The Sunday News
AN aged water pipe gave in and it was water, water, water all over Sidojiwe flats. The burst, to make it worse, occurred on the third floor in Khumalo’s house. The burst brought all of us to attention. Not Jones. “Why? What happened?” a woman was grunting on the ground floor. “But you’re sweeping all the water . . ?” she continued. She was well feared all over the flat, and even beyond. All the women, including most of us men, would not dare engage in any argument with her. But this time no-one could think of any other options to deal with the water.
“Today Mrs Shato will eat up somebody”, Mrs Gore, a PPO’s wife was whispering, as she took a breather from the sweeping. The already soiled carpet in her sitting room was getting swamped and she got back to sweeping. This time her sweeping was furious thus splashing water into Mrs Shato’s face, as she stood by her door, watching.
“Aaah!” she squirmed “Damn it!” that was her husband charging up the stairs.
“Stop! Stop it! Look! What are you doing?” he was a sergeant major at work and specifically handled matters of discipline.
“But . . . can we watch our houses getting flooded?” Mrs Gore grimaced.
Meanwhile, PPO1 Jones was in his car under a msusu tree, a battered Nissan Sunny reading his favourite Sunday News column Economic Focus by Gabriel Masvora.
“You! Come here!” that was his wife shouting through a window. She had their one-year old girl on her back. Her voice spelt obvious disrespect.
He did not answer back, as usual. Of course he had already seen the water flowing underneath his car and had heard the brouhaha but had told himself that those where the burst had occurred would deal with it on their own, as productively selfish men do.
“A-ah” PO Khumalo cupped his mouth hearing such a high ranked man being called the way he would call his own child.
But for his entire recalcitrance, Jones soon came up albeit in a contorted face. He did not join his wife. Instead he got into Khumalo’s quarters where he found the young man all wet peeping into the nook where the burst had occurred. He had two empty bread plastic papers which he said he was trying to use to tie up the burst.
“But I hear your wife is into plumbing?” said Jones with a little smile.
“No. Aaah,” he wanted to lie but it is not easy to lie to such a forthright man.
“Why not just close, screw up the main valve out there?” he paused “Give him that big spanner Mrs Khumalo please”, he was smiling even wider.
In a short while Khumalo was darting towards the main valve, about 100 metres from the flat. At first he didn’t know which side to turn the valve until Jones, arriving slowly, told him to turn whichever direction looked more like it.
“You’re worsening! It’s getting worse!” Somebody shouted from the flat, it sounded like Mrs Jones.
The river from the flat attracted not just sparrows and dragonflies, it also dazzled the boys Matthew, Tafara and Sithini who jumped up, about and over, splashed the water towards one another and skipped about in pure glee.
Mrs Jones, it turned out, had been eternally wrong to imagine that action by Khumalo to turn off the main valve had worsened matters. The burst in fact stopped, condemning her to the dust bin of false prophets.
With most of the adults tired after the hectic 30 minutes or so the remaining water was now the task of the kids to mop up. And there was no play for them for one hour plus.
“This is abuse,” commented Sithini.
“Of children,” added Matthew. They spoke fluent English.
Jones and Khumalo assisted each other and tightly tied the burst pipe using strong polythene which they reinforced with twine. Trouble was to arise when they went back to the main valve to open it and restore the water supply to the flat. They just could not turn it on. Day Two the flat was still dry and patience followed suit.
“They thought they were experts,” these were whispers in corridors.
“They should have called people who know what to do.”
“That’s why . . . We knew….”
“They don’t care about us”
“Bush plumbers!”
“Selfish!”
“We’ll report to the police!”
“They must sort out their mess or else.”
“Big-headed for nothing!”
A burst of insults.
