Free The Madonna of Excelsior by Zakes Mda

a load in her womb herself as a result of the barn escapades, had an answer.
    â€œWhat can we do?” she asked resignedly, “White men have alwaysloved us. They say we are more beautiful than their own wives. We are more devastating in the blankets.”
    Oh, the burden of being loved! Of being devastating!
    The news of Popi’s arrival reached Johannes Smit, who bitterly boasted to Stephanus Cronje, “Even if you scored a bull’s-eye, I had Niki first. Before any other man.”
    But Stephanus Cronje was in no mood to rejoice over any bull’s-eye. Or to engage in puerile contests. He was busy plotting ways to stop the news from reaching Cornelia’s ears.

A TRULY COLOURED BABY
    H IS PURPLE SHOES look like a ballerina’s dance slippers. The broad brim of his purple hat covers his eyes. His face is downcast, as if he is contemplating the burnt sienna ground. His khaki pants are bulging at the pockets. One hand is in his pocket and another is holding a white umbrella. He is using the closed umbrella as a walking stick. His shoulders are raised high. His elbow-length purple sleeves hang loosely from his khaki waistcoat. The ground has streaks of green. White cosmos surround him.
    The Man with the Umbrella walked hesitandy towards Niki’s shack. Black piglets grunting around the corrugated-iron shack and speckled hens pecking at unseen morsels scattered in different directions at his approach. He used his umbrella to knock at the open corrugated-iron door.
    Niki in a white doek, yellow blouse and black skirt sat on the bed, Popi nestling in her arms, a pacifier in her mouth. Although it was very hot under the low corrugated-iron roof, the baby’s head was in a woollen cap. Only her round face could be seen.
    â€œI thought I should warn you,” said the Man with the Umbrella,“they are searching all over the district. From house to house. They follow every rumour.”
    He was talking of the police. They had uncovered twelve light-skinned children who they claimed had mixed blood. They were already in jail with their black-skinned mothers. There was a doctor too. All the way from Bloemfontein. His work was to take blood tests and to confirm that the blood was indeed mixed.
    Niki wondered how it was possible for the doctor to tell if the blood was mixed or not. Mixed with what? Was it not all red?
    â€œThey will come for you too,” said the Man with the Umbrella. “Take your baby away. Go hide in Thaba Nchu. Or better still, in Lesotho. I have heard that in Lesotho they don’t mind when the child’s blood is mixed. They are ruled by a black prime minister there. You must have relatives in Lesotho.”
    It was difficult for Niki to take this whole matter seriously. Especially as the news came from a stranger with a white umbrella and funny shoes.
    Thaba Nchu would give her no succour. The arm of the law was long enough to reach there. She would not exile herself to Lesotho either. She had never been there in her life. She knew that, like most Mahlatswetsa Location people, she had distant relatives in that country. But surely she could not just pack up and go. In any case, the one who had been wronged by her actions had forgiven her. Pule had said so in his letter: he had forgiven her because it was not for him to judge. Yes, he had not come back to Excelsior for eight months—not since he left the day after Niki’s refusal to name the father of her coloured child. But after a few months’ silence, which he spent digesting what had befallen him, he had explicitly written that he forgave her. He had become a mzalwane—a born-again Christian. We observed with mirth that Niki’s infidelity had had a commendable by-product. It had driven him into the comforting arms of salvation.
    If the one who had been wronged had forgiven her, what businesswas it of the police? Why would the government not forgive her as well?
    She was still not totally