Translated from Sesotho by Makafane Tšepang Ntlamelle

On the expanse lying beyond the Mohokare River—that is, on the stretch of land that was once part of Lesotho until it was seized by the Boers in the Seqiti War—and toward the Eastern Maloti range in particular, is a rather rugged area which is the site of a small village whose Basotho residents named “Marung.” Now, despite what this name means, this village has nothing to do with clouds. It acquired it after the Le Roux family settled in the area long ago. To the Basotho living there, this Boer family’s name sounded an awful lot like the Sesotho word meaning cloud, “leru.” Because more than one member of the Le Roux settled there, of course, this was duly pluralized and so became “ma-ru.” And, being the name of a place, it evolved in the end into “Maru-ng,” the village in the clouds.

Nestled in a valley some ten miles south of Marung was a plaas called Thabong, which at one time came under the care of a man named Gert Snyman, though the Basotho who worked for and lived alongside him called him Chere, just as they called Mrs. Snyman by the Sesotho name ’Mamosa.

One winter afternoon, ’Mamosa sat on her veranda, where she was reading—or had been reading, to be more precise. Quite some time had passed since she’d set aside her book with the intention of returning to it once she’d been able to make sense of the passages she’d gone over. They had staked a place among the many others she’d read over the several decades the Lord had let her see. She was now almost absent-mindedly staring down the road from Marung.

Suddenly, ’Mamosa noticed a mounted horse charging down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. She was reminded of Mokoenehi, who’d set off on his own horse to the post office earlier. The old woman wondered how much longer it would be until he returned with her letters. She loved receiving letters and had penned many herself, mostly to her children, who were scattered about the country’s cities which were not only teeming with people but brimming with danger.

Inside was another old woman, ’Masebolai, or Marie, as ’Mamosa had taken to calling her since her arrival at the plaas and as ’Masebolai had herself chosen to be called after her baptism. As the unfamiliar horse and horseman drew nearer, ’Mamosa called out to her. ’Masebolai emerged at once. ’Mamosa wanted to know whether Mokoenehi had returned. No, ’Masebolai answered, after which she disappeared inside.

The sun’s rays pleasantly shining down on her, ’Mamosa shut her eyes—which were shrouded by a few loose strands of her grizzled hair—and retreated into her thoughts once more.

Marie returned a few moments later with a cup of coffee (which was the caffeinated beverage of choice in these parts, not tea). She handed it to ’Mamosa, yanking her out of her reverie. Right then, the dogs began to bark. ’Mamosa reckoned the sight of  Mokoenehi’s horse had riled them up. Marie went back inside while ’Mamosa began emptying her cup. She came back after some time with two letters. She handed them to ’Mamosa, after which ’Mamosa thanked her. Marie waited for ’Mamosa to finish her coffee so she could take the cup inside, but ’Mamosa instead set it aside and opened the first letter. It was brief and she went through it quickly. She then raised her cup to drain the last bit of coffee and immediately asked Marie for a refill. Marie was a little astonished. While it wasn’t unusual for ’Mamosa to ask for a second cup, more often than not, this request came only after a brief pause. Although Marie had brewed enough coffee to fill two cups, she’d already helped herself to the other. Marie kept this to herself, however, and took the cup away without saying a word.

It took her a while, but Marie finally returned with the second cup. She placed it near ’Mamosa, who gazed into the distance in silence. ’Mamosa didn’t thank her like before. In fact, she seemed to not notice her at all. In ’Mamosa’s palms was the second letter, which she had read while Marie fixed her more coffee. Marie assumed it must’ve borne upsetting news, but she resolved not to press her about it, afraid that, in an attempt to be honest, ’Mamosa might wind up broaching a matter she hadn’t yet quite found the heart to. The two women hid nothing from one another, and knowing that ’Mamosa would eventually tell her if there was anything in that letter she ought to know, Marie trod back inside.

The sun was still out, but it would soon dissolve behind the mountains far out in the west. A fairly sharp breeze had begun to blow through the area. It avoided  ’Mamosa’s direction, however, and danced, instead, on the bare peach tree branches. Down by the stream, near the road, the cattle, hooves caked in mud, were entering the final leg of their journey from the grazing lands back to the plaas. The cows, udders so full they might burst, yearned to get back to their calves. The sorrowful cries they let out made this more than evident—sorrowful cries the calves responded to from the kraal behind the house with wails of their own. The bull among the herd, too, lowed softly, and you’d have thought that it, too, was gearing to suckle some calf. By the house the ducks sent out their quacks. The turkeys, likewise, their gobbles, even though, in truth, they were merely following the other animals’ lead, including the dogs, whose barks could be heard from afar. Across the sky above, the birds sped past, morsels of food held carefully between their beaks, wanting very little else than to be reunited with the chicks they’d left behind in their nests. In the hamlet across the river where the plaaswerkers lived, plumes of smoke ascended into the air, signs that the women had finished the day’s work and were now fixing their husbands and children supper in anticipation of the stillness which would abound among both beasts and men when night fell.

’Mamosa was oblivious to these scenes of calm that unfolded around her. The letter she’d just read, the second, had left her shaken. It wasn’t until the sun could not be seen anymore and the cold had started to set in that ’Mamosa got up and noticed the second cup of coffee that Marie had brought her. Rather than drink it, she called out to Marie, who appeared a few moments later and was upset to find that the coffee had gone cold.

“My goodness, ’Mamosa!” she began. “Why haven’t you touched your coffee? I brought it to you hours ago. Now you’re just mocking me. That’s it, mocking me. Why, ’Mamosa, would you ask me to fix you a second cup if you knew you weren’t going to drink it? I’m too old for your childish games, ’Mamosa. An old bag like yourself should know that.”

“No, no, Marie, my friend, it’s not like that at all. I promise. I didn’t see it. I have a lot on my mind, that’s all. Pieter wrote me...”

’Mamosa remained quiet for the next few minutes. She seemed to want to get something off her chest but didn’t quite know how to. Being as close as they were, Marie recognized this and let ’Mamosa take her time.

“I’m going to read you part of the letter:

‘…Which brings me to a matter your daughter-in-law and I have been talking about for a while now. We’ve thought things through, and we think it’d be better if you left the plaas and joined us in the city. That you’re the only blanke out there doesn’t sit well with us in the least. We believe it’d be in your best interest if that weren’t the case. If you moved in with us, we’d sell the plaas, since we don’t see ourselves ever moving there. Moreover, as you know, there’s nobody there to help you with all the work, and we’re concerned  that the plaas may very well go bankrupt sooner or later. I’ll patiently await your response and, should you agree, we’ll fetch you in two weeks. We’ll leave the sale of the plaas to lawyers. I have faith that you’ll be eager to come live with me, your son.’”

When she was through, ’Mamosa folded the letter, and as she did, not a single word left her lips. She turned to Marie, who was now seated. She was facing ’Mamosa when she began to read, but her eyes were now fixed on the ground below. For a long time, the two remained still, neither one of them saying anything. Eventually, Marie got up, clapped her hands saying, “Ah!” and walked back inside. ’Mamosa followed her into the kitchen. She sat and quietly watched Marie while she carried on with her work, making sure that her eyes did not meet ’Mamosa’s. ’Mamosa was stunned and unable to comprehend her reaction until some moments later when she turned to look at Marie, who was standing behind her by then, wiping tears from her eyes. ’Mamosa’s could feel her heart begin to shatter, and she immediately left for her bedroom, where she bawled her eyes out. With ’Mamosa gone, Marie found the opportunity to sit down and let the tears which had begun to blind her fall down too.

What could have possibly been on their minds? Why were they crying?

***

’Mamosa’s mind lunged back to one particular day many years ago, when she and Chere had been woman and man only a year; back when they were in the throes of their youth, when the tops of their heads were still adorned with thick locks of deep brown, when their faces still resembled smooth hills, and when they did not have to strain their eyes to see; back when they were still full of strength, when their arms were full and their backs sturdy; back when their lives held vast promise, like an uncultivated field before a farmer. It was late in the afternoon, and ’Mamosa had just come out of the coop, where she’d been feeding the chickens. She looked up and saw a horse coming down the same the same path Mokoenehi would take several years later when he brought the mail. The horse was obviously tired; it dragged its hooves as it trotted on. Riding it was a man who, from the blanket that enveloped him and the hat which complemented it, could have only been a Mosotho man. He dismounted and greeted ’Mamosa in a voice which spoke just as much of exhaustion and hunger, the result of having spent numerous days on the road. Afterwards, he asked to speak to the man in charge of the plaas, and ’Mamosa asked him to follow her inside. They stopped by the kitchen, which ’Mamosa disappeared into for a moment. The poor man was amazed to see ’Mamosa reemerge with a large mug of coffee and a thick slice of bread which had been buttered very generously.

“Here, eat up,” ’Mamosa told him. “My husband will be with you in a minute.”

Once he had cleared his plate and tossed down his coffee, ’Mamosa called Chere. By the time he appeared, the man who had come to see him was already clutching his hat in deference like he had been taught.

“Lumela, monna,” Chere said. Good afternoon, my good man.

“E, morena,” the man replied. Yes, my chief.

“So, what brings you here today?” Chere continued in Sesotho.

“I have come seeking safety, my chief.”

“And where are you coming from?”

“From Hantši Sekepere’s plaas, my chief, in Likoiling."

“Oh, you mean Hans Scheepers’! Why did you leave?”

“I do not know what to do anymore, my chief. Hantši is a hard man—in fact, he is no man at all. He is heartless and is quick to lash out at us. He also says he has too many hands. He wants to let some of us go.”

“I see. Wait here, we’ll get back to you in a moment.”

Chere went back inside to speak to ’Mamosa. When they joined the man again, they asked him about himself: What was his name? How old was he? Was he married? Did he have any chidren?  They were pleasantly surprised to learn that he was their age, and that, just like them, though he was married, he didn’t have any children yet. Since they were satisfied with his answers, they hired him. Chere and ’Mamosa suggested that he spend the night with them. He could return to Hans Scheepers’ for his wife and his belongings the following day. The man obliged.

As the man mounted his horse the next day, Chere told him that he was glad he came. They were both still very young, he added, and he hoped their families would grow cheek by jowl on the plaas  and that they’d become friends and, like friends, help one another no matter the situation. He finished by saying that he hoped they’d remember that moment for as long as they lived. The man left Chere’s plaas convinced that God would help him and Chere build a life there together, that his days his days wandering all over the Orange Free State were behind him. A few days later, a wagon carrying his belongings and his wife pulled into Thabong. The man’s name was Rasebolai. His wife’s name was ’Masebolai—the same  ’Masebolai who would eventually go by Marie.

The years wore on, and during that time, Chere and Rasebolai worked together amicably. They got along so well that in time, they became so much more than just baas and klaas: as Chere had hoped, they became true friends. Other hands came during this time as well, but whereas most of them wound up leaving, Rasebolai stayed to reap the fruits of his and Chere’s labor. The fields yielded abundant harvest after abundant harvest. The animals, too, multiplied: the sheep and the goats whose wool and mohair they sold, and the cattle, whose copious milk they processed and also traded. All over the farm there was increment. Gain also came in the kind Basotho are especially fond of, children.

Rasebolai fathered two boys while Chere had two girls and a boy, Pieter. The children grew up healthy and strong. They played together on the plaas, neither one of them looking down on the other—until they went off to school and saw how the world past the gates of the plaas, the real world, was ordered.

Rasebolai’s children quickly made it to the third grade, but as was expected of them, they were pulled out and joined their parents in the fields and coops. It wasn’t much longer before they left for Johannesburg, that famed city that in those days scores from all over the earth had flocked to and have continued to flock to today. Chere’s children also attended school. They stayed much longer than Rasebolai’s children, of course, and matriculated. The girls then went back home, where they remained until the men who were convinced the girls were the long-lost ribs of their own ribs came and took them away. 

Pieter, on the other hand, headed to Johannesburg after finishing school, where he found work in some  office in the city. His father tried again and again to get him to come back to the plaas, to herd the animals and milk them, to weed the fields and harvest their offerings—to carry on their forefathers' tradition of living off the land. He, however, did not envision that kind of life for himself. He felt out of place among the mountains and rivers; the pastures, the foliage and the fields; the cattle, the sheep and the birds. Being around these things, he couldn’t help but feel forlorn, dead. His mind was at ease among what the city had to offer: the concrete jungles and their eternal thrums; the high-rise buildings, the machines, the trains, the cars, the mine dumps, the man-made pits. The racket, the constant swarming of bodies, the fighting and the killing, the dire drunkenness—Pieter felt electrified by these things, never mind the fact that he himself neither drank nor wished to take anybody’s life. Chere was at first dismayed by the dissonance of his and his son’s interests, by his aversion to what excited his son and his son’s fondness of what he couldn’t stand. Nevertheless, Chere was wise enough to ultimately make peace with this.

During their first year in Johannesburg, Rasebolai’s sons made sure to keep in touch with him. They continued to write to him in their second year, though not as frequently. What’s more, by then, the letters no longer bore promises to visit soon. Their letters continued to wane throughout the third year, and by the end of the fourth, Rasebolai had not received a single one from either of them, a fact which would not change for years to come.

Gradually, the fervor the men of the plaas men had for life began to fade; they spoke less, preferring the company of their own thoughts. And how could they not when their children had ventured off to strange places to build lives they did not want them to share in at all? It wasn’t just the men, though, the women of Thabong, too, lost their  glimmer.

In time, the men and women of Thabong approached the dusk of their lives. Their arms could no longer manage the weight of the ploughs, their backs grew tired, their faces were overtaken by wrinkles, their hair turned gray, and they had more conversations with themselves than with each other. They had diligently tilled the soils of their own lives, but it now seemed to have all been for naught. Thabong was no longer a place of joy, as its name suggests, but of despair. And not just any despair but the gut-wrenching, death-inducing kind, as illustrated by Chere’s eventual demise.

It began with his looking slimmer than usual, which was remarkable since he wasn’t “ill” in the usual sense; he neither had a temperature nor a cough. When he went to go see the doctors, they explained that he was anxious. They advised him to leave the plaas for a while and go somewhere he could rest and recuperate. He heeded this advice and left, putting Rasebolai in charge. Considering how soon he caught onto things, it was as though Chere had not left at all. Chere eventually came back from his break, and he looked like his old self again. But no sooner had he returned than he started to waste away again.

Then, a while later, he and Rasebolai went out to tighten the wire fence. After they were done eating the lunches they had packed, Chere went to go sit in the shade. “I’m tired,” he told Rasebolai. “I’m going to close my eyes for a little bit.” When Rasebolai tried to wake him an hour later, there was a peculiar coolness to his skin. Then the realization hit him: the lie-down Chere had taken was one he would never wake from.

With only one man left at Thabong, ’Mamosa’s son wrote to urge that the farm be sold, but his mother refused. ’Mamosa knew full well that Rasebolai was capable of running the plaas just as well without Chere. More than that, Rasebolai was reinvigorated when it dawned on him that, unlike the first time around, things were resting on his shoulders now that this was a more permanent arrangement; when he saw that Marie and ’Mamosa had put all their trust in him. He threw himself into work the way he did when Chere left him in charge, and he even gave up his habit of speaking to himself so much.

A year went by after Chere’s passing. It was followed by another, then a third, and they had seemingly learned to live without him. Then during the fourth, Rasebolai joined him in that place where we must all go.

Following this, Marie left the workers’ hamlet and moved into the main house with ’Mamosa. They adjusted to the living situation. In time, things went back to how they were at Thabong, that place that they’d put their sweat into, that their hands had built and patched up when it was necessary; that place they’d both acknowledged to themselves was where they would meet their deaths.

***

Back in the kitchen, Marie sat overwhelmed and lost like she’d never been in her life until then. All before her was nothing but darkness—a horrid darkness that cloaks you at your weakest, that makes it impossible to see a way out. All she had left now was Thabong. It was a piece of her, and she’d long been certain that she’d breathe her last here. Now she wasn’t so sure. She didn’t know where she’d go if ’Mamosa went and lived with her son since her own children were as good as dead to her. True, she had other relatives living elsewhere, but she wondered whether they would put up with a hag like her who no longer had much to give. There was nowhere else for her to turn.

’Mamosa’s thoughts were similarly scattered. She certainly didn’t want to let her son down. At the same time, she was unaccustomed to the city, and she doubted she would ever breathe easy there—especially when it lacked the kind of peace and quiet the plaas had more than enough of and had accompanied her for as long as she could remember. Leaving Thabong, it dawned on her, would mean living out the rest of her days in unfamiliar territory, and with all of this she could not fathom how she could possibly move in with Pieter. But it was Marie who, above all, made her realize that she would likely never leave. She thought about how selflessly Marie and Rasebolai had served them, how much their hearts were in Thabong, how much of their lives they’d given to them, how they had grown old together on that plaas. It was inconceivable for her to forsake Marie at a time like this, when Marie depended on her as much as she did; when Chere himself wouldn’t have even dared to think of doing so, were he still alive. In the past she’d considered taking Marie with her to her son’s and finding her work there. But ’Mamosa still held out hope that Marie’s sons would return when the city would inevitably wallop them as it had so many others, and leaving with her, ’Mamosa realized, would make it impossible for them to be reunited. It also crossed her mind that Marie would probably have a hard time adjusting to the city, or that her daughter-in-law wouldn’t treat Marie unkindly. This thought particularly left her bereft considering just how well ’Mamosa had treated her. Thabong, ’Mamosa concluded, was the only place where she’d find rest.

’Mamosa and Marie had their supper, as they did all their meals, in silence. When they were done and they had finished cleaning the dishes, they pulled out their Bibles (the old tradition of ending the evening by reading from the Good Book was still alive and well here). ’Mamosa turned to the book of Ruth and read of Ruth’s refusal to abandon her mother-in-law Naomi:

“…For wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you will lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if anything but death parts you and me…”

***

’Mamosa called Marie the next morning. They had not said a word to each other since last night. Once Marie had joined her, ’Mamosa read from her response to her son:

“Now, about joining you in the city, I’ve thought long and hard about this, my boy, and I think it’d be better if I didn’t. I don’t know if I’d ever get used to city life and if it would offer me the same peace the plaas does, and which I can’t imagine being without.

“You say there are no other white people left here, that I’m the only one. That’s true. But you seem to have forgotten that there’s someone here who has become like a sister to me, one whose husband was like your father’s brother. Someone who, as her husband did, faithfully served us for years. It’d be ungrateful for me to turn my back on her now in her old age, when she needs someone to care for her. I know for a fact that your father wouldn’t have forsaken her either. I just cannot abandon her. And I know that as long as she’s here, nothing bad will ever happen to me. The woman I’m talking about is Marie. We will live here together until we die…”

Although there was more to this letter that ’Mamosa read, Marie was so excited that she stopped paying attention past this point. When she was done, ’Mamosa folded up the letter and looked up to see a teary-eyed Marie; she did not need to ask her why she was crying. Then Marie stood and asked Mokoenehi to go post the letter.

The darkness that had shrouded Marie’s heart since the previous evening had all but vanished now; that dreadful night had given way to day. The sky above her was blue again—as a matter fact, it seemed bluer than ever. She was hopeful again. Marie felt that in the same way that ’Mamosa had become to her like Ruth to Naomi, so she would also be to ’Mamosa. Ruth’s words sounded in her heart:

“…For wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you will lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me, and more also, if anything but death parts you and me…”

Peace permeated the plaas once again. By the stream, the cattle grazed in peace, and the calves among them, whose stomachs were filled, were also peaceful; by the hillside, the goats, too, grazed in peace. Peace had descended upon the house as well: there it was, among the geese waddling toward the stream; among the chickens which pecked at the ground for food; among the dogs basking in the sun while they raised and lowered their ears every now and again at the clucks of the roosters and hens’ cackles. Peace had returned to all, including ’Mamosa and Marie’s hearts, where it ran over.