A Little Town in Africa

1994.

CHAPTER 1

First Sunday: An Unwelcoming Welcoming Service.

So many people had turned up that they were using the hall rather than the church itself. Teresa Thomas counted only a few spare seats as Digby sorted and fluffed her cushions a few rows from the front.

Well this is different. Very different! she said.

Digby nodded and held her arm as she eased her frail body into the softened seat. Placing a hand on the chair in front of her she bent her head in prayer. Her concentration only lasted a few minutes, however, before she became aware of Digby’s voice, no doubt chatting to the lady on his right.

The looks never really go away, he was saying. Audrey Hepburn? Hmm… no, I’d say a retired Elizabeth Taylor or Vivien Leigh; perhaps a combination of all three.

She couldn’t resist opening her eyes.

Who are you talking about?

You, of course. He turned from the woman and gently ran his fingers through his short grey beard.

Nonsense, she said attempting to chuckle and frown at the same time.

They sat quietly for a while, their eyes taking in the ‘very different’ activity going on around them. The stage curtains were open and a large choir of over fifty black ladies were singing, clapping and moving to a lively, tuneful and slightly familiar melody. Some were shaking tambourines, and now and again a few taps and shakes of that instrument echoed back from the congregation itself, some of whom were also singing and swaying along with the tunes. Unusually, there was no melodic accompaniment. The old piano stood forlornly in the corner, its lid firmly shut and Minnie Terreblanche – the church organist and pianist – nowhere to be seen.

Camouflaged by the movement around her, Teresa began scanning the congregation for familiar faces. Only a few of the regular Stillwater Methodist white folk seemed to have turned up. If the truth be known, this didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t expected much of a showing from the host church although she didn’t think it would be this bad. All in all, she counted twelve including herself and Digby. They were easy enough to count too, having clustered together towards the front of the hall.

The vast majority of worshippers seemed to be members of Stillwater’s ‘sister’ churches from the nearby townships of Carolina and Florida. Sister, of course, was the word that retiring Minister Jones usually used when talking about the church’s township neighbours:

Finally folks, don’t forget the clothes collection for our sister church in Carolina next Sunday, or, Please remember the orphanage fund run by our sisters in Florida.

A nice and polite way to address the town’s neighbours; thoroughly fitting to Minister Jones’s character and typical of his generosity of spirit. (How Teresa was going to miss him.)

But most of Stillwater’s white worshippers were well aware that other than the few miles separating them and the odd bit of co-operation between them, there wasn’t much of a relationship between the churches at all. And Teresa was acutely aware that this morning’s service – described as a ‘welcoming service’ in the previous week’s bulletin – hadn’t been welcomed by many of the white Stillwater faithful, hence the low turnout.

The choir on-stage had reached the end of another enthusiastic hymn and in the relative silence that followed, Teresa gradually became aware of a conversation going on behind her:

So where is old Jones today then?

I saw him going into that um… little room at the side of the church building?

The vestry?

Yeah there, with the bishop – probably for his farewell pat on the back.

Is that the famous bishop – the one from Jo’burg?

That’s the one. Come hither all ye illegals and feel welcome to squat in my aisles and pews.

Stop it James, that’s not nice, remember where you are. He’s only trying to help people!

Teresa had, of course, already greeted the young couple behind her on her way into the hall. They hadn’t been members long, having recently exchanged vows at the Stillwater Methodist. Minister Jones, as usual, had politely asked them to attend a few services before the big day, and in this case things had worked out well, with the couple visiting regularly and eventually becoming full-blown members. In a church predominated by older folk, an injection of young blood was always welcome, and James and Debbie had been quite a coup for old Jones.

That’s the bishop coming out now, said James. Bloody hell, look at all that purple. He’s got the full works on today.

James, language! I’m gonna donner you. People can hear.

They soon won’t. That choir’s gonna kick off again. Ah ha, here come the new boys now. Easy enough to guess which one we’re getting.

Now that’s where you’re wrong.

Well they’re not going to send the white guy to a township… Debbie, are they?

I overheard some of the W.A. women talking at the entrance. The white guy’s being sent to Carolina. We’re getting the one on the right. The smiling one with the big round face.

Oh for f–

Teresa cringed, expecting the worst, but James’s words were thankfully drowned out as the choir launched into another lively song of praise.

There followed an expectant hush as the bishop made his way to a makeshift lectern. With a big smile, he dramatically threw his arms wide and announced in a powerful voice:

We welcome you all to the Lord’s house for this very special service. We thank you for coming to bless the three men who stand before you as they take up their duties serving their new churches and most importantly, our almighty God. This is a time of celebration, so let us begin with that famous South African hymn which has now become our national anthem: Nkosi Silelel’ iAfrika, or for our English speaking folk here today: God bless Africa. Perhaps you’ll find the words appropriate. ‘Lord bless Africa, raise high its glory, hear thou our prayers, Lord bless us, her children.’

Teresa heard a loud sigh behind her.

Why not chuck in ‘Die Stem’ for good measure.

James, it’s not a rugby match. Now shut up!

But this is a political song, not a hymn.

No it was a hymn, then it became a political song, and now it’s a hymn again.

Teresa began to smile before she suddenly realised that she didn’t actually know the words of this hymn – national anthem or not. Not in Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Afrikaans or even English. She doubted that many of the white folk around knew it either. She felt her breath shorten – this was going to be embarrassing. She prided herself on her singing voice having recently retired from many years’ service in the church choir, and the thought of doing nothing, or trying to mime to the tune, absolutely horrified her.

I think I know it, whispered Digby, reading the expression on her face. Just try and follow me.

Then, as if in answer to her prayers, a beautifully bound hymn-book was placed on Teresa’s lap. A helping hand flicked through a few pages, before the hymn – laid out in two columns, Xhosa on the left with the English translation on the right – appeared under her eyes.

Please use this book, Mama, and feel welcome to keep it for the rest of the service.

The large black lady was seated directly in front of Teresa. Smartly turned out in a red and white uniform and a badge marked ‘Florida Central’, she offered an engaging smile before turning back to pick up on the opening lines of the hymn.

Teresa tapped her gently on the shoulder.

But do you have a book for yourself?

Please don’t worry about me, Mama. I think I’ll know all the hymns we do today.

Thank you, you’re very kind. Teresa glanced at Digby, who offered no more than a slight nod and a thoughtful stroke of his beard.

Teresa, like most of the white Stillwater Church members in the hall, already knew that this service would be different to the usual Sunday fare. But even armed with this knowledge, she was still taken a little unawares when the opening hymn turned out to be a mere prelude to over half an hour’s worth of hymns and choruses. It was obvious that this bishop loved to sing. And with the help of a microphone, his voice soared above those of the choir, congregation and even the spirited tambourine shakers. Teresa was soon reaching for the volume switch on her hearing aid and wondering if Minnie Terreblanche’s piano efforts would have made much difference to these proceedings. Well, she reasoned, it may have been a bit loud for her taste, but it was pretty obvious that the majority of worshippers in the hall were having a joyful, moving and uplifting time.

The majority, but not everyone. She studied the white faces around her. A black minister for them? A white minister for Carolina Township? Teresa remembered the opening line of a Frank Sinatra song she’d heard playing on the radio that morning: ‘There may be trouble ahead… ’

The hymns finally ended, and with an audible sigh of relief, she fell wearily onto her cushioned chair. The bishop remained on his feet. He waited until everyone was seated before he cleared his throat and announced:

It’s in the singing that I find such big differences in the attitude of the black and white people of our church. I sometimes feel that you black folk need to listen, understand and think a little harder about the words of these beautiful songs of praise. Don’t just shout them out, but think about what they mean. And we white folk? Well, we need to loosen up a little, sing out a little louder, listen to our bodies, move a bit more, and maybe even smile to the joys of God’s wondrous words.

To emphasise the point, the bishop flashed the congregation a broad smile, clicked his fingers in time to an imaginary tune and did a little shuffle around the lectern. The sound of laughter echoed through the hall, none louder than Digby’s strange low chuckle accompanied by a few random tugs of his beard. The bishop beamed and gave a theatrical wink, visible to all but the back rows. But Theresa had already spotted a growing frown on the face of the Women’s Auxiliary President, Elsa Meyer, who was sitting just a few seats away. And it was difficult not to hear James and Debbie’s animated conversation going on behind her:

I’m not having this guy lecturing me on my attitude, Debs. What does he expect me to do, jump up and start doing a toyi-toyi with these okes? Can you see this old lady and this little bearded oke with the big round earrings stamping their feet and protest chanting in church?

No man, James, he’s just making a joke.

This is no joke. We don’t sing that way, we don’t dance that way and we don’t want to worship this way. It feels like we’ve been completely taken over. Why don’t we just go?

James, leave it, please!

Teresa’s initial smile at the thought of Digby and her doing a ‘toyi toyi ’dance soon turned to a scowl at the rude and outspoken young man’s old and little references. She glanced at Digby, whose only movement was a frown and a gentle tug on one of the aforementioned earrings. This young upstart would do well to watch his mouth. Looks could be deceptive. In spite of Digby’s short(ish) stature and his affection for wearing decorative ear adornments, she’d quite often heard him described by some of the local men as ‘a tough little bugger’.

A part of her, however, could sympathise with this upstart. Yes, his impertinent way of criticising a church he’d only just joined, grated a bit. But, after all, this was Stillwater –not Johannesburg. People here didn’t like ‘change’ thrown in their faces. They also didn’t like outsiders telling them what to do. And there was a general feeling amongst some Methodists – echoed in a few of the Highveld newspapers – that this particular bishop rather liked dabbling in ‘political appointments’, almost revelled in a certain level of controversy and fame, and tried a bit too hard to mix the different communities together.

In all fairness though, Teresa could also see that the bishop’s words were a bit of a double-edged sword. After all, wasn’t he also implying that many of the black people in the congregation were missing the true meanings of their beloved hymns? But turning her head this way and that, she couldn’t pick out any of the Carolina or Florida worshippers who looked the slightest bit offended. In fact, most were smiling, some were still laughing at the bishop’s little dance around the lectern, and all looked quite contented and at home.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The service turned out to be a long one. A very long one. Teresa remembered a recent clash of words between Minister Jones and a long-serving church member when a few of his services ran overtime:

Could you keep in mind, Harry that we often have a bowls match starting at eleven, and it’s very difficult making the club if you keep running over.

Old Jones hadn’t been impressed and had responded by dropping a few choice words into the following week’s sermon:

We must remember that God is there for us whenever we need him, everywhere and all of the time. So we in turn, cannot always allocate when and how long we take to worship him back. And yes, I do realise that a bowls match was once enough to keep Sir Francis Drake from attending to the approaching Spanish Armada. But God’s word is more important – important enough to keep the Stillwater Bowls Club waiting a few minutes.

Today’s special service, however, was far exceeding the missing a bowls match boundaries. In fact, after three hours of singing, dancing, a long sermon from the bishop, a special prayer for some rain to ease the seemingly never-ending drought and a ‘few words’ from each of the new ministers, Teresa was starting to contemplate the idea of missing lunch. Now she regarded herself as a patient and accommodating lady. But missing a meal? That was stretching it a bit.

Sadly, other than the sheer length of the occasion, both Teresa and Digby would also remember the day for a few other unsavoury events. They started quite subtly, about an hour into the service, when a white couple sitting near the aisle managed to sneak out quite unobtrusively although noisily enough for Teresa to notice. Then a few hymns later, she sensed movement directly behind her, and with quite a bit of inconvenience to other worshippers, James and Debbie finally left. Two more exits followed quite quickly, both white couples who were Stillwater regulars. Teresa kept her gaze on the bishop as they left, noticing his downturned eyes and how his one arm seemed to lean heavily on the lectern with his chin cupped in his hand.

But the most obvious, memorable and unsavoury exit was yet to come.

In dramatic style, Women’s Auxiliary President Elsa Meyer picked her moment, waiting until the hall was completely silent. At that point, the service had about half an hour to run and the bishop had paused, about to launch into a special prayer for the country. Standing noisily to her feet, Elsa rejected the convenient side-isle route and made sure that nearly a full row of people were disturbed, before ending up in the central isle. She turned her head to face the bishop. A look passed between them. Just a moment, probably less than two seconds. But as Elsa Meyer turned and walked defiantly towards the main door, Teresa saw something in her eyes that she hadn’t seen in a place of worship for many a year. Hatred.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

And so, the strange and surreal situation came about that the predominately white Methodist Church of Stillwater had their biggest turnout ever for any single service, and yet, just four actual members of the church – all white people – remained in the packed hall: Minister Jones, Teresa, Digby and old Bob, who had long since fallen asleep in the corner.

Old Bob, of course, always fell asleep during services. Members of Stillwater Central loved to point out to newcomers, the pronounced marks on the walls, pillars and corners of the main church building where Bob had snoozed through many a sermon. Minister Jones had, in fact, once set himself a challenge that he could deliver a sermon of such magnificence, intrigue and importance, that it would keep old Bob awake to the final amen. To this end, he’d failed miserably, and Bob was invariably in dream heaven long before old Jones had even started. The funny thing though – and an irony not lost on the minister – was that Bob never failed to compliment him on a brilliant, well delivered and soul-awakening service on his way out of church. After a while, old Jones began consoling himself with the thought that even if he wasn’t reaching Bob directly, perhaps he was getting his message across in a kind of subliminal way.

So, it was well after one in the afternoon when this particular service – one that old Bob would later rate as, the best ever – finally came to an end. Even then, the bishop had the idea to invite the entire congregation to come forward and shake hands with the new appointments. As everyone moved to the front of the hall, an opportunity presented itself to Teresa. She could sneak out of the rear exit unnoticed and possibly still make Conti’s Cafe for a late take-away lunch. But that, of course, would mean missing the chance to meet her new minister. After a thoughtful couple of seconds, she tapped Digby on the arm.

If you’ve got a few extra minutes, would you mind going up to the front? I know you probably want to get back for lunch.

Digby smiled, and Teresa suspected that she had been rumbled. Her friend and neighbour was probably well aware that she was the one more concerned with a late meal.

That’s fine, Teresa. You go forward and I’ll go and give old Bob a nudge.

It turned out to be quite a wait and Teresa was soon regretting the fact that she had not had the good sense to remain seated until the queue shortened. The orderly line of people first met the bishop, who seemed in no hurry to get away, taking time to laugh, joke and exchange friendly handshakes. With a few of the men, he even abandoned the traditional European handshake, opting for the African ‘switcheroo’, followed by a few playful slaps on the back. The switcheroo – a three stage handshake which was catching on fast in all South African communities – started as a normal shake. Then it changed to a vertical grip as the thumb was lowered and the fingers were pointed skyward. To finish off, the participants allowed their hands to sink back to the normal grip, before disengaging with a friendly squeeze.

Standing alongside the bishop were Minister Jones, two ministers who Teresa presumed were the outgoing ministers from township churches and the three new appointments. The men were all smiling and chatting courteously with the passing people. Eventually she reached the front of the queue and came face to face with the district leader.

Nice to meet you, Bishop, I’m Teresa Thomas. I’d like to thank you on behalf of Stillwater Central for coming all the way from Jo’burg today. We know how busy you must be.

It’s an absolute pleasure, Mrs Thomas, and I’m so glad that you and your husband stayed right to the end.

Teresa’s face coloured.

Oh no, Bishop, Digby’s just a friend, neighbour and my transport today. Oh dear -he helps me with car lifts and repairs around the house–

Go on Teresa, admit you’ve got a toy-boy, hur hur hur! interrupted Digby who had joined the queue behind her.

A glare from Teresa was all he needed. He opened his mouth briefly then seemed to think the better of it, resorting instead to a few nervous flicks of his earrings. An awkward smile passed between the two men before Teresa gave the bishop an uncomfortable look and shuffled down the line towards the three new ministers.

Hello, it’s really nice to meet you. Which church have you been called to?

A handsome young white man with bright blue eyes and a shy smile returned her handshake. Standing just behind him was an attractive girl who looked to be in her early twenties. The man spoke with a soft, yet confident voice.

I’m off to Carolina – it’s my first appointment.

Hmmm… said Digby

Will you be living in the township then? asked Teresa. Do they have a manse there for you?

I believe there is some accommodation. It may not be a house as such, although I haven’t seen it yet. Hopefully there’ll be room for the two of us and our new baby.

There was a momentary pause before Teresa continued.

Congratulations to both of you. Well, I hope everything goes well in Carolina. We’ll be praying for you, Minister.

A few words were then exchanged with a smart-looking black minister who seemed to be in his mid-sixties. Originally from the Port Elizabeth area, he was now moving somewhere not that far from Stillwater. Teresa, however, had never heard of this particular township and didn’t have a clue as to where it was situated.

Moving on, she checked behind her to make sure that Digby was still in tow and realised that, other than old Bob, they were the last people in the queue. Bob, for his part, seemed to be in the process of congratulating a bemused-looking Reverend Jones on another excellent sermon. So, as she turned to the last minister, it occurred to her that she now had an ideal opportunity to spend a few minutes with her church’s new leader.

He shook her hand with a strong but courteous grip and a smile immediately leapt onto his round jovial face.

Mrs Thomas, it’s a pleasure to meet you.

Teresa was slightly taken aback.

Oh, Reverend, I didn’t realise you knew my name already!

I saw your picture in last week’s church bulletin and I have also made it my duty to memorise all the names of the Women’s Auxiliary committee. As you probably know, any minister worth his salt must realise where the church’s power-base actually lies.

The smile widened even further and his large frame shook slightly as he broke into a light-hearted chuckle. Digby soon joined in with his own low-range cackle, and it was a good few seconds before Teresa dared to continue this conversation.

Well you know my name, but I’m afraid that Digby and I don’t know yours.

Ah, he began, a trick of the overhead neon lights causing his dark eyes to sparkle momentarily. "I’m afraid it’s that long and complicated that even my Zulu congregation down in Durban couldn’t remember it. Be warned, you may need a pen and paper to write it down, and even then I think you’ll struggle to pronounce it."

Try me, countered Teresa who’d read a few books on memory training in her time and quite fancied herself on pronunciation.

It’s Joseph Jackson– and then followed a six syllable surname, characterised by some strange vowel sounds with a kind of click noise sandwiched in the middle. She knew straight away that she wouldn’t have a hope in hell’s chance of pronouncing it, never mind remembering it.

Yes it can be a problem, said the minister, breaking into a chuckle. But the good news is that everyone simply calls me by my nickname.

Teresa’s hand shot to her mouth; she could think of quite a few!

It’s Joe Jack. Stands to reason, shorten Joseph and Jackson and what do you get?

We can’t call you the Reverend Joe Jack – um, can we? Why not Reverend Joseph or Reverend Jackson then?

Or we could call you Joe Jackson, like the singer, added Digby breaking into the chorus of a song Teresa had never heard before.

Well you can call me what you like, laughed the minister. And I’m sure I’ve been called a few things in my time. But I’m used to Joe Jack and that’s how they knew me down in Durban.

This conversation had taken an unusual turn, and Teresa was soon thinking that she wasn’t really finding out much about the man. Or maybe – on second thoughts – she was. Even in the little that had been said, she had an overriding feeling about him. Some people warn against first impressions, but she, for the most part, had always put a lot of faith in them. And yes, there was definitely something impressive and larger than life about him. Kindness, sincerity and honesty sparkled in his dark brown eyes, and humour – with perhaps a touch of mischief – seemed to be hiding just below the surface of his engaging smile. But there was something else. It was visible every now and again, sandwiched somewhere between the easy-going manner and the twinkle in the eyes. Was it apprehension?

Now suddenly, those eyes were looking not just with apprehension but with some alarm towards the back of the hall. Teresa followed his gaze to see a thin black lady beckoning impatiently to him and calling in her native language.

Zulu, I think, whispered Digby.

There was a change in Reverend Joe Jack. He spoke quicker, his eyes anxious and focused away from Teresa and Digby.

Please excuse me; my wife – the boss – is calling.

Then he tapped them both lightly on the shoulders, mouthed an apology to old Bob who was now talking to the bishop, and turned and headed for the rear doors.

Teresa watched him go, noticing that the hall was nearly empty with just a few stragglers making their way out of the main front door.

You’re probably a bit tired to be cooking now, Teresa said Digby. Fancy a drive down to the golf club. I believe they do lunch right up ’till two thirty.

She could have hugged him. This was the Digby she knew and loved. One minute he was dropping you right in it with ‘toy boy’ comments to a bishop, and the next, he was saving the day making sure that Sunday lunch wasn’t skipped. She quickened her pace towards the rear door which led to the car park, calculating that she would be no less than an hour behind schedule with her first mouthful. Not too bad a delay under the circumstances.

It had taken awhile, with a fair helping of patience and subtlety, but Teresa had eventually managed to convince Digby of the importance of regular eating times. This lady was not for turning breakfast into brunch or lunch into a mid-afternoon snack. In fact, you could set your watch by her eating habits and the wisest of visitors usually had the good sense to work around her daily schedule. Pop in for a quick chat at 12:30 when she was cooking lunch, or (even worse) at 1 PM when she was eating it, and you’d invariably receive short, sharp and hurried contributions to the conversation. Turn up, however, just a quarter of an hour after the last mouthful and you’d get an altogether different person: gracious, full of smiles and brimming over with small talk.

Another lesson that she’d tried to teach her friend and neighbour, was to do with this very idea of popping in. Here, they were total opposites. Family, friends and even friends of friends were constantly in and out of Digby’s house – and if it wasn’t people, it was animals. At the last count, he owned four cats, three dogs and a rabbit. Teresa, however, who had lived alone since the passing of Mr Thomas, found casual visits tiring at best and simply annoying at worst. She generally frowned on visitors turning up without prior arrangement – these people didn’t realise how busy she was. Often, they made the mistake of thinking that a retired person was bored in some way or other. In fact, Teresa planned most days with an almost military precision and someone popping in during a hair-washing session, important cricket match on TV or cake-baking morning, might find her a little offhand, to say the least.

And so, for Teresa and Digby, an interesting, different and controversial morning service was nearly over. They were, however, in for one more unexpected and rather disturbing incident on their way out. Turning the corner into the small foyer at the back of the hall, they nearly collided with Reverend Joe Jack and his wife. He was holding her tightly, his hand cupping the back of her head which was buried in his shoulder. She was crying; her sobs echoing loudly in the otherwise silence of the empty room. Joe Jack looked up, startled by their presence and quickly whispered something in her ear.

I’m so sorry, he said, his expression somewhere between panic and concern. It’s been a long and very emotional day for us. Please excuse me; I’d better take Themba home.

With that, he took hold of his wife’s hand and guided her into the bright sunlight.

Hmmm, I wonder what’s upset her then, said Digby, flicking once again at one of his earrings.

Teresa paused a second before replying.

I wouldn’t mind betting that it’s not a ‘something’ but a ‘someone’.

Digby nodded thoughtfully before gently taking her by the arm and steering her towards the car.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 2

First Monday: Just George, an Incident at the Post Office and those Dogs next Door.

It was an infuriating start to Teresa’s week. First of all, Just George, the gardener and all-purpose handyman, had failed to show up. That meant that the garden path would, no doubt, remain a mess for at least another week. So far, only half the tiles were laid and the front lawn was a clutter of dug-up earth, grass, broken tiles and