Frannie & Mbogeni
Mbogeni Ngema was playing on the car radio. I hadn’t heard this music in such a long time that for a moment I completely forgot where I was driving to, but I didn’t care. I turned the volume up and let myself be transported, magically, back in time.
Music does that; we’ve all felt it. A song unexpectedly comes through a set of speakers and you’re suddenly awash in a visceral sensation that rolls over you as if voices from the past are whispering on your skin. You may think of people and places you have let slip so deep into the recesses of memory that you aren’t even sure when you thought of them last. Perhaps you relive scenes from years past and find yourself smiling, or feeling your throat constrict as tears begin to burn your now frantically blinking eyes. It’s just you and a private movie of memories playing in your head and, if you aren’t alone, possibly confusing the hell out of those around you.
And that’s the magic of an old-fashioned radio. Because you don’t know what you’ll hear next you can always be surprised or amused or feel your heart breaking all over again. And you never saw it coming.
I heard Ngema on the radio and I remembered Frannie hearing Ngema on a stereo years before and in my mind’s eye I watched her as she was that day, transported in time to a place of her own past, and once again I was struck by how privileged I was to be able to share even just the shadowy edges of that memory with her…
Mbogeni Ngema was playing on the stereo and Frannie was laughing while singing along. To me, they both sounded beautiful. “Ah! This music!” Frannie turned her face towards the speakers. She sighed deeply, and it sounded like happiness but also like something I couldn’t quite define, something remembered but perhaps almost lost. Mbogeni Ngema sang and Frannie was no longer entirely with me. Ngema had carried her somewhere I had never been, somewhere in her past.
The song ended and she laughed abruptly, which seemed to pull her out of the past and back into modern day suburbia and my company. Abruptly she began telling me about an old boyfriend who used to play Ngema while he danced around the house. "Ah! That one!” she cried while laughing some more. “He could dance, yes! And Frannie? Frannie liked to watch him!"
Frannie did that a lot; talked about herself in the third person. “Ah! Frannie is cross today!” she might announce as I opened the door. (That might mean she’d seen a difficult client, or perhaps one did not bother to show up for a scheduled appointment). Another day she might greet me with, “Yes, Kimila!” (That’s what she called me.) “Frannie is feeling good today!” And she’d flash me one of her dazzling smiles. Other times, and unfortunately more than a few, she’d exclaim, “Aieesh! Frannie! Frannie is stupid!” Those times she sounded like she was gossiping about someone she had known for so long that she could talk about her with great authority and even a little exasperation. Usually those were the times she was talking about Lucas, her current boyfriend. The Lucus stories usually involved Frannie breaking up with him and they usually ended with Lucus convincing her to take him back. “Aieesh! Frannie!” she’d exclaim. “Frannie is stupid!” And I’d know the story had come to an end.
Frannie was not stupid. She was smart, tough and beautiful. I was staying with my friends Mac and Donna in the suburbs in Johannesburg, South Africa when I met her. Frannie was Donna’s massage therapist and she came to their house on Kernick Lane every Tuesday evening. She drove a little two-door hatchback, just big enough for her massage table, a couple of bags of towels and oils, a pillow or two and herself. We became friends and soon she started coming over early on those Tuesdays so the two of us could talk before Donna got home from work. She’d set up her massage table while I put the kettle on for tea. Then she’d sit on the sofa and tell me her news and ask me about mine.
She was a wonderful listener, but she also had no qualms about giving an opinion, whether it was the one you thought you wanted to hear or not. “Yes, Kimila,” she would say, “tell me more.” She’d sit quietly, letting me talk, nodding encouragement. And then she’d set me straight. Whenever I agreed with one of her editorial comments she would simply say, "Thank you" with a satisfied lilt to her voice and a single firm nod of her head.
Her own stories were much more interesting than mine. Her life was a lot like a soap opera, played out in scenes ranging from tragically hilarious to tragically heartbreaking. Her stories jumped right to the action, with little or no background. And while they gave me glimpses into the lives of her daughter, her nieces, past loves and herself as a little girl, they always left me with at least a few unanswered questions.
One evening she walked inside the house on Kernick Lane, sat down and announced that her beloved nephew had appeared to her in a dream the night before. Apparently it was something he did from time to time and was not something Frannie thought I might find unusual. He had been a security guard, she added and, one night long before I had met her, he had been killed, beaten to death, by seven angry men, robbers with little regard for a young man’s life. “He now comes to me in my sleep,” she told me. “ ‘Auntie,’ he said, ‘You must fight for both of us now.’” Then she smiled, looked me in the eyes and with no explanation said, “Five of the men have already been caught, Kimila. Two have died in prison. There are only two left to go.” And that was all; Frannie began talking about something else.
Mbogeni Ngema was playing on the stereo. Frannie was laughing while singing along. We were setting up her massage table while drinking tea and joking. She caught my eye and winked at me mischievously. “His words here Kimila,” she spoke as one telling a secret, slyly, happily. “He likes his women with big…” and she moved her hands down to her hips, laughing now. “He is singing about his woman,” she said, “about her calves and thighs and how much he loves her.” She clapped her hands and laughed louder still.
But then her laughter stopped, and I realized a different song was playing. I turned to look at my friend and saw she had stood up tall, her hands at her sides. Her eyes were closed, and she was humming, softly, along with the music. Several moments passed and then she said, almost in a whisper, “Oh, this one. Yes, this one. We lived under apartheid then.” She began translating the words, speaking distinctly, but still it was just a whisper. “Who will lead us to the day of peace? Oh, Mama I am crying for the day of peace.”
I stayed silent. She didn’t need words from her friend who was also, still, a stranger. Someone who wanted to believe she understood but who knew that would be impossible. I could only listen to her words and guess at what the reality had been for one who had lived them. Like looking at photos from someone else’s scrapbook and trying to fill in all that’s needed to make up the years and people and memories swirling invisibly around those single events. “Aieesh, Kimila,” she whispered. “I know this music. I remember.” There were tears on her face and I realized I had never before even seen her frown. “We suffered then, Kimila. We did. My mother taught us to roll up in a ball and cradle our heads in our hands if the soldiers ever came and we couldn’t run away. ‘Don’t let them kick you in the face,’ she said.” Then there were no words at all; it was just the music and Frannie's memories, even if mostly held inside. Another story told with no background and with no real conclusion. But this one felt different. This one somehow felt complete.
“But that was the young Frannie." Her words brought us both back to the present moment, and when I looked at her face I saw her smile had returned. "That was the political Frannie.” She laughed. “Ah! You would not have known me then. Very serious even though just a girl. But that was a long time ago. Today I am no longer young, and I am not political anymore. Today I am a businesswoman.” She stood up tall, took my hand and squeezed it. “Today I am a healer; I give massage. Even to white women, thank you. And I am fine. But,” she paused and took another long breath. “But me,” she said, “I also remember. I will always remember.”
Mbogeni Ngema played on the stereo and life continued to move on.