A Simple Farm Worker

A Simple Farm Worker

By Andrew SevenSeven

The following is a work of fiction, any similarity to an actual event is purely coincidental.

This story first appeared in the Villager newspaper.

Matamu Sikerete was a simple man, he knew it. He had always been simple, even from a young age. He embraced it, it’s who he was. As a child, when other boys in his village dreamt of travelling to the city, becoming lawyers, and driving the latest cars, all Matamu wanted was to build a home that wouldn’t collapse after the first summer rains, to take care of his mother to her dying breath and as he grew older, to find a wife that would have him, and thereafter spend his days meeting her needs.

     Fate was faithful to his ambitions. He finished grade 12 with 15 points, just enough to land himself a job at a large farm 5 kilometres from his humble village on the eastern border of Kavango. Matamu was 20 when he got the job, just after he completed his matric. A repeated grade here and there throughout his educational trajectory meant he finished school quite late in life. His first job was a dung heaper, meaning he collected all the cow dung at the farm to be used for fertilizer.

     Presently, he rode around on his horse overlooking the farm. He was a tall, dark man with a bushy, unkempt beard and hair and the eyes of a man who had seen much pain and overcame it all. Fidgeting a pistol tucked in his belt, he clicked his tongue and guided his horse away from the small hill, then signalled his subordinates to gather up the cattle and lead them back to the farm. Matamu had been the foreman for seven years now, with a mammoth salary of N$3,500 a month, and that in itself was overachievement of his dreams. He had hoped to be a farm worker so he could make enough to buy the wood and material to build his home, and now, he was giving others orders. And he no longer smelled like manure all the time. He just had the natural musky smell of manliness.

     The best part about it was, he had a beautiful wife, Maggy, waiting for him at his trailer home away from his village cabin home.

     As he descended the hill, Mika, his assistant, and really the only person he could call friend on the farm, ran after him and signalled him to stop. “Ah, Matamu, the cattle are well fed today,” he said reassuringly. “Will you be having dinner with Mr. Kruger tonight, then?”

     Matamu laughed a little. Every Friday, he would dine with the master of the farm and his family, provided business did not slack. He wife was usually invited along as well, but Maggy was like him, unworldly and modest, if not more so. She preferred to stay at home, knitting though she barely got any done. Mika on the other hand was a curious, opportunistic wrench who sought every chance to fashion himself good fortunes, whatever form they arrived in. He would often ask Matamu what they were having and how long they would be having the dinner. Matamu knew well that Mika wanted to be invited along to the dinner, perhaps to gain favour with Mr. Kruger, but that was a position he would have to gain through hard work of his own and not through backhanded smooth talking.

     “Yes,” Matamu responded as he often would. “And like always, it’ll take about an hour. Go home and bath; that manure does not mix with you well.”

     When Matamu got home, he found his wife just getting back from her duties as well. She looked pretty in her yellow dress with flower patterns. He had bought her that on her birthday three years ago. It was starting to a little pale now; he knew he had to get her another one soon. They spoke for a short while, and once again she confirmed to him her intentions to skip the dinner. Matamu was slightly annoyed, but he barely let her see that before he picked up his jacket and left for the main house. Dinner was lovely. Mrs. Kruger prepared a nice fat duck, which Matamu had about two a year at her choosing. It was delicious but it not last. After about quarter an hour, Mr. Kruger’s grandson, Hans, cut himself with the kitchen knife when he was allowed liberty to do like the adults did. Mr. Kruger was so upset that he called an early end to dinner. Matamu gathered his things and headed down towards his trailer. The lights were off, which was strange because Maggy was supposed to be knitting, but perhaps she had grown bored and dozed off; which didn’t make much sense at all because she would be better entertained if she would accept the dinner invitations. As Matamu approached it, he heard a soft whimper from inside. Or something like a whimper. Maggy usually did not grunt in her sleep, even when she had nightmares. Was it a robber? He narrowed his eyebrows, filled with curiosity, then, approaching the door, tip toed and pulled the knob as quietly as he could. The light of the full moon shone straight into his small trailer house, right to his bed. There, it revealed his friend and assistant, Mika, lying down, moving his lower body back and forth, and under him was his wife, Maggy. Matamu’s hand reached for his pistol.

     Mika and Maggy immediately shot up from their comfortable position, the look of deathly shock and horror painted on their faces like a canvas. Mika’s had an extra unpleasant twitch at the change from sheer pleasure to sudden fright in the space of a second.

     Matamu could not believe his eyes. He was still sorting out his emotions, from disbelief, to anger, disappointment. However his hand had reacted already. Shaking with fear, it pointed the gun at his betrayers, his index finger hovering recklessly beside the trigger.

     “M-m my f-friend,” stammered Mika. “It’s not what you think it looks like. I swear.”

     Matamu’s finger almost jerked the trigger at that. He bit into his lower lip to stop himself from shooting that slimy rat right there. He appreciated Mika trying to undermine his intelligence about as much as he appreciated him sticking his privates in his wife. His simple mind had exhausted the scenario. Surely there was nothing more to it? Mika was always a scoundrel, he knew that, and always would be. The only reason he ever tolerated him was because he was occasionally funny and was a hard worker. But Maggy? That thought was deferral. For once in his life, he wanted answers, he wanted to understand whatever complex reasoning lay behind his faithful wife sleeping with a good for nothing maggot; why she would cheat on him.

     “Why?” was all Matamu could utter starring solemnly at his wife. Maggy had sat there the whole time, crying, trying not to look at her husband’s pistol.

     Mika puckered his lips and looked uncertainly at both of them. “So does that mean I can leave?” he said, raising a finger. He held the blanket at his waist to cover him and attempted to get off the bed, but as he did that, he consequently exposed Maggy’s nakedness. Matamu had had enough, he flung his right arm back and smashed Mika in the head with the butt on his gun. He fell back on to the bed and Maggy jerked much of the blanket back to cover herself.

     “I am getting very impatient now,” Matamu whispered. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from sending bullets into both of you, tell me why you did this, Maggy.”

     “I-I,” Maggy began, but she cast an intimidated glance at the gun and squirmed in fright. “Please. Please.”

     “Make me understand, Maggy,” Matamu replied sternly. “I am a simple man, but make me understand why you would do this to us.”

     “Maybe that’s just it, Mata,” said Maggy with a small tone of renewed courage. “You have no ambitions, you-when we met I loved you, I still do, but I at least thought you were going to do something with yourself, but you have been content with being a farm owner’s glorified slave. Getting dinners if you work well like that was something to be proud of.”

     “And so the solution was to sleep with my subordinate? Why didn’t you tell me ages ago, we have been married for five years and you didn’t bother to tell me you were not happy!” Matamu asked.

     “I-I,” Maggy hesitated. “I didn’t know what to hurt you. I love you, Mata, but I cannot be a foreman’s wife forever, washing that stinking wrench mistress and her ratty children’s clothes. I want a better life.”

     “And Mika will give it to you?” Matamu asked. His gun dropped at his thigh. He was utterly confused. Was his wife a gold digger? She had never revealed herself to be that. She was always so supportive. But if she was, what would she get in Mika? He earned N$1,500 a month, less than half of his own salary.

     Maggy glared sideways at Mika. They were still tugging the blanket for coverage. “He’s a slimy pig, true but he has plans to leave this place,” she said, her face contorted with disgust. “He’s going to Windhoek in four months, he was supposed to leave a month ago already, but his mother died, so he had to stay for a few months to take care of his sisters. That’s the only reason I sleep with him. He’s taking me with when he goes, and he’ll help me get a job in the city.”

     If Matamu was confused before, now he was completely bewildered. “Your mother is alive, is she not?” Matamu asked Mika. “I saw her not two days ago.”

     Mika instantly became excessively interested in the plain patterns of the blanket he wrapped himself in. He stared down resolutely without looking up, or answering Matamu.

     Maggy’s glare died away quickly to give way to curiosity. “What?”

     “Answer!” Matamu demanded of Mika.

     Mika licked his lips nervously and smiled as he looked up at both of them. “Yes, my mother is alive.”

     “Why did you tell me she had died?” asked Maggy.

     “I’m not going to Windhoek,” said Mika staring back down at the blanket. “I only said it when I found out that’s what you wanted. I would have said whatever you wanted to hear to sleep with you.”

     Maggy’s face dropped. But Matamu’s lifted slightly. Maggy began to cry, and looked up at Matamu. “My sweet Mata, forgive me, I am so sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing. Please forgive me.”

     Matamu leaned forward, grabbed the blanket and pulled it off of them. “Get the hell out of my house, the both of you.”

     They just sat there trying to cover their bodies with their limbs. But Matamu pointed his pistol fiercely in their direction. “Get the hell out of my house, both of you before I shoot you. And Mika, be assured that you won’t be returning back to work.”

     They got up and began to shuffle out of his trailer house naked and into the cold night. Matamu slammed the door behind them and stood there for a while. He was still angry, but he was also humoured, which was probably the only reason he hadn’t shot them both. And now that he thought about it, shooting Maggy would have brought him no lasting joy at all. What a complicated night he had just had for one as simple as he.