Wild Coast

Lizette married Vusi in a small ceremony held on her family's farm when she was six years old. Colonel, Vusi's older brother, officiated, skipping the I do's and instead repeating, You may now kiss the bride, until Lizette and Vusi were done with kissing and, calling their witness—Blommetjie, Lizette's Ridgeback pup—removed their clothes to swim in the algae-scum pond. It was the third time they'd been married that year but neither of them tired of the game. It was practice; they didn't doubt that one day they would be standing up together in a church with real witnesses, rings, and a priest. Already, hidden by the trunks and foliage of the spider gum grove behind the house, Lizette had pulled down her shorts and panties and allowed Vusi to look at her "cookie." When he'd done the same, she'd touched it, saying how like a tiny elephant's trunk it was with its neat creases and wrinkles. They often whispered, I love you, and, lying in the long grass, held hands, letting the warm berg winds sweep over them.

________

Set back against the acacias, away from the main farmhouse, were two wooden huts each with a small kitchen containing a wood-fired stove and a bedroom. An outhouse stood between the two huts, but, since one of the huts had been unoccupied for some years, Luvuyo and Portia now thought of it as their own private bathroom.

They'd come to the farm in 1988, answering a need for a general laborer and a maid. They were newly married—Portia, just nineteen, the planes of her body not yet rounded by childbearing, and Luvuyo, thirty-two, his skin rich and dark—and had planned to stay at the farm a short time. They'd hoped to save money and go up to the Wild Coast, asking permission from one of the village chiefs to buy land to make their own small farm, but they'd found the Potgieters—John and Annette—agreeable employers and they'd made friends with Thembi and Linus, the couple who, at the time, occupied the hut next door. What a comfort it had been to Portia, who wasn't from the area, to have Thembi just next door, with whom she could talk and share the cooking of meals.

When Portia became pregnant with Colonel, it was a shock to realize that they had been with the Potgieters for five years and that Portia was no longer a teenager. Annette Potgieter bought Portia vitamins and drove her to the hospital for her doctor's appointments, and, when she grew round and cumbersome, Annette had her sit in the house with a book while she did the cleaning. Portia thought this funny. She would joke with Annette that she was the madam and Annette the maid and she'd issue fake commands—dust the light bulbs, brush the dog's teeth, fluff my pillows—until she and Annette were in tears with laughter.

Though Portia and Luvuyo still dreamed of the Wild Coast and their own farm, at night they'd lie in their big, soft bed and whisper how lucky they were to be given such kindness and that, perhaps, it wouldn't hurt to put their plan on hold just a little longer—the Potgieters had been so good to them, it wouldn't be right to leave just yet.

On the farm, there'd been a lot of excited talk about the democratic election. It would be the first for all of them, the first in their lifetime. These conversations weren't heated, they didn't doubt that the ANC would win—the ANC has Mandela, Luvuyo had said, and, around the farm, it became a catchphrase—instead they spoke about what would change.

We'll see mixed couples on the street, John said.

There'll be houses and running water for everyone, Thembi said.

Education will be an equalizer again, Annette said.

We'll be able to live anywhere, Portia said.

We'll be able to go anywhere, Luvuyo said...