Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 58

STEP UP TO THE PLATE

Stop looking for God
In outer space,
On the bright trace
Of the Milky Way.

Stop looking
For miracles
In some
Vague Grace
You may get
When you place
A coin on a plate.

Start looking for God
In every face;
Start making miracles
In the inner space
Your arms can reach,
The hollow place
That can be filled
With the trembling
Form of a soul in need.

Stop demanding,
And start
Answering prayers;
Be the
Space
Place
Face
Through which
God manifests
His Grace.
MC

MURDER MOST JUSTIFIED

A man killed his wife,
His trouble and strife,
And for that
He should get life?


Not a chance!
Just one glance
At Defence Exhibit A
A picture reported
To portray
The alleged Victim
At the time
Of the attack
And his Honour
Exclaimed:

"For 30 years
You were married
To THAT?"

"Why! The crime
Is more than explained!
You cannot be blamed.
The woman was
Patently insane
To think
You'd sustain
The marriage
Once her tits lost
Their upright carriage."

"For better or for worse
Does NOT include
A figure grown coarse!
(unless it's
You own,
Of course!)"

"These women
Must learn
To go quietly
And not think
To demand
Their just
Desserts,
Or namely,
Their cut
Of the loot!"

"That is a hoot!
If she's had half
A brain she's
Have signed
Her rights away
And there
Would have been
No need
For the knife
That ended
Her stupid life."


Manuela Cardiga

PAWNING PEARL Part 4

Strange how easily Simon Thambisa fell into the comfortable and comforting rhythms of life with Pearl Chabalala.

Mornings he woke to his usual shower, followed by a plate of good creamy porridge and a steaming mug of tea, served with a sunny smile. Then at lunchtime, Pearl would materialise at the Polite Pawn Shop carrying a covered tray with his lunch. After work, would be dinner and unravelling the day’s doings over his mug of tea. Then after dinner she would get up, move quietly around the kitchen, tidying up, and say goodnight. Simon would sit at his kitchen table nursing his tea, with nothing to do. The house was impeccably clean. His clothed were washed, pressed and neatly put away. Simon would get up, go to his lounge, sit on his couch and play with the TVs remote control, switching channels, feeling paradoxically lonelier than he had ever felt before.


***


Simon Thambisa hummed contentedly as he arranged a row of watches in a display case. A thunderous roar issued from Gideon's stomach.

"My Boss! I am so hungry!"

"Go eat Gideon, I will call you if I need you."

Gideon got up and moved to the back room where Simon had set up a hot-plate and a mini-bar fridge, leaving him in the delicious solitude of the Polite Pawn Shop.

Simon Thambisa's contentment was soon disturbed by the tinkling of the door-bell.
Pearl!

It was Pearl Chabalala with the tray of delights she called lunch. She set it on the counter, and instead of singing out a cheery "Have a good-lunch Sir!" and bouncing happily away, she carefully folded her hands on the counter and turned those huge eyes up at him.

"What is it Miss Chabalala? Is there a problem, do you need anything?"

"No, Sir, I am coming to you, asking for your help on behalf of someone else, Sir. Someone most worthy."

Simon cringed. "Is this going to cost me money, Miss Chabalala?"

"Oh no Sir! Not a cent."

"Go on, Miss Chabalala," he smiled gallantly, "Anything I can do to help the worthy..."

"Oh Sir! I knew it! It's Mr Ratsika, Sir. From upstairs? Nº 4C?"

Simon frowned "Mr Ratsika? He is a good young man, very quiet, pays his rent on time. Is he in trouble?"

"Well, Sir, you see, Mr. Ratsika is a very talented violinist. Very. He won first prizes at the conservatory in Cape Town and everything!" Her lustrous eyes shone, "But now, here in Johannesburg, he cannot get an orchestra job, because he does not have his own violin, you see. It is very, very expensive, Sir, and he is working in a shoe-store, and there is a big audition in a month's time for the Johannesburg Orchestra and he could win the job, Sir, but he can't because he does not have a violin and I though...Sir, you have a violin, Sir, right here on the wall gathering dust while one of the most talented young violinists in Africa lives in your building Sir, and I thought: it is Fate! And I knew, if I had the courage to ask, Sir, you would help, because that is how you are. So kind, so generous, with such a big heart."

She stopped breathless, and gazed up at him, and under her admiring eyes, Simon Thambisa heard himself saying "Yes, of course! I will help, I insist!" He moved to the wall took down the violin and the bow and handed it to Pearl. "Wait, there is a case in the back, and a stand for the music..."

"Sir!" Peal's' eyes were stars, her smile the sun.

Simon Thambisa watch her leave with a 12.000 Rand violin with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips.

That night, he opened the door to his house, and walked in to find Pearl standing in the hallway, with two children. A ragged boy about 10 years old, and a little scrawny girl that could not be more than 6.

"Mr Thambisa, Sir, I am so glad you are here! I found these children sleeping in your doorway, and I though, we have so much room, Sir, and you being such a good man, you would want me to bring them home."

Simon Thambisa fainted.






MC

PAWNING PEARL Part 3

Simon Thambisa spend the day flustered, unsettled. His mind was not on his work. He kept wondering what SHE was doing, thinking...

Was she touching his things? Sitting on his couch? Horror overcame him. Had she found the secret stash of Black Beauty magazines he kept on the high shelf of his cupboard?

Simon Thambisa was in a tizzy.
He had to go. There was a strange woman loose in his house. But he couldn't!
Perversely this was turning out to be one of his busiest days yet. People coming in for appraisals, others to pawn, a few to outright sell; and most to buy.

Suddenly he had an influx of affluent customers gleefully exclaiming over his goods as "charming", "vintage", "retro", and "kitch-chic". Fashionable-looking painfully thin ladies were pawing through his rack of second-hand clothes with shrieks of delight...

Buying at his Polite Pawn Shop had suddenly acquired artsy status.
Here he was, itching to close, even as his cash register merrily tinkled every few minutes.

Finally!
He was run ragged, and Gideon's face gleamed with sweat.
"My Boss...This was a strange day!"

Simon strangled a hysterical giggle.
Strange?
It was downright bizarre...
"Yes, yes. Strange...Very strange. Good night Gideon, see you tomorrow."

Simon Thambisa approached his own home with trepidation.
What on God's good earth would he find?

He stood before his own door and hesitated, he held his keys in one hand, and pressed the buzzer.
Ringing the bell to his own house! It was outrageous, but he'd rather announce his presence than walk in on some female ritual he could only vaguely envision as disturbing and hugely embarrassing.

He slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
It smelled all wrong.
His house smelled wrong.
Not BAD, he decided, not at all.
Just...Wrong.

It felt wrong too.
A flood of welcoming light spilled out to pool around his feet, the scent of something delicious cooking beckoned him in.

He had always walked in to a cool silence that had seemed to devour even the sound of his footsteps, now he noticed dozens of tiny sounds.

"Sir, welcome home." Pearl Chabalala stood in his hallway with that smile on her face. That smile that made him light-headed. She looked very different, he noticed.

Her eyes were no longer puffy and small; in fact they were rather unusually large, almond-shaped and lustrous. She was wearing a neat, modest dress, and sensible shoes.
She looked a very proper sensible woman indeed.

She led him into the kitchen where she had set the table for his dinner. Somehow she had transformed the whole place  by simply cooking a meal that wasn't his staple pap with a tin of something on the side.

A stew bubbled seductively on the stove, and the kitchen smelled of chocolate cake. Chocolate cake?

Simon Thambisa walked to his grocery cupboard and opened the door.
He nearly fainted in horror. She had gone insane, berserk, she was sick! A compulsive buyer...
She must have spent he'd given her.There was enough food here to last an army for a year!

Feeling faint Simon Thambisa sank into his chair. Immediately Pearl moved to the fridge, and set before him a large dewy glass of orange juice. Humming she dished up a large plate of glossy beef stew, rich with chunks of potato, yams, and green beans. She stood anxiously by his side waiting for him to taste it.

"I didn't know what you liked? So I thought...All men like a good stew."
Simon spooned up a mouthful. It was delicious. Delightful.
He was starving!

Groaning, he spooned up another, and another mouthful, while Pearl happily smiled.
Suddenly he stopped. "Miss Chabalala, why are you not eating?"

"I...I Didn't know if..."

"Sit! I hate to eat alone!" He said it to be polite, and suddenly discovered it was true.

Simon Thambisa found himself telling her about the strange day, the bizarre ladies wanting to buy old clothes. The whole fantastical dizzy rush of it came pouring out of him in between the mouthfuls of that magical stew. And the best part was that she was laughing, leaning forward, eyes shining with excitement, asking questions, nodding vigorously as he answered.

Pearl Chabalala got up to clear the table, and set before him a steaming tea-pot, and a round sticky messy-looking chocolaty-smelling cake. She cut and served him a fat wedge of cake, poured him and a large mug of tea, and did herself similar honours.

Oh the tea was just perfect...As was the cake. Not too sweet, not too dry, with the slightest hint of brandy...
BRANDY? Simon Thambisa decided that the day and the dinner were both too wonderfully strange and odd for questioning.

Tomorrow he'd think about all this.
Tomorrow he'd think about what to do with Pearl Chabalala.

Manuela Cardiga

Regarding African Heritage, here is something I want to s...

Regarding African Heritage, here is something I want to say.

I think I will upset and offend many people, but it is what is in my heart and mind.

I have been to the United States many times over the years, and have American friends and family. Some are white, some black. The Black Americans speak of themselves as Africans. As having an "African Culture". It horrifies me.

I am African, as much as most white or black Americans are Americans. I am the fourth woman of my line born in Africa, my daughter is the first born out of Africa in 130 years.

I am African in every sense. I have realised that since I came to Europe, and started moving in what was supposedly "my" European Culture. 
I am African, and I am proud of it; proud of the dignity and the politeness, and the kindness of African Culture.

I am proud of the respect we show to each other and ourselves, I am proud of our joy, our dance, our music, our art; our talent, our ability. Mostly I am proud of our ambition.

I am proud that our children want to improve themselves, reach the world, excel. I am proud that it is easy to pick out black Africans from the midst of European and American-born and raised black people. Africans distinguish themselves by their posture, their pride, their dignity and self-respect.

I see no similarity between the Black American Culture and African Culture. None. 
The Black Americans have sadly embraced a vision of themselves that was imposed on them. They take pride in speaking badly, in taking on a low posture. Their youth dress and talk like delinquents and prostitutes, they call each other "motherfucker" and "whore". They call each other "nigga". They speak the language of their oppressors, they speak the language of slavers, they are wearing manacles of their own devising. Worse...Our African children see this way of speaking, dressing, the attitude presented in movies, TV and music videos as "cool" and to be emulated.

Stop. This is to be pitied, not copied. Cling tight to your own values. Be proud of your African Culture. Be what you are. See others for what they are.
You need bow down before no-one in this world.
No one can equal you in dignity, in worth.
Be proud.
Be African.
Black, White or any shade.
Be yourselves.
I am.

Now, you can throw your stones...

Manuela Cardiga

PAWNING PEARL Part 2

Here was a pretty outcome! Simon Thambise had just disbursed 18.000 Rand for a woman he did not know. Money he would never get back…

Now what?

The woman - Pearl, her name was Pearl! - stood looking lost and frightened in the midst of Simon’s treasures.

“Miss Chabalala, you are free. You can go.”

“I have no-where to go.” The voice was soft, low - and indeed Jonas Katana was a worthless liar, for it was smooth and cultured.

“Mr. Gideon will take you to the bus,” Simon shuddered inwardly at the added expense, “I will buy you a ticket home. You can go home, to your family.”

“I have no home to go to, and I have a debt to you. I will repay you, work it off. As Mr. Katana said, I am strong and healthy. I will be your maid.”

“I don’t want a maid!”

The woman -Pearl! - folded her hands primly before her. “Sir, I am an honourable woman. I repay my debts. You have saved me, Sir. Saved my life, rescued me.”

“Rescued?” Simon Thambise was astounded. He could not believe his rash and impulsive- and ruinously expensive - act could be construed as a “rescue”. “Rescues” were heroic and dashing, and cost nothing except courage.

“Yes Sir. I will work for you, Sir. Be maid to your wife, or your mother.”

“I don’t have a wife!” Simon had spent years dodging the attentions of several acquisitive and greedy potentially expensive Ladies with their eyes on his considerable assets. The idea of a wife was enough to send him into panic. “No wife! No women in my life.”

“Sir, then you surely need a maid.” Her tone was respectful but firm, and brooked no argument. Simon could not believe this was the same down-trodden, terrified woman of half an hour ago. The woman who had cringed under Jonas Katala’s fists was suddenly deciding on his life.

Gideon snickered behind her, his lustrous face wreathed in a huge grin.

And that was that. Settled.

Simon Thambise led Pearl Chabalala upstairs to his Refuge, his Man-Cave. At the door, it seemed his hands refused to work, he fumbled at the key-hole, dropped his keys, had trouble turning the door-knob with sweaty palms. 
Finally, the door was open, and he stepped back to let a woman - a woman! - into his house and his life for the very first time.

He led her to the kitchen, watched her carefully set her suitcase down, and start opening cupboards, softly humming in approval at the carefully stacked pots and pans, the gleaming piles of dishes.

Pear opened the grocery cupboard and frowned, as she ran her eyes over the sparse contents: a packet of corn flour, tea a few tins of tuna and sausages, a packet of Marie Biscuits and a bag of sugar.

“Mr. Simon, there is no food.”

Simon Thambise felt himself blush. “I wasn’t expecting visitors, Miss Chabalala.”

“I am not a visitor Sir, I am you maid. And this is not adequate food for a working man. I will need money for groceries Sir.”

Money! She wanted money! Simon choked on a sharp retort. He reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He pulled out a wad of money without counting it and handed it to her. With any luck, she would take it and run, vanish from his life. Pearl accepted it with a graceful bow.

“Where will I sleep Sir?”

Sleep? Simon stared down at her horrified. Sleep? There was no bed in the house but his.

He cleared his throat, “This way Miss Chabalala.” He led her down the corridor to the end room, the furthest from his, with another bedroom and a bathroom in between. He opened the door on the empty room. It was clean and dust-free. There was a chair in a corner and a built in cupboard. That was all.

“I will ask Mr. Gideon to bring up a bed from the store room, and a mattress. There should be sheets and blankets in the linen cupboard…”

“Thank you Sir, this is very fine.”

Simon stood in the doorway, without knowing what to do or say.

“I must go back to the Shop.”

“Yes Sir, and I will shop for dinner, set things to rights.”

“Oh!” Simon fumbled at his key-chain, “you will need the key. Here, be sure to lock up tight. I have a spare set at the shop…”

“Thank you Sir. You will not regret your kindness to me, Sir, I swear it.”

She smiled, a sweet sunny smile that transformed her face and did something odd to Simon’s insides.
He tramped down the stairs with an answering silly smile wreathing his face.

Simon Thambise - confirmed bachelor, and a miser to boot  - had just given a strange woman money, the keys to his house, and unequivocal entry into his Spartan life.



Manuela Cardiga
TO BE CONTINUED

PAWNING PEARL - Part 1

Simon Thambise was a wealthy man by any standards, but he lived like a pauper. He lived in a three bedroom flat above his shop, yet he owned the entire building.

His flat was scrupulously clean, yet stripped to the absolute bare essentials. In the one bedroom, his, there was a bed, queen sized, for Simon was a large man who liked his sleep. The built-in cupboard sheltered his meagre and well worn collection of work day clothes. Simon had no week-end clothes, because Simon had no week-ends. He was a busy man.

Simon’s kitchen was well provided with utensils, but poor in ingredients for tasty meals, in his lounge was his one concession to the superfluous: a wide three-person couch in front of a large HD liquid-screen top-of-the-line TV.

This morning Simon Thambise shaved, showered, brushed his teeth and had his tea unawares that all was about to change in his narrow, colourless, comfortless life.

At a quarter past seven on the dot Simon was outside the shop doors. Gideon was waiting for him already, stamping his feet and happily blowing out clouds of steam into the icy Johannesburg winter morning.

“’morning my Boss!” he cried cheerfully. If Simon was big, Gideon was bigger, with hands like hams and a big round canon-ball head atop a broad bull-neck. He was strong and fast on his feet, and his perpetual cheer irritated Simon mightily.

What did Gideon have to be cheerful about? He was a poor man, living in a poor house. He had a well paid job with Simon, it was true, but it was a high-risk profession. And the good salary did not go far when you had to feed and house a wife, two children, an old mother and a clutch of no less than eight (EIGHT!) vociferous single sisters.

Still Gideon was a cheerful man, and Simon sometimes resentfully suspected he might be a happy man.


He grunted a greeting and stooped to unlock the steel-mesh retractable doors. Gideon stepped up to help, and together, they pushed them back, and Simon unlocked the glass shop doors.

He sighed with contentment. All around him, hanging from the walls gleamed the mellow wood of stringed musical instruments, the morning sun struck gilded fire from a saxophone, and silver sparks from the trim of a polished ebony oboe. An upright piano presided over one wall, with a pretty green-glass shaded antique lamp over it, and picture; pictures everywhere. Oils, water-colours…Even one or two acrylics from the more desperate moments of a up-and-coming young Hilbrow artist which had already doubled in value; and stood to be worth even more when the artist had his first showing at an elegant international art-gallery in Rosebank next month. His very first showing however, would forever be right here, at Simon Thambise’s Polite Pawnshop.


The bell trilled announcing the morning’s first customer, a sharp-faced young man in his early twenties, beautifully dressed in an Italian suit, narrow hand-made shoes, and with a paper-thin gold watch on his wrist; accompanied by a short sly-looking man in a leather jacket. Within seconds, Simon evaluated the entire outfit. It must have cost him quite a few thousands…He nodded caution at Gideon who quietly took up a stance behind them, slightly to one side. If these were honest customers it would not to do scare them away.

“I have a pearl to pawn.”

“A pearl?”

“I can only take it if it has papers, you understand? And I don’t take cultured pearls either.”

The man broke into raucous laughter “This pearl? It’s got papers alright, and it’s not cultured, have no fear.” The other man snickered.

Simon frowned: “Can I see it? I don’t take on valuables sight unseen.”

The man issued a sharp order to his companion, who rushed out of the shop. The man turned back to Simon. “I am Jonas Katana.” He extended his hand, but Simon folded his own hands over each other on the counter.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“I hope we can do good business together, you were recommended as a man who trades in anything that has commercial value? A very successful trader indeed, I was told.”

“That is true,” Simon agreed, lowering his eyes modestly, “I have had some small success in trading valuables my customers no longer need.”

“Yes, that is what I was told.”

At that moment the sly man returned escorting a woman. Jonas Katana pulled her forward by the arm and pushed her towards the counter.

“Here she is.”

Simon stared at him in bewilderment. “I don’t understand? This lady is the owner of the pearl?”

“This is Pearl. Pearl Chabalala. My fiance.”

“Pearl?” Simon stared in consternation at the woman. She was in her early thirties, with a round face and small puffy eyes. She was full figured, dressed in a modest grey coat and carried a small battered suitcase. She wore no make-up, no jewelry, and her hair was close-cut. She was a complete contrast to Katana’s sharp-suited looks, in fact imagining any kind of affectionate bond between them was quite impossible.

“Mr. Katana, I don’t understand what you are proposing, and I don’t want to.”

“Listen…My father paid eighteen thousand rand for this woman. All I am asking for is half. She is strong, healthy, she can work. You can hire her out, turn a pretty profit.”

Simon was speechless with horror. “You are insane. Insane! If you do not wish to marry this woman, take her back to her father, get the money of the lobolo back.”

“The bastard lost it at cards. There is no money left.” Jonas Katana shook the arm he was holding roughly.

“My father told me he had arranged for a good fertile wife, an obedient wife; from a good family And he presented me with this sow!” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Imagine my shock when I picked this up off the bus last night!”

“Mr Katana, you cannot trade in people. Please remove yourself.”

Katana slapped the woman. “Worthless rubbish!”

If front of Simon, in the very middle of the Polite Pawn Shop he struck a woman. Gideon rumbled and stepped forward. Simon gestured him back. His voice was low and cold.

“Do not strike the Lady again, Mr Katana, or I shall call the Police.”

“Strike? I will kill her! You won’t take her? Maybe I can sell her to Madam Sheila. Not that she will be worth much on the street. Look at this! I thought I’d get more for her as a maid.”

The woman - Pearl, Simon suddenly thought, her name is Pearl - lifted terrified, pleading eyes to his face.

“Wait!” Simon heard himself say, “Wait a moment.”

Katana paused on his way out, his hand closed over the woman’s arm in a vicious grip.

“I’ll take her.”



Manuela Cardiga

TO BE CONTINUED

REVIEW! MANscapes - A Journey into Light

 A JOURNEY INTO LIGHT, September 23, 2014    
This review is from: MANscapes (Kindle Edition)"A Journey into Light" the subtitle of MANscapes most clearly delineates its true theme. Is there a way out of abuse into mature love? It's a story that defines/demonstrates different kinds of love: abusive, passionate, maternal—and, finally—the less exciting, but lovely sustainable love. This is the eternal story: what is love? How it goes wrong. How it comes right.
When MANscapes asks the question “What is love?” It also answers it. Love is…to be discovered/to discover…to see/be seen…to see into/be seen into…to have our beauty seen…we, as works of art…our art as works of us.
Tracing the plot of MANscapes (spoilers? Not really. The story is in the gorgeous writing) we find:

• Art opens Clara and her life—but this opening is disrupted by an abusive marriage. I love the description of how she finds her artistic voice.

• She is finally pushed over the edge, leaves the marriage, get's lucky, and wins enough money to become a woman of independent means. Clara goes to Tahiti—following in Gaugin's footsteps (only, gender reversed).
She lives in a retreat led by a wise woman. She falls for the wrong guy, but it's passionate (and true in its own way).My favorite passage is when love blends with art and talk and creativity and tenderness. The MANscape paintings on sheets are really LOVEscapes with rich associations between body/paint/soul

• Then, back in Lisbon, Clara’s abusive husband dies (does he really commit suicide?) and she comes home to be with her daughter.

• When she returns to Tahiti, her lover has once again sunk into self-destruction. She suffers.

• She learns she is pregnant. She finally emerges from the depths of despair to live again.

• She learns to accept the love of the gentle, tender man she's known all along.

It's a journey towards wholeness. From darkness into the light. A redemption and resurrection story as Clara discovers that love doesn't have to hurt.

CLICK HERE FOR MANSCAPES - JOURNEY INTO LIGHT

DEMENTED PASSION

beloved
in all this
teetering
whirling world
dizzily dancing
motes proclaim
your name

beloved
call call call
to me invoke
the flame
name the ritual
that makes
us sane
insane
the same


MC

"Love denied scars us more deeply than any blow from the ...

"Love denied scars us more deeply than any blow from the outside.”

from "MANscapes - Journey into Light"
Manuela Cardiga