Tandia (27 page)

A young black man with a big smile and a beautifully fitted black evening suit with a white carnation leapt into the ring. He seemed to vibrate, several parts of his body moving at the same time as though he was headed in several directions at once. He moved over to lift the microphone up into the ring, giving Tandia a pearly-white smile as he did so.

'Good evening my brothers and sisters, majietas and girls! Please give a warm welcome to the sensational Dorothy "Dotty" Masuka, the sizzling hepcat, Africa's own soul lady, the one and only yippy-woo-biddy-hi-de-ho lady, the singing sensation from Bulawayo! To accompany the first African lady of song I give you the Harlem Swingsters with the immortal clarinet of Mister Funny-face himself, the great Gwigwi!'

The crowd started to stomp and whistle and yell their heads off as half-a-dozen musicians climbed into the ring. A small, smiling man moved to the microphone as the compere hopped out of the ring. He held a clarinet in his hands, putting it to his lips as the bass started to beat out the rhythm and the alto sax pumped out a blues number slow and mournfully. He appeared to blow, but no sound came from the clarinet. He withdrew it, looked at it, tapped -it with his finger as though remonstrating with it, all the while pulling funny faces. He tried and failed again as the rhythm in the background increased and the alto wailed plaintively. Finally, he moved over to the edge of the ring and, using the clarinet, pointed at Tandia, beckoning to her with his index finger to come to the edge of the stage.

Tandia was almost paralysed with fear but Mama Tequila, nudging her, whispered, 'Tandy, this your big chance, baby, go-go!' Shaking, Tandia rose and walked to the edge of the stage, to the thunderous applause and whistles of the crowd. Gwigwi brought the clarinet sideways to his lips and kissed it and then pointed to Tandia and kissed it again, whereupon he handed the instrument to her. Tandia, smiling despite her terror, brought the clarinet to her lips and kissed it lightly, handing it back to the little man. Gwigwi, smiling and miming his ecstasy, walked backwards towards the mic and, bringing the clarinet up to his lips, he blew a long, sweet, absolutely pure note that reached up, cutting through the smoke and the hubbub of the crowd, holding its distance and clarity until the cinema was completely hushed and the lone clarinet became the spirit of them all, and then fading down, slowly, perfectly controlled until it warped into a whisper hardly heard at all.

The cinema broke into wild applause and the band picked up the beat, quickened the pace and swung into Dixieland. The lights came down low until a single spot held onto the musicians in the ring; then they brightened again to show a smiling black woman in a red satin evening dress, who walked over to the microphone and began to sing with only Gwigwi's clarinet and the bass to accompany her.

I love my thing

'cause my man's my thing

Call him drink, drank, drunk…

he's still my thing!

He jobs for me...

t
hat you wouldn't have thunk.

So
I love my thing…

Eee…
Ma…Ye…
Mo
…Wunk!

I love my thing

'cause my man's my thing…

He wins for me,

and he makes me drunk,

drunk with the love

I've fallen in!

So
I love my thing…

Eee…Ma…Ye…Mo…Wunk!

The crowd waited half a beat after the song had ended before going wild. Tandia found her pulse racing and she could, hear her heart pounding in her breast. Stop it! You don't even know him! she admonished herself. She knew Dorothy Masuka had been singing about Mandoma. Her voice was smooth and hot and suggestive and her eyes told a story of sinuous, slow, beautiful lovemaking. Tandia felt a warm stirring in her thighs and breasts that she'd never experienced before. 'Stop it! Stop it!' she demanded to herself. She brought her arms up and hugged herself and discovered she was trembling. The lights went down and in the dimness she could see the singer and the musicians climb down from the ring, but the heat within her remained, curled up inside of her like a dangerous, illicit, delicious thing.

Slowly the lights returned and the applause died down and then there was a stirring in the crowd and some spasmodic whistling and clapping as Terence 'Iron Jaw' McGraw, a pale, red-headed Irishman climbed into the ring followed by his manager and one of his seconds.

The Irish fighter wore a green silk dressing gown on the back of which was embroidered a shamrock and the initials T. McG. He walked to each side of the ring, bowing at the crowd and putting his gloves together and raising them above his head. He caught sight of Tandia in her brilliant green dress, and mistaking the colour as the sign of a fan he blew her several kisses, much to the delight of Mama Tequila and Madam Flame Flo.

'That Irish should be so lucky!' Mama Tequila boomed.

'Iron Jaw' McGraw's manager walked over and slipped the boxer's satin gown from his shoulders, whereupon the Irishman began to shadow box, throwing short left and right jabs, bobbing and weaving from an imaginary opponent and hooking into the air, grunting as each punch was thrown. He was nicely built for a welter and his pale pink shoulders were covered with fat ginger freckles, a strangely incongruous sight in the cinema filled mostly with blacks and coloureds - although there were a few white faces in the ringside seats.

Tandia could see a coloured man, a black man and a white come to sit at the judges' table. The timekeeper and referee were having an earnest conversation at the timekeeper's table. There was a sudden roar from the crowd and Tandia turned to see a huge man in evening dress coming down the aisle on her left. Behind him was Gideon Mandoma in a white satin gown down to his ankles, the satin hood almost completely covering his face.

Mandoma was looking down at his feet so that it was impossible to see him. He seemed to be oblivious of the crowd as he walked behind the huge black man whom Tandia guessed must be Mr Nguni, Madam Flame Flo's friend and Gideon Mandoma's manager. Her heart beat wildly. She had heard so much for so long about the Zulu welterweight and she could hardly believe that she was going to see him fight, see the man whom Patel had called maybe the best raw talent he had ever seen in the ring.

Mandoma had his back to her as he climbed into the ring, and as she was seated almost directly behind his corner the white satin hood continued to obscure his face from her view. The crowd had begun to chant, 'Mandoma! Mandoma! Mandoma!'

'Iron Jaw' McGraw finally went to his corner and sat down as Mr Nguni walked over, watching as his seconds taped his hands and fitted the gloves. His own manager was over in Mandoma's corner checking the same ritual on the black man.

To Tandia's surprise it was Mr Nguni who walked over to the microphone and introduced the two fighters. Madam Flame Flo leaned over and explained, 'He not just Mandoma's manager, he also the promoter.'

Mr Nguni tapped the, microphone with the tips of his fingers to see whether it was alive and then, satisfied, leaned over it. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said in carefully enunciated English, 'tonight is an international non-title fight between the welterweight champion of Ireland, Terry "Iron Jaw" McGraw - thirty-eight professional fights, twenty-two knockouts, thirty wins, one draw, seven losses - and Sophiatown's very own black welterweight champion of Africa, Gideon Mandoma!' He paused for the applause to die down. 'Twenty-seven professional fights, twenty-six wins, twenty knockouts, no draws.' The big man paused long enough for it to have the desired effect, 'one loss.'

At the mention of Mandoma's recent defeat the crowd booed and stamped their feet. Mr Nguni was first and foremost a promoter and he was beginning to build towards the second Mandoma vs Geldenhuis fight which he knew would be a big attraction. He also felt that the better man had lost, but consoled himself with the fact that the return fight was going to be a big earner for all and sundry. Which, the way he had black boxing tied up, meant that the 'all' was him and the 'sundry' was everyone else. He passed the microphone through the ropes and climbed down from the ring without glancing back at Gideon Mandoma.

The referee stepped from the neutral corner, signalling the seconds out of the ring and the two boxers to the centre.

Mandoma rose from his corner stool and his white satin gown was removed. Tandia gasped involuntarily. The black boxer was beautiful. His body shone like well-tooled leather and his muscle definition was perfect. Strong shoulders tapered to a slim, superbly muscled abdomen and waist. He had the light, well-developed legs of a true welterweight: strong in the quadriceps, lean, almost thin calves and slim ankles. Tandia was well used to the round, flattish face that distinguishes the Zulu tribe and she was surprised therefore to see that Mandoma's nose was straight and narrow and his brow and jawline were clearly pronounced in an open, handsome face. Tandia saw a flash of perfect teeth as he fitted the mouth guard into his mouth. Gideon Mandoma looked like a young chief. There was a quiet authority about the way he stood beside the referee while the Irishman danced up and down on his toes smacking one glove into the other, eyeing the black man as the two boxers listened to the pre-fight instructions.

Tandia was almost choking with excitement and her heart thumped in her breast as the two boxers returned to their corners and waited for the bell. Mandoma sat quietly on his stool while McGraw preferred to stand, appearing to be anxious to get underway. The bell went for the first round and the young Irishman rushed towards the black man, leading with three or four lefts which Mandoma took on the gloves and then attempting a rather predictable right uppercut which missed by several inches.

The Irishman stood high with his gloves held wide and fairly low in a stance which usually denotes aggression in a fighter. Mandoma was also a fighter, but by contrast he held his gloves high, almost in front of his face, his left shoulder protecting his chin. He fought in a slightly hunched-over position.

Mandoma moved to the centre of the ring, inviting the Irish boxer to come after him. The red-headed boxer moved in surprisingly fast. Feinting with the left, he hit Mandoma hard on the nose with a right. The black boxer had been waiting for the left lead that he had every right to expect, and the blow landed straight and true, a very classy straight right. A thin trickle of blood started from Mandoma's nose. He sniffed and brought his glove up to his nose as though he were trying to use the glove to wipe it. The Irishman closed in fast, thinking he'd hurt Mandoma. He led with a left which Mandoma took on the gloves and followed with a right cross which he threw too hard, pushing him slightly off balance so that he raised his chin a fraction. To a good fighter a quarter of an inch can often be enough, and Mandoma's right upper-cut seemed to come in slow motion. Moving under the Irishman's elbow, it caught him flush on the underside of the chin, rocking him on his heels and then seating him hard on the ground.

Pandemonium broke loose. So much for McGraw's iron jaw! At the count of ten, McGraw still hadn't moved. Two minutes and thirty seconds into the first round the fight was over, and Mandoma raised his gloves from where he was standing in a neutral corner to acknowledge the roar of the crowd, who had risen in their seats and were applauding wildly. A chant began in one corner of the cinema and soon it was taken up by all. Without realising it, Tandia also found herself standing and yelling the boxer's name, 'Mandoma! Mandoma! Mandoma!' She had never felt anything like it before. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, to hug the person beside her, to rush up into the ring and to embrace the black man, to wipe the small trickle of blood from his nose as he stood, his gloves raised high, his chest heaving and his hard brown body burnished with sweat. Mandoma was everything Patel had said he was and he was also very, very beautiful. The most beautiful human being Tandia had ever seen.

And then suddenly her perception changed. Instead of the Irishman on the canvas she saw Geldenhuis lying at Mandoma's feet. The white policeman she feared more than anyone in the world lying at the feet of the black man, bleeding and battered, the black man triumphant at last. The burning deep inside her began and welled up, the fire of it threatening to consume her. The roar of the crowd receded in her ears as though she was standing alone in the giant theatre. A stillness fixed upon her, and from the stillness she heard two words, two words that she'd never before spoken or even thought to speak, but now they sounded clear and clean like the touch of cool water on parched lips.
'Mayibuye Afrilal!
Come back Africa!' Her clenched fist rose high above her head as though of its own accord as the words left her lips and danced and echoed around the giant theatre.
'Mayibuye Afrilal! Mayibuye Afrilal! Mayibuye Afrilal!,
Tandia's life as a terrorist had begun, born under the ring lights in the heat and sweat of a boxer's win in a palace of dreams where a black man stood over the body of a white one, his arms raised in victory. She could feel her fear for Geldenhuis turn to heat, begin to glow, first red, then white hot. Then slowly, infinitely, remorselessly, it began to cool down, to grow cold slowly over years and centuries and finally aeons and as it cooled it grew into hard, cold, hard, bitter hate and it was all the more dangerous because it was forged out of her fear.

'Come, darling, we must go.' It was Madam Flame Flo taking her by the elbow. 'You liked that, hey? Ja, I can see you liked that. You will be a fan also.' She winked and squeezed Tandia's arm. 'Maybe even more than a fan, hey? Magtig! What a boxer! Come, we must go. Later you will meet him, you can even dance with him if you want. Mr Nguni has invited us to a party at the Taj Mahal.' She turned and waited for Mama Tequila to raise herself from her seat. 'But first we go to the ANC rally, to the protest meeting at St Peter's, to Father Huddleston's.'