Explosion
When Nanny Scotland entered
carrying a load of laundered nappies
the first thing that caught her eye
was a little white head, as delicate as a frangipani
nestled in the gleaming black
of Nanny Lovely’s all engulfing breast.
She dropped her load shrieked,
“Filthy black umfazi! What are
you doing?
He’s not your picannin, he’s white.
Give him to me!”
Nanny Lovely got to her feet
turned, holding onto Morgan
buttoned her blouse, straightened her
bib. Nanny Scotland
clawing at her back, screeched,
“Give me that child!”
while Morgan added to the upheaval
bellowing in ear-splitting rage.
Everyone in the house came
running Margaret too.
She had been at breakfast in the dining room. The
tableau froze, as she stood in the nursery door
dressed for riding in high boot and jodhpur.
“What’s happening?” she demanded
green eyes flashing.
Nanny Scotland, hysterical and weeping, babbled
“That horrible dirty black umfazi..” Sob, sniff, gulp.
Nanny Scotland goes home
Margaret
Margaret, at her authoritarian best
didn’t allow her to finish
“Stop right there, Miss McAllen!
I won’t hear another word against Nanny Lovely.”
She glared at the snivelling wreck
while renewed crescendo from Morgan
required she stop, block her ears, wait, before saying
“Nor will I endure such behaviour.
You’ve badly upset the baby.
Obviously the job doesn’t suit you.”
“But she...” Nanny Scotland began.
Margaret cut her off, “You’ll pack your bags.
A driver will take you to Salisbury.
Compensation will be adequate.”
Nanny Scotland, nose and eyes streaming
mouth a contorted cavity
stammered a few more words as
Margaret hustled her out saying
“Nanny Lovely, take Master Morgan into the
garden. Calm him. You do it better than I.”
Bataleur Eagle
So much Washing
Bath Tub and lots of Soap
Nanny in the Garden
Nanny Lovely
clasping Och-Poor-Wee-Mite to her
chest descended the steps, headed for the
pool where a shelter with a low front
wall looked out over the veld to river,
ant-hill and neighbouring kopjie.
She heard the birds
the cry of the Bataleur, saw him circling heard
a Go-away Bird, Guinea Fowl and Hoopoo
all pleasantly soothing after the scene in the
nursery. Nanny had to admit, unwillingly
despite formula and bottle
Morgan had no problem asserting himself.
Fortunately he now slept
allowing Nanny to hear the Studebaker
crunching on driveway gravel
coming to remove the intruder.
Luckless woman.
Nanny bore no grudge
but it was right she should go
right for Och-Poor-Wee-Mite
right because someone who disliked blacks
had no place in Africa.
How could Nanny S say Nanny L was dirty?
Wasn’t possible where Margaret prevailed!
She who insisted on clean clothes daily toilet-paper
by the ream, on-going washing of hands bath,
showers, soap, soap, soap
scrubbing, disinfectant, pumice stone, tooth brush.
Strange that blacks hadn’t turned white
from such exaggerated ablutions!
Not that Nanny didn’t enjoy being clean
she did, but wished those in the compound
had the same facilities as the house on the
kopjie. Yet if they did, she’d miss times at the
river children splashing and cavorting
women cleaning their teeth with finger and ash
laundering with blue mottled soap
scrubbing with pebbles
spreading clothes on the rocks to dry.
And the conversations! The laughter!
Nanny smiled recalling hilarity
at her tales of life in the house on the kopjie.
A favourite amongst the women
was Nanny’s description
of underwear worn by white women
insight gained from Nanny’s job
of washing by hand, the more intimate items
of Margaret’s apparel
each described in abundance of
detail suspender-belt, bra, panty
petticoat, nightie and stocking
all from Britain and some not easily imaginable
for exuberant African bodies.
Those who rule ride prancing horses.
Morgan Watches
An early memory for Morgan
was his mother on horseback wielding a
sjambok hippo-hide whip
against a groom kicking a lactating
bitch. Amidst clouds of dust, the horse
reared hooves flailed, nostrils flared
as the whip slashed down on naked
flesh. Yelps and whinnies
odours of fear, sweat and urine
along with the one hurled imprecation
“Voetsack, skellum!”
etched themselves into Morgan’s psyche.
Most memorable
when over, were Margaret’s calm words
called to the offender as he hobbled away:
“Iwe, go to the clinic. I’ll be there to treat you.”
She hadn’t lost her temper, had remained in
control had been teaching a lesson.
Morgan meets a Stranger
Sculpture, by NMUK
Blair’s Return
In 1945 Blair returned home a hero. The
first time Morgan, at four, saw his father
big, broad, intimidating
standing in the door, blocking the light
Morgan wanted to run, hide
but resisted.
He took two tentative steps forward
then stopped, as Blair strode past
him to shake hands with Chaka,
Cook then each of the servants in
turn. By the time Margaret said
“Blair, don’t forget Morgan,”
Morgan had retreated
to cling to Nanny Lovely’s chunky black legs.
Disgusted, Blair turned away, saying
“What’s wrong with the child?
Is our son a sissy?”
For Morgan
the taunt became a festering sore though
later Blair, with no experience of children
made a vague attempt to placate the
lad giving him a functioning watch
found in the desert from World War
One. Morgan treasured the object
yet none could have guessed
from the sullen mien worn without fail
in his father’s presence.
Skeleton of a Nestling
Snake Skin
Nanny Lovely Speaks
A Flamboyant blazed in yellow and orange
against the mid-morning blue of a Gomboli
sky. Nanny’s comely bulk occupied a sturdy
bench where she crocheted yet another square
for Margaret’s mile-long dining-room table.
The silk slid through her deft black fingers
every move defined
against a starched white pinny.
Her mind, neither on work nor surroundings
dwelt on Och-Poor- Wee-White and his
parents. She clicked her tongue, shook her
head proportioned as if carved by a sculptor.
White people! No idea how to parent
clever, busy, achieving
cars, machines, gadgetry
yet no common sense
no insight into Och- Poor-Wee-White
yearning for love and attention.
Nanny Lovely put him to bed at
night helped with his prayers
liked doing it, but wasn’t the job theirs?
Why did the Inkos not play with him?
Why the Inkosikas not tie him to her
back like black women?
Feel his little heart pumping?
Would the Inkos change if he knew
his son slept with the watch from the desert?
African Head, Anonymous
Could Margaret not show interest
in his treasures:
the papery thinness of a snakeskin
discovered near the cacti
or the desiccated corpse of a fallen nestling?
Why didn’t they show love?
Perhaps they had been raised by Nanny Scotlands.
Seemed the British way.
Looking up at the sun, Nanny determined
it was time for Och-Poor-Wee-Mite’s meal.
She hauled herself to her feet
stored her crocheting
in a basket made by the nimble fingers of her
mother. Entering the house through the back
entrance Nanny had to laugh thinking of the
difference between her mother and Morgan’s.
Trying to picture Margaret occupying
herself with something as minor as basketmaking
defied the imagination.
Her far-reaching vision never lingered on detail
whether the detail be her son or a basket.
Blair Suffers
Blair in Decline
Blair’s theatrical look of younger years
had hardened.
Although still attractive
he now drank a bottle of Scotch a day
chain-smoked
and took little interest in Gomboli. He
never spoke of war, yet Margaret knew
its horrors rampaged through inner corridor. When
he woke at night, shouting orders to his men she
would stroke his brow, soothe, even sing. Initially,
for the benefit of guests
Margaret tried to use as a distraction
he pretended normalcy, but soon avoided all visitors.
Only once did he gallop out across the plains
on Bucephalus
returning to the stables, face stiff with rage.
“Where are the herds?”
he demanded of Gwaci, a groom
“the zebra, eland and kudu? I
saw only baboon and hippo.”
The big game had gone, Gwaci told him
too many guns, farms and fences.
Thereafter
Blair spent his days in a darkened study.
Margaret and Chaka saw to his needs
no others had access.
Mahachi
Name Tags
Nanny Lovely and Mahachi
Nanny Lovely settled beneath a msasa
above her head filigree branches
trapping blue speckles of sky
flecked with the blossoms of bougainvillaea.
This respite before lunch
Nanny’s favourite
in the structured routines
gave her time alone, time for thinking.
Yet today she’d barely started
either sewing or thinking before Mahachi,
gardener drifted past for a chat
- tattered shorts and hat with a
hole greeting deferentially
African fashion:
bowing the head and gently clapping the hands.
“Good morning, Mother Mary.”
Mary, name given at mission school
liked, kept.
“What your work today,
Mother?” he asked hand against
the tree eyeing Nanny’s box.
Nanny finished threading her needle
then pulled out ribbon with writing on
it explained, “Name tags.
Och-Poor-Wee-Mite goes to boarding school soon
needs them for his clothes.”
“Always wanted to know,” said Mahachi,
The Smile, H. Ann Ackroyd
The Viper
“Why that name for the brat?” “I
once heard Nanny Scotland say it
liked the sound, have used it ever since.”
“What the meaning?”
“Don’t know.”
Mahachi erupted into laughter
Nanny joining him, hilarity engulfing her body
the inimitable sound of African laughter filtering
into the veld, regenerating all who heard. Nanny
dried away the tears
asked, “Mahachi, why your dislike for the child?”
“He’s white. Belongs to them.”
“No different to us.
Laughs, plays, feeds, sleeps, pees.”
“Maybe now, still young, but wait.
You’ll see the viper as he grows.”
“No, Mahachi. He’s drunk my milk.
Will always be my baby.”
The Invalid
Downward Slide
By 1950 Blair, partially deranged
took permanently to bed
Margaret spending her days as before
but dedicating evenings to her husband.
One night, dining with Blair
he in bed with a tray, she at a nearby table
realisation hit her: at thirty seven
hair gone, skin hanging, eyes in shadow
her heroic husband
had become a wizened old man.
The green eyes flooded,
she who never cried, understood Blair was dying.
Britain’s war had claimed him after
all. Facing the truth
meant giving him more
time. She would now
not only take supper with him
but also lunch
till now shared with Morgan.
The Mile-long Dining Room Table
Morgan
The first time Morgan, now nine
found himself sitting in solitary splendour
at the mile-long dining table
only Nanny Lovely in attendance
resentment roiled.
Waiting till his mother emerged from Blair’s
room he confronted her
“Mama, why didn’t you lunch with
me?” “Your father’s dying.
Needs me. You are not dying.”
Leaving
she flung a suggestion over her shoulder.
“You and Norbert take the bikes
you’ll like the new tractors on Gwaai.”
Morgan cheered
could bully the overseer into letting him
drive Mama need never know.