their opinions. This stirs the passengers’ interest and they become lively again as the tension eases up. A caller who comes across as a staunch traditionalist provokes the passengers’ attention the most. His uncut accent suggests that he is from the deep Eastern Cape.

‘Molo msasazi,’ he salutes the radio host before proceeding.

‘Myself, Jwara of the BaThembu clan, I can never be mounted by a woman. I swear on my father’s grave!’ His voice begins to shake in choler. ‘These ridiculous rights prescribed to our wives and daughters by the government are turning families against one another. What sensible man can allow a woman to dictate matters in his own house? No, that’s not a man! He should be given a skirt!’

The male passengers murmur in agreement. The older women cast down their eyes and fidget in discomfiture. The youthful women laugh a knowing laugh. It is a mysterious laugh that reminds Thandi of aunty Bubu. This laugh dominated aunty Bubu’s stolen intimate encounters with uncle Majola by the riverside during afternoons whenever they went to fetch water. Thandi was very young at the time, about eight or nine, but it always confused her how aunty Bubu’s face would immediately turn into a tangled distortion and still be able to let out such a genuinely naughty laugh; such a contradiction!

Only when she became a young woman herself did Thandi realise that aunty Bubu was in love. She smiles when she thinks of her aunt. What a cheerful soul she was. It’s really sad what happened to her. At the prime of her youth, her father had decided that she’d had enough schooling and was supposed to go marry. The man she was in love with, Majola, had no cattle nor the money to afford lobola. He was therefore an invalid in the eyes of the community. Determined not to lose his beloved Bubu, Majola resolved to go find work in Johannesburg – eGoli, the city of gold. Alas! The city that snatches men’s souls had Majola’s in no time; he never returned for aunty Bubu. Those fortunate enough to escape the vicious jaws of the city return home to tell tales about the abundance of meat in Jozi. They say that men lose all their teeth while the meat remains plentiful. Clearly, Majola was still enjoying his fair share of the meat too.

Aunty Bubu was never her bubbly self afterward; she sunk into depression and lost a lot of weight. What with the village mocking her and the family pressuring her to go marry while her stock is high. Bab’uKhumalo, a renowned polygamist, offered to take Bubu as his fourth wife. He already had a clandestine verbal agreement with Bubu’s father and arrangements were in motion. Knowing aunty Bubu, she wasn’t going to agree to any of that. She was someone who believed in fairytales. Her heart was still with Majola. She once attempted to run away from home but was apprehended before she could reach the next town. Nobody knows where she was headed but Thandi’s guess is Johannesburg; to find Majola. Disgraced, defeated, and desolate, aunty Bubu seemed to have accepted her fate and didn’t want to cause any more problems for the family, so she claimed.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan, at least as far as her father was concerned – her father was going to receive a substantial bride prize for marrying off his ‘educated’ virgin daughter and Bab’uKhumalo was only happy to have a young wife tend to his needs. A week after her wedding day she died from food poisoning. Whether it was self-inflicted or one of the jealous older wives did it, it was never discovered.

‘As long as both men got what they wanted, I guess it is all well.’ Thandi’s mother – an older sister to Bubu – had bitterly remarked on the eve of aunty Bubu’s funeral.

Thandi’s train of thought is disturbed by the taxi’s abrupt halt which throws her face toward an oily perm sported by the gentleman seated in front of her. The gentleman sharply turns with a scowl on his face, clearly irritated by the incident. Thandi mumbles apologetically as the gentleman tries to fix his perm by softly patting it with both hands. She never knew that men actually took such great care of their hair until she came to this place. Apparently one of the drunkards in the back seat has been pestering the driver for ages because he wants to pee. His pleas were seemingly falling on deaf ears until he threatened to perform the deed inside the taxi. That’s when the screeching tyres brought an unexpected stop to the speeding taxi.

‘I despise liquor with all my heart.’ The man seated next to the driver proclaims disgustedly. Thandi observes that the man is dressed in a smart navy suit. It has clearly seen better days but it is impressively clean nevertheless. On his lap sits a bible. He must be a man of God, she concludes.

‘Did you know that most of our road accidents are caused by this evil drink?’ He asks the driver, but the driver seems to be too preoccupied to bother with mundane issues.  Not wanting to come across as rude, he merely shakes his head as he impatiently awaits the drunkard’s return.

‘Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. I bet you didn’t know that mfundisi, huh?’ The other drunkard triumphantly declares.

‘There was a valid reason for that,’ the preacher man replies. ‘But you lot obviously overlook that part of the scripture to stick to the one that justifies your immoralities.’

‘There’s a reason for my drinking too,’ the drunk man quips.

‘Whatever your reason, I’m certain there are better solutions other than the bottle,’ the umfundisi knowingly replies.

To this, the drunkard laughs sardonically until he begins to cough uncontrollably. He then turns to the woman in black.

‘They think they know everything, don’t they?’ He gets no response.

‘I guess that bible you always carry around has all the solutions then?’ He reverts to the preacher man.

‘Indeed my dear brother. The scripture states very clearly that true wisdom begins with fearing the Lord. Accept him as your savior and he shall return the favor by carrying all your burdens for you.’

‘Amen!’ Someone in the taxi seems to agree.

In an attempt to discourage the looming sermon, the driver switches his stereo back on and the ‘woman on top’ discussion is still ongoing.

‘The problem with these men is that they think they own sex’, a female caller who comes across to have a temperamental dislike for the male specimen starts.

‘We are the gatekeepers of sex and believe me when I tell you that the majority of men who called in today criticizing the woman on top position actually love it behind closed doors.’

It’s the men’s turn to be embarrassed as the taxi erupts with victorious laughter from the ladies.

‘Absolutely no shame at all,’ a respectable-looking man slowly shakes his head disgustedly.

‘Such women pose a threat to society – they are the Delilahs of the last days.’ The righteous man of God echoes.

‘Would you leave your wife then mfundisi if she asked for this position in bed?’ A youthful female passenger enquires.

Her question to the preacher man is met with icy silence. He wears an impenetrable guise and pretends to be staring at something of great significance through the window.

Thandi always observes with amazement how uncomfortable men become whenever they have to partake in public discussions around the topic of sex, especially if women are a part of the discussions. This baffles her. In most African families even the slightest mention of sex is taboo. Sex is treated as this filthy and forthright uncle who is always drunk and asking people for money. Instead of addressing the root of his problems, his family is ashamed of his existence and they keep him away from the visitors instead. Sweeping the dirt toward the bottom of the bed doesn’t make the house clean. It is exactly this kind of mentality that has seen a surge in the pregnancies of African teenage girls. Then the parents act surprised when they find out that their children are sexually active, as if not talking about sex will make it go away.

Thandi is a victim of such ignorance too. She was sixteen when she fell pregnant. At the time she was doing Grade 11: ‘a promising pupil who is destined’ is how her then principal had described her. Upon finding out about her pregnancy, her parents disowned her, and she had to drop out of school for three years to raise her son. The History teacher who had impregnated her immediately got a transfer to another province before trouble found him. After matriculating, instead of going to university as initially planned, she came to Johannesburg to fend for herself and her son instead. She couldn’t leave her child behind. Her parents had made it clear to her that ‘no elephant finds its trunk too heavy’ – she had no choice but to hold her son by the grit of her teeth as she got her hands dirty trying to scrape a living.

Five years later she finds herself as the sole breadwinner in the family. Her parents are now sickly pensioners who can no longer endure the demanding labours of maintaining a homestead. Her older brother – her father’s only hope – fled home when the village’s disciplinary committee was baying for his blood over allegations of livestock theft. Her two younger sisters are here in Johannesburg with her; the youngest was the first to arrive as Thandi needed help with babysitting and could not afford a nanny. And the older one only came this year. She is studying at a university here. Her financial aid application is still pending and the university couldn’t place her at a student accommodation facility; she had to come to stay with Thandi in the interim. A certain Nigerian guy had promised her free accommodation at some shady flat in Hillbrow but Thandi wouldn’t hear any of it because she knew what happened to desperate young girls in this city. She couldn’t leave her little sister to the mercy of the wolves. Prostitution seems to be the easiest way out but there’s no easy way out of it. Thandi had escaped it by a whisker during her early weeks in the city too. Her then-friend, Bella, had tried to introduce her to the trade when a job was hard to come by. After much contemplation, she decided not to take up the offer.

Thandi started to do people’s laundry for meagre payments and food parcels instead – that is how she found her feet in this jungle. She also babysat for her peers whose circumstances were much better than hers. This was a rude awakening for her. During such times, her mother’s voice would ring in her ears:

‘If you take for granted this opportunity to get an education, tomorrow you’ll be begging your classmates for crumbs after they’ve eaten their bread.’ Thandi saved up for a security course. It took her eighteen months of discipline and sacrifice to amass the R 3500, 00 required to enroll. Security guards are always in demand in the crime-infested city of Johannesburg which means that the risks of such a job are very high compared to the peanuts they’re paid; more especially for a woman who carries pepper spray for a gun. She had no choice but to stick it out for two years; working awkward hours, being exploited and ridiculed for doing a man’s job. During her night shifts, Thandi would bring her books to work as she was a part-time LLB student at UNISA. Her jealous colleagues who were enemies of progress ratted her out to the supervisor. Thandi eventually got suspended for ‘using the employer’s hours and resources for personal gains.’ It was back to square one for her. Unable to pay for tuition, she had to put her studies on hold.

As a last resort, Thandi had traveled back home to try to convince her father to sell some of his cattle so that she could finance her last four semesters. Ntombela blatantly refused.

‘You’re the one who should be bringing me cattle. Your husband must pay me your lobola first then later pay for your tuition if he wants a learned wife.’ Her father’s exact words.

In Bergville and surrounding areas, an educated woman is believed to be trouble and unqualified to marry as ‘she is bound to piss on top of her man’s head.’ Thandi’s father was worried that her daughter wouldn’t get a suitable husband if she continued with her obsession with school. Her mother supported Thandi’s endeavors but she dared not voice it out. Her husband’s word was final. Not that Thandi was short of suitors. She’d had her fair share of failed relationships. Her affairs never made it past three months. She knew exactly what she wanted out of a relationship and wouldn’t settle for mediocrity. She reached a conscious decision to take a break from relationships and focus on self-development instead. The man of her dreams was probably waiting for her at the summit and all she had to do was make that climb upwards.

A year after Thandi had spoken to her father about her financial difficulties, a severe drought hit Bergville and wiped out most men’s kraals. Ntombela’s prized assets perished before his very eyes. He tried to nurse back to life what remained of his herd of cattle but only managed to accrue more expenses. Only a handful of goats survived. All the cattle eventually died. Thandi bemoaned what could have been a sensible investment by her father in her education but it was no use crying over spilt milk. She took a valuable lesson out of this experience: that her father ranks material higher than his own child. She was literally on her own.

The taxi has now entered the township. Every passenger is now alert as they prepare to gather their parcels while others call their family members to meet them at their respective stops. Rapists and pickpockets are at their peak at this hour. People must stay vigilant at all times and must not isolate themselves. Thandi buries her cell phone inside her bra and pulls her arm bag toward her armpit. Inside that bag is a valuable piece of paper on which her future depends– her LLB qualification certificate. It took her eight agonizing years to complete this degree. Now she is expecting this piece of paper she worked so hard for to work for her in return.

For the past two years, she’s been doubling as a cleaner and tea lady at Murray & Theron Attorneys. Her bosses had been impressed by her work ethic and commitment so much that when a vacancy for an Administrative Assistant opened up, they encouraged her to apply. Upon learning that she was on the verge of completing her law studies, they pledged to allow Thandi to do her articles with them. Tomorrow is the day that she will submit her qualification certificate to the management and hopefully begin her new exciting journey toward a promising career as a Human Rights Lawyer.

An overwhelming feeling of contentment consumes Thandi. She has reimagined and anticipated this moment, over and again, in her mind a thousand times, but, still her joy is nothing closer to her imaginings – it is much more intoxicating. It had once seemed like a lifetime away, this moment, but now that it has finally arrived she realizes that there is still much more work to do. The fulfillment of reaching a mountain top diminishes as soon as the realization that there are more mountains to climb settles in.

‘It’s a good thing I’m up for the challenge,’ she mutters to herself as she pushes open the door to her backroom shack.

The sharp aroma of burnt porridge enmeshed with kerosene scent meets her nostrils and she snaps back into the harsh reality that’s her world – she must teach her sisters the art of cooking with a kerosene stove without ruining the food. Then she thinks about all those women whose kitchens are cold – women who can’t even afford a packet of maize meal – who’d appreciate such redolence in their kitchens right now. She must be on the fore of both fronts: home and society. Thandi is determined to free women from the shackles of societal and mental imprisonment and to empower them with the tools essential for their upward turn. She’s hell-bent on bringing as many as she can on her way up; she’ll show them it is doable regardless of what the patriarchs dictate.