The Statue

Jarred Thompson

It was still dark when Themba Modise woke up, entered the kitchen and found there to be no electricity to boil water for his coffee. He sat down at the kitchen counter and watched the morning light lap up the remaining puddles of night, knowing he’d have to wake his family up soon.

Refreshments, chairs, sound system, security, pamphlets, tents for shade, bottled water—he went through his checklist, making sure everything had been organised for the ceremony later that day. Then, as he did most mornings before his family woke, he went to the garage to retrieve the head of the statue, the one the municipality had been compelled to take down. He kept the statue’s head wrapped tightly in an oil-greased cloth and stashed away behind a box of old magazines.

It was his ritual, ever since he became the head’s owner, to contemplate it. No one knew where the head of the former general went—the general consensus being that it was lost, along with other limbs, in the celebration that ensued after the statue’s collapse. Themba found that contemplating the general’s severed head kept his mind fresh, and alert, to their gains and losses since liberation.

            It didn’t take long for the sun to imprint itself, triumphantly, in the sky, announcing a new day. Time to wake up, thought Themba, moving back through the house, opening the curtains in each room. He knocked on Sizwe and Luthando’s bedroom door—a knock they knew not to disobey.

His wife, Susan, was already up and getting dressed. “So no lights again,” she said.

            “No.” Themba checked his phone. “Apparently it’s the whole municipality. They haven’t paid the outstanding debt.”

            “Who’s telling you that? Kgothatso?”

            “Yeah, look at this.”

            Susan read the message on Themba’s phone and shook her head. “Well, we prepared for this. You need to call someone to pick up the two megaphones in your office.”

             “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to deal with things like this, especially today.”

            “I know, but what else can we do?”

            The couple got dressed in silence. Susan could sense Themba’s frustration and nervousness but she had faith he’d rise to the occasion. By the time Themba went to knock on his children’s door again the boy and girl were already up—Sizwe doing up the laces of his formal black shoes and Luthando tying her braids away from her face.

            “There are no lights, so we’ll get something to eat on the way. I’m sure uncle Muhammad is selling vetkoeks today.”

            “Yes! I’m starving!” said Sizwe, walking past his father and heading downstairs.

            “Luthando. Did you hear me?”  Themba asked.

            “Yes, I heard. Sounds great.” Luthando walked past her father on her way to the kitchen, not making eye contact with him.

            Themba didn’t know how to approach the situation with his daughter—he had more pressing things on his mind anyway—but he hoped the tension between them would subside. Luthando wanted to wear a dress that was, in his mind, too short and inappropriate for the occasion.

 “What kind of message do you want to send to the young men?” He had asked her the night before. She was still young, he thought, too young to be thinking about boys. Themba knew the day was coming when his daughter would ask for her own bedroom and he’d have to come up with a plan—maybe turn the storage room into a bedroom? But where would he put those boxes filled with his parent’s things?

            The family left the house at 8:30 a.m. with just enough time to stop by uncle Muhammad’s, get vetkoek and be on their way to the ceremony. The town of Koperslang wasn’t very big, most people walked wherever they needed to get to, which made the place more hospitable to pedestrians than motorists. There weren’t many motorists in the town anyways.  Only the major, some municipal officers, a pastor, and oom Fredericks the chicken farmer, had cars. Everyone else just walked or rode their bicycles.

As the Modise family passed ouma Venus’ peach-coloured cottage, Luthando asked her mother how the old music teacher was doing, seeing that she had to stop teaching because her arthritis was getting worse.

            “She’s getting by,” replied Susan. “The other day I took her to see the doctor. She didn’t have enough money for her medication, so I helped her out a little.”

            “I hope she gets better. She was the best music teacher I had,” said Luthando, remembering the joy in the ouma Venus’ face when she learnt to played her first sheet of music, without a mistake, on the school's old grand piano. 

            The family were almost at Uncle Muhammad’s caravan when they crossed paths with Nick. Things hadn’t always been pleasant between Nick and the Modise family, especially after Nick stole one of Susan’s rings (and didn’t own up to it). The incident happened five years ago when Nick was their gardener and Susan had a bad habit of forgetting her rings in the kitchen window. But Themba, priding himself on being a well-tempered man, wasn’t the type to hold grudges against anyone, especially someone as destitute as Nick.

            “Morning, Modise family,” said Nick, holding out his fingers for his dog to lick. “Off to the unveiling, I see.”

            “Morning Nick. Yes we are,” said Themba, hoping Nick wouldn’t be at the ceremony. Last time—when the town hosted the Minister of Mineral Resources—Nick had burst into the hall making all kinds of embarrassing comments about how the government was hell-bent on destroying the natural beauty of Koperslang. Nick had actually used that word, ‘hell-bent’. Themba thought about the meaning of the word long after he had security escort Nick off the premises.

            “I’ll see you there, then,” Nick winked, turning round to rummage in a nearby dustbin.

            “What’s he looking for?” Sizwe asked Susan.

            “Scraps and stuff like that. Things to eat or sell, I suppose.”

            The smell of fried dough and spiced mince-meat was just the combination to remind Themba that he was, in fact, quite hungry. He bought four vetkoeks and settled down on a nearby park bench next to Muhammad’s caravan.

            “I hear the ceremony is today? Too bad we have no electricity. Everyone should just be like me: totally gas sufficient,” said uncle Muhammad, giving Themba his change.

            “You use gas for everything? Even lights and stuff?” asked Susan.

            “Everything. Boiling water, keeping the lights on and cooking these vetkoeks. I got no time for incompetence. If I can’t rely on the municipality I’ll rely on myself.”

            Themba had nothing to add to the conversation. He’d known Muhammad for years—they went as far back as the liberation movement—and it seemed to him that Muhammad had given in to the same ennui of many who were involved in changing things. Koperslang definitely wasn’t the centre of the revolution by any measure, but they had had their protests here too, though on a smaller scale. He remembered being locked up with Muhammad for spray-painting anti-government messages on the public library walls. Muhammad had told Themba—in the darkness of their holding cell—about his dream of opening an authentic North-Indian restaurant in town, to bring some cosmopolitanism to the place. When Themba heard that word—cosmopolitanism—he wanted to laugh. It was a word with so many moving parts you could easily fumble over your own lips in the rush to say it. Still, it seemed to Themba that Muhammad had achieved his dream to some degree.

            “Why don’t you let me cater the events you organise?” Muhammad asked as Themba bought two Styrofoam cups of coffee for Susan and himself.

            “My friend, it’s a complicated process. You know you can’t just pick and choose your friends for jobs like that. There are procedures and protocols for that.”

            “Well then let me in on ‘the process’, my friend,” said Muhammad, smirking.

            “I’ll send you the application form next time. Okay?”

            “Oh, okay. Ja, you do that.”

            “I’ll see you at the ceremony?”

            “I might as well come through. Would get more customers there anyway.”

Themba tried to brush off his irritation at the weariness in Muhammad’s voice. This was an important day for the people of Koperslang; it was the beginning of national government investing in their small town and, who knows, maybe making the place a viable stop-over for tourists taking road trips to more exciting places. He wished people like Muhammad would have a little more faith in what he was trying to do.

The family made their way up Main Street, past the towering Dutch Reform Church and its wrought-iron fencing, past the post-office (which was closed for today’s event), past the one primary and high school (that stood opposite each other), past the burnt-down library and a few derelict buildings (that used to be shops) and up the small hill.

            A narrow dirt road wound its way to the top of the hill. The hill itself was covered in colourful fynbos: from bright yellows to deep pinks and pastel lilacs. Koperslang’s vegetation was a point of pride for the town; Themba had made several attempts to get the mayor to make an application to government to declare it a heritage site. They were still waiting for the forms to fill in.

            “Hey! Don’t do that,” Themba shouted at Sipho, who was plucking heads off the flowers. “How would you like it if I plucked your arms and legs off you?”

            “Sorry Dad.” Sizwe stuffed a clump of white petals in his pocket without his father noticing.

            “Look,” said Susan, “there’s the Mayor.”

            “He’s early for a change.” The Mayor was a tall and skinny man with a shiny bald head. He was the kind of man who always ran late for things. At least this this was Themba’s observation whenever he tried to catch the Mayor coming out of town-hall meetings or at his office. Themba never met a man who had perfected the skill of looking so busy yet accomplishing, essentially, nothing.

            “Mr. Mayor. Nice to see you this fresh morning,” said Themba

            “Morning Themba. I trust everything is in order for the Minister’s arrival?”

            “Everything is sorted, yes. Caterers are on their way as we speak.” Themba pointed to the bottom of the hill where the caterers’ white van was trudging up the dirt road. “Also, we’ll have to use megaphones since there’s no electricity for the extension cables that we ran yesterday.”

            “Well it’s set to be a proud day for our town either way you cut it,” said the Mayor.

“I’m sure it will be.”  The two men shook hands as Susan ushered the children to their designated seats on the stage.

            “Listen Themba,” the Mayor whispered, “seeing as your family are going to do the unveiling I thought it be more appropriate that I speak.”

            “Okay. But will I be able to say a few words? I was head of the committee that worked on this after all.”

            “We’ll see if there’s time. After I speak, the Minister has to speak and we don’t want people spending too much time in the sun. Let’s play it by ear, okay?”

            Themba knew what that meant and though he had half the mind to stand his ground, something inside him recoiled. “Sure. We don’t want anyone dying of heat stroke.”

            “That’s my man,” said the Major, heading towards his seat.

At 10:30 a.m. the sun was in full swing, playing its ensemble of snare drums on the heads of the people gathered on the hill. Themba had bottles of water organised for the crowd, but there was limited shade for the elderly and the very young. Most of the shade they had was dedicated to the caterers who were keeping the food fresh. Themba was happy to see all the seats in front of the stage filled with people he knew. There was the unemployed librarian, a couple of farmers from the outskirts of town, some school children and their parents and a few homeless people he’d recognised from the bottle store.

            “Good morning everyone,” began the Mayor. “It’s been a long time coming but today marks a new day in the life of our town. Today we unveil the statue dedicated to a very special man and woman—a couple from our town who were instrumental in liberating our land. Today we stand with giants of history—people like Mandela, Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr.—in paying homage to our forefathers and mothers who sacrificed so much. What a time to be alive, my brothers and sisters!”

Most of the crowd cheered and rose to their feet while some in the audience simply sat and nodded. “I would like to thank Mr Modise and his family for their commitment in bringing this to fruition. It was a long and arduous road, I’m sure Mr Modise will agree, but we finally raised the money to erect this magnificent commemoration of our heritage. And now, let us welcome the honourable Minister who has some very important words for us.”

The clapping continued as the Minister rose to his feet and walked across the stage in his black suit and square-framed black glasses, worn to block the sun’s glare. The Minister took the megaphone from the Mayor and began speaking. Themba didn’t listen much to the Minister’s speech, instead he kept his eyes on the elderly and the women with babies in their arms, making sure the heat wasn’t too much for them. Then, he scanned to the caterers’ tent and locked eyes with the head chef whose thumbs-up confirmed that the heat wasn’t spoiling the food. From his vantage point on the stage, he couldn’t be sure that everyone had received their allotted two bottles of water from the ushers but, on the surface, things seemed to be going according to plan.

            When the Minister was done talking there was a brief applause before Themba got up, intent on saying something. But before he could make it to the megaphone the Mayor announced that it was time to unveil the statue.

            “Would Mr Modise and his family come up to do the honours?”

            Susan held the children’s hands as Themba led his family to the large structure covered by a thick black veil. Themba noted the people in the audience were starting to get restless: everyone was now fanning themselves with their pamphlets while trying to get the attention of the nearest usher for more of the bottled water.

            “Before I do the unveiling I just want to say a couple of words,” said Themba. There was general unease in the crowd as he started to speak. He knew he had to be short and sharp to keep their attention. “I know a lot of you were sceptical about this, given all that we’ve been through in past last year or so.” From the corner of his eye Themba saw the Mayor’s unease, his left foot tapping vigorously on the stage floor. 

            “I believe this could be a turning point for Kopelslang if we can just remind ourselves of the things we can do together. If we hold ourselves accountable to one another, just like this great man and woman, commemorated here, did many years ago,” said Themba.

It was hard to read the crowd. Some people nodded passionately in agreement and others scowled, the gears of their minds churning Themba’s words into anything they wanted it to mean. He didn’t know what else to say so he stepped back and, with Susan and the kids on the other side of the veil, revealed the ten-foot high, pure-copper statue.

— —

The town’s people made their way down the hill, most of them sweaty and dusty from the dirt road. The Minister and Mayor were seated with their entourages under the caterers’ tent where they, along with the Modise family, enjoyed a selection of sandwiches, salads, cheeses, cold meats, samosas, biscuits, and cartons of fruit juice.

             “I can’t thank your family enough for pushing this initiative through. I think it will really lift morale in Kopelslang.” The Minister handed Susan a glass of fruit juice while the Mayor gripped Themba’s shoulder.

            “Well, that was our thinking too. Hopefully this means we can work more closely with your department to get the services and jobs that we need here in our community,”

            “Yes, of course. With this statue standing tall above the town it’s time we get our hands dirty. In fact, I came across a report not too long ago showing how much copper ore can be mined in this area. If we speak to the right people we could get things moving as soon as next year.”

            Susan was apprehensive. On the one hand, she wanted investment and jobs for the people; on the other hand she’d seen previous towns, not too far from Kopelslang, whose landscapes had been devastated by mining. “I’m not sure that’s really the course we want to take for our town,” she said, forcing the Mayor to quickly interject.

             “What Susan means, Minister, is that we’ll have to weigh up all our options, naturally. Kopelslang is also known for its biodiversity and fynbos and things like that.”

            “Aaahh, yes. We’ll talk about it another time,” replied the Minister, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave early. Something pressing has come up in the legislative chamber that needs my immediate attention.”

The Modise family, with the Mayor and his entourage, looked on as the Minister’s brigade of black BMWs drove away. Once everyone had had their fill of refreshments the Mayor decided to give the leftovers to his entourage. “They work so hard for me week in and week out. They deserve it,” he reasoned.

            It was around 3 p.m. when the stage, tents, chairs and food were all packed up. Everyone responsible for organising the event was now heading back down the hill. Everyone, except the Modises.

              “Dad, why are we still here? You said this wouldn’t take the whole day,” said Luthando from a nearby rock. From her vantage point over the town she saw that, on a public holiday like today, the busiest places were the public swimming pool and the street that had the only bar and bottle store in town.

            “We’re gonna go soon,” said Themba. He held Susan close and surveyed the statue one more time.

            “It really is a beautiful statue,” said Susan, admiring the gleaming copper and the intricate details of the man and woman’s faces—now forever memorialised. “Your mom and dad would be honoured.” She kissed Themba on the cheek, her lips catching a tear from his right eye. “Love, what’s wrong?” 

            “Something’s not right.”

            “With the statue? It’s perfect. Everything your mom and dad would have hoped for.”

            “No. It’s not that.”

            “What then?”

Themba turned from the statue of his parents, spotting Sizwe near the edge of a steep and rocky decline. “Hey my boy. Come away from there,” he called. Before Sizwe heeded the call, the boy pulled out the white petals in his pocket and scattered them, hoping a breeze would carry them downhill. The petals didn’t get very far—most of them landed on an outcrop of rock below Sizwe’s feet.

             “I said come away!” shouted Themba. Sizwe stepped back from the edge, giving Themba a better view of the black smudge in the centre of town, what was once the public library. He recalled the night the police called him to share news of its destruction: a library that had been renamed after his family. Ever since, Themba searched inside himself for the reason anyone would take a flame to a public library.

            “Well at least you can’t burn copper,” he joked to Susan. His wife—knowing what he was referring to—rubbed her husband’s arm from shoulder to wrist.

“We’ll put a fence around it. I think a small security presence wouldn’t hurt too. Just in case, you know how people can get,” said Susan.  

Themba nodded, wondering if one day, someone might have a replica of his head, wrapped in an oil-greased cloth and stashed away in a cupboard for contemplation.