Stones for My Father Read Free Page A

storytelling. If the war carried on much longer, Sipho would have to go and fight as a loyal African, as his father before him.
    Sipho’s mother was sitting in front of their thatched hut, pounding mealie corn when we arrived. Her head was wrapped in a blue cloth, and her molasses-smooth skin glistened with sweat. Seeing us, she stopped to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun and beckoned us inside. The walls were made of clay and the floor of packed earth, so the hut was cool and dark. They had only two rooms — one for cooking and eating, and one for sleeping — but it felt comfortable to me. There were no preserve jars to break, no shoes to remember, no crocheting or needlework to practice. Just a stove and some straw mattresses, and a tankard of
dop
left behind by the men.
    Before I could stop him, Sipho had told his mother about my night on the gravesite. Lindiwe clicked her tongue and removed the wool blanket from her ownshoulders and wrapped it around me. The coarse blanket smelled of sweet smoke and roasted corn. She then turned to the pot on the stove, and tipped the contents into two bowls.
    “Eat,” she said. “Eat,
kleinnooi
.”
    Soft clumps of rice had settled at the bottom of the bowl, which was filled with thin porridge. I took a sip. Then another. All at once, warmth filled my mouth and throat, at last reaching my empty stomach like a spear.
    “
Dankie
, Lindy,” I said. Lindiwe smiled broadly, exposing teeth the color of ivory tusks, and began to untie the knotted ribbon from my hair.
    “Does your ma know you were out all night?” she asked in isiZulu, combing her fingers through the matted bits.
    I shrugged.
    “She’s angry,” murmured Sipho. He knew that confronting an elephant in musth was only slightly less frightening than facing Ma when she was in one of her rages.
    “Ja-nee.”
    Lindiwe grunted. “
Ja-nee
, yes-no. That’s not an answer,
kleinnooi
.” She began to twist my hair into plaits, humming a low melody until words began to form. “
Likhona ithemba, likhona kuye, thembela kuye, thembela ku Jesu
 …”
    I wriggled on the mat. “Not a Jesus song, Lindy. Something else.”
    Sipho looked up, grinning, from his porridge.
    “O bring my t’rug na die ou Transvaal, Daar waar my Sarie woon …”
    I couldn’t help but join in. “
Daar onder in die mielies, By die groen doringboom, Daar woon my Sarie Marais …
” We’d learned the song from a couple of men who’d recently returned from Pretoria, where it had become popular among the Boer commandos.
    O take me back to the old Transvaal
    where my Sarie lives,
    Down among the maize fields near the green thorn tree,
    there lives my Sarie Marais …
    Lindiwe pulled a face and shook her head, waggling her hands at us. “So much noise, you two! Go, now — out, out. Take these.” She passed us two small loaves of mealie bread and a few shriveled strips of biltong, suddenly looking very serious. “Wrap the bread and meat in the blanket and leave them in the pigeon lofts for the men,
kleinnooi
. Albert Siswe said that their supplies are running low again.”
    I considered the meager bundle. “No salt?”
    Lindiwe stared down at her palms, shaking her head slowly. “Your ma sent coffee and sugar two weeks ago — there was no salt then, either.”
    I heaved the bundle under one arm and tried to sound cheery. “Never mind — things are getting better.Soon, the Transvaal and the Free State will be just that: free. You’ll see.” I grabbed Sipho’s hand and tugged him out the door. “
Totsiens
, Lindy.”
    The pigeon lofts were on Tant Minna’s land, near the edge of the Lowveld where the herds grazed in winter. As Sipho and I followed the trickling stream that divided the Highveld from the foothills, I could tell that my friend’s mind was elsewhere.
    “Things aren’t getting better,” he said solemnly. “The commandos are outnumbered.”
    “Don’t say that,” I snapped. “We won at Colenso, didn’t we? And