by Malla Nunn
“Where do you think she got it?” Lil Bit asks as I snap the rubber band around the wrinkled notes with a jerky movement.
“I have no idea,” I say. “She goes into Durban a couple of times a year. It might be to collect the money. I can’t say for sure.”
Lil Bit shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. She’s holding something back. Something big. Something I need to know.
“What have you heard?”
“Uh . . . it’s all rubbish, Amandla. Gossip.”
“Tell me,” I say.
Lil Bit hesitates. She rubs her eyes. The moment drags out in awkward silence. I was right. Whatever she’s holding back is big, and she needs time to build up the courage to speak.
“Okay.” She traces a scratch on the surface of the table with her fingernail. “Here it is: People think your ma acts all posh but that she’s the same as the women who wait for customers behind the soccer stands at nighttime. The fact that she goes into Durban to be with men for money makes it worse . . . It’s like she’s too good for Sugar Town.”
“Oh my God!” I’m stunned by the news, and furious. If my father was white, the gossips wouldn’t cast Annalisa in that light. Madiba said that all relationships are equal in the eyes of the law, but things are different down here on the ground. A white woman who sleeps with a black man is a gold digger if the man is famous, and a tramp if he’s not. Love and tenderness don’t come into the equation.
The insult cuts me up. Some people believe that Annalisa goes into town every couple of months to sell the only thing she has to offer: herself. Not only is she odd, she is also a prostitute. The loaded glances I’ve had my whole life take on a new meaning. The gossips think I might be the result of an accident with a stranger.
My face heats up, and I want to hit something. If people knew Annalisa at all, they’d know how wrong that idea is. But they don’t know her. That’s the problem. She is a mystery even to me, and that lets doubts creep into my mind. The money is real, and I have no idea where it came from. But I can’t bring myself to believe the rumors, even as a voice in my head reminds me that I know nothing for certain about Annalisa’s life before me.
“None of what they say is true.” I scramble to make words. “Annalisa wouldn’t let anyone touch her like that.”
“Rumors, like I said.” Lil Bit sighs. “It’s good that your mother doesn’t care about the gossip. My ma takes everything she hears about my father to heart, and some days, she doesn’t leave the house.”
I push the money away from me and a white piece of paper floats to the floor. Lil Bit picks it up and gives it to me, curious. I smooth the paper flat with my palm and read out loud. “ ‘Saturday. Twelve to one p.m. 211 Kenneth Kaunda Road, Durban North. Use the private car park entrance at the rear.’ ”
“Any ideas what it means?” Lil Bit asks, but my mind is focused on one simple fact. Annalisa has a secret life that involves sneaking through private entryways and coming out with a stack of money.
“Do you think it’s true . . . what people say?” I ask Lil Bit in a shaky voice. “Annalisa leaves home with an empty bag and comes back with a stack of notes. Explain that to me . . . I mean . . .”
“Shush.” Lil Bit holds up her hand like she’s stopping traffic. “Think, Amandla. If your ma can make that much money in one day, why are the two of you still living here? Why not go into town once a week and move the two of you out to a nice house with ocean views?”
“I don’t know anything about her, Lil Bit, not where she’s from or the kind of life that she had before me. I can guess that it was better than this, but that’s not the same as knowing anything for sure.”
Lil Bit turns the piece of paper and reads over the slanted letters. “This is your chance to find out. Check what’s at this address and go from there.”
Internet connection and electricity supply are intermittent in our township, not that it matters. Neither Lil Bit nor I own a mobile. Annalisa’s old Nokia with the cracked flip screen might as well be a brick. It is always out of credit or power. Usually both.
Lil Bit checks the clock on the wall. It’s 3:42. “The school computer lab is open till four,” she says. “If we run, we’ll get there in time to do a search.”
My arms and legs grow heavy. I live with Annalisa’s strange turns and blank memories every day. Now I have the chance to fill in parts of Mother’s story, but I’m afraid of what I might find.
“I don’t know if I want to know, Lil Bit.”
“It’s up to you, Amandla.” She moves to the door. “At least once a day, I wish that my father’s secret had stayed a secret. If it had, my mother would be happy and my father would still be living at home with us. We’d be together, but . . .”
B-U-T. Three small letters that have the power to change whatever came before them.
“But what?” I ask.
“You either live in the light of the truth or stay blind in the darkness.” Lil Bit parrots her preacher father. “Those are your choices, Amandla. Whatever you decide, I’ll be waiting for you outside the computer lab till it closes.”
She opens the door and a flood of afternoon light silhouettes her tiny frame. Her tight brown curls make a soft halo around her head. Give her wings and she’d pass for an angel, but not the kind with a harp and a smile. No, Lil Bit is an angel of the avenging kind, armed with a fiery sword.
Goose bumps creep up my arms. Reverend Bhengu has left the township, but his talent for laying down the word at the right moment lives on in his daughter. Amplified. Lil Bit is a powerhouse with the lights just turning on. When the time comes for her to shine, I hope I’m there to witness it. She turns and walks outside. She gives me time to make up my mind. I stay seated. My feet are too heavy to move. Dust swirls in the laneway. Lil Bit walks through the front gate and in the direction of school.
“Wait.” I jump up and rush outside.
4
We reach the computer lab stairs, sweating and out of breath but with enough time to look up the address in Durban North. I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket and silently ask Mandela on the water tower to give me the strength to deal with whatever I find out about my mother. A door slams, and Mrs. Zuma, the thickset Zulu teacher who runs the learning extension program, locks the door to the computer lab in the library with a quick turn of the key.
“Wait . . .” Lil Bit puffs. “We have time. Five minutes at least.”
“Too late, girls.” Mrs. Zuma drops the key into her handbag. “It will take me five minutes to open the door and start the machines, and by then, it will be time for me to close up again. Go home. It’s Friday night, and I have things to do.”
Arguing would be a waste of time. Mrs. Zuma is done for the term and ready to start the midyear holidays early. We have to find another way to get information. Lil Bit and me hang out with kids who have limited credit on their phones. Begging for data is the same as begging for a cigarette on the street corner. It is a sign you’ve hit the bottom, and Lil Bit and me won’t do it.
“Have a good holiday,” Mrs. Zuma says, and walks off with light steps. Two student-free weeks is a shot of summer sunshine in the dead of winter. She can’t wait to get away.
“So much for that,” Lil Bit says as a soccer ball sails over her head and hits my right shoulder. The ball belongs to soccer-mad Goodness Dumisa, who plays goalie for the amateur Sugar Town Shakers.
“Hey!” Goodness yells from the yard. “Kick it back to me.”
I kick the ball badly, and Goodness laughs at my lack of skills. Sports is not my strong point. Sports and I are, in fact, sworn enemies that are forced to spend one torturous hour together every week at school. Lil Bit is faster and better coordinated than me, but not by much; it’s another reason the two of us stay on the sidelines, both on and off the sports field. In contrast, Goodness is tall and lanky, with dyed-blond braids and killer speed.
“The holidays started an hour ago and the two of you are already back at school, begging to be let in. What do you do for fun?” Goodness kicks the ball back to me, which I don’t expect. She runs with a group of girls who, like her, are at the top of the social ladder. Her father, Mr. Dumisa, owns the Drinking Hole, a popular bar a block down from the Build ’Em Up timber yard, which he also owns. The Dumisa family is Sugar Town royalty. Lil Bit and I are, well, not.
“Amandla and me have fun.” Lil Bit kneels down and reties her shoelaces. A classic sign of nerves. “We walk and talk and read books and—” She stops short, realizing that every word she says confirms that we are dull bookworms who haunt the school library in our off-hours. She rushes to add, “Amandla needs to do an internet search. That’s why we’re here. Not for schoolwork.”
I appreciate her trying to save us from the broke-and-boring list that the other students have written us down on in their heads. It’s too late. We top the list every term. Every year. Goodness pulls the latest iPhone from her skirt pocket and swipes the screen. “The Wi-Fi signal is strong, but who knows how long that will last? Use my mobile to do a search, if you want.”
Yes, I do want, but what if the address is for a topless bar or a charity that gives out secondhand clothes?! Being poor isn’t a sin, but it certainly is a shame.
“Take it, Amandla. I promise not to look at the history.” Goodness holds the phone out and the fake diamonds sprinkled over the silver case catch the sunlight. Goodness plays soccer with the boys and gets right up in their faces if they question her right to be a goalie, but the jeweled case reminds me that she’s also a township princess.
“Thanks.” I take the mobile, and a second too late to hide it from the others, I notice that my hand is shaking. After years of begging Annalisa for answers about her past, I sense that I might finally be near some part of the truth. Goodness steps away to give us privacy. It doesn’t help. I feel sick to my stomach.
“Here, let me do it.” Lil Bit takes the phone and types in the address, already memorized in her remarkable brain. I take a deep breath and wait for the bad news. Or the good news. Or, knowing Annalisa, the that doesn’t tell me anything of use news. My mother, the mystery.
“Oh . . .” Lil Bit says, her eyebrows raised. “Come see for yourself.”
She cups her palm over the screen to cut the glare and a fenced-off construction sight comes into focus. I sigh. An unfinished building makes perfect sense. Where Annalisa’s secrets are concerned, nothing comes easy.
“Let’s check the neighbors.” Lil Bit scrolls her finger across the image to search for clues to the building’s identity. The Street View expands to show the entire suburb of Durban North with roads shooting off in different directions. Another swipe brings up a map of the entire KwaZulu Natal region, crisscrossed with main roads and rivers that run to the sea.
“Hellfire . . .” Lil Bit whispers in frustration, ever the preacher’s perfect daughter. Goodness comes closer and holds her hand out for the phone.
“Let me see,” she says. “What are you looking for?”
“A three-sixty Street View of that address in Durban North.” Lil Bit inches away from Goodness, who’s sweaty from soccer practice. The move surprises me. Lil Bit is polite and hates to offend anyone, which makes her behavior unusual.
“Here we go.” Goodness brings up the picture of the building site and slowly rotates the image to the right. “Four floors at least. An elevator shaft. Steel scaffolding. Safety fences and portable toilets. The developers are spending serious money on the project.”
“How do you—”
“My brothers build things,” she says. “I know construction.”
The Build ’Em Up sells cement mix, iron sheets, bricks, wood, and wheelbarrows. There’s a piece of Dumisa material in almost every building in Sugar Town.
“Can you tell what it is?” I ask.
“Nope,” Goodness says. “Just that it’s being built right.”
Lit Bit shifts her attention from the screen to me. “Go tomorrow and see for yourself, Amandla. It’s the only way to find out what’s there. I’d go with you, but I agreed to look after the Naboni children from nine to one and it’s too late to back out now.”
I groan. Mrs. Naboni and the other Christ Our Lord Is Risen! Gospel Hall ladies are vipers who are happy to gossip about Lil Bit’s family on the street corners. Then they have the nerve to use Lil Bit as a free babysitting service. “Say no to them,” I tell her. Or at least make them pay for it. Babysitting is work. Mrs. Naboni has five children, all of them devil spawn.
“None of my business,” Goodness says. “But, depending on how long ago this image was taken, the building might already be finished. Take a shot at goal, brah. Get off the bench. It’s the only way to win a match.”
This is the most that Goodness has ever spoken to Lil Bit or me. She is tough and loud and has three older brothers who guard her like she is made out of gold and the world is out to steal her. I admit to myself that sometimes I want to be her. Or at least be close to her. I’d love a brother. Just one. I’d love a mother other women rush to for advice and a house that doesn’t let the cold in.
“Why are you being nice to us?” Lil Bit demands out of nowhere. “Are you bored with your real friends?”
I hit Lil Bit on the shoulder. “Girl, shut up!”
“It’s okay,” Goodness says to me. Then she turns to Lil Bit. “I talk to everyone,” she says, “but you don’t. The two of you are in your own little world. Too good for the rest of us?”
“You’re a Dumisa,” Lil Bit says. “You have no idea what it’s like to be us.”
Goodness rolls her eyes, like, Please, child, you don’t understand a thing. Annalisa says that Into each life some rain must fall. I bet Goodness has problems of her own that we will never know about. She bounces the soccer ball from one knee to the other for a long while. Lil Bit chews her bottom lip. I wait for Goodness to turn and walk away.
“I understand what you mean,” she finally says. “But being me isn’t what you think. From the outside everything is—”
A sharp whistle cuts through the conversation, and we turn to find Mr. Mgazi, the school cleaner and night watchman, standing at the gates with his wife, who helps him sweep the classrooms and rake the yard.
“Out, my sisters,” Mr. Mgazi calls. “School is closed.”
Goodness tucks the soccer ball under her arm, and dust smears across her school uniform. She doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“I’ll be working at the Build ’Em Up or practicing at the field all through the holidays.” Goodness turns toward the gates and says over her shoulder: “Come get me if you want to hit up Miss Gabela’s lending library. I like books, too.”
“Sure enough,” I say, and Lil Bit grabs hold of my arm to stop me from moving forward. Goodness keeps walking, and we stay still. “What’s gotten into you?” I whisper. “She was just being nice.”
“But why?” she whispers back. “What does she want?”
“I don’t know, but having a rich friend can’t hurt.”
“And what happens when she decides to dump us? Have you thought about that?”
Lil Bit might be right, but it doesn’t feel that way. I say, “Who cares? We’ll still have each other. The two of us are enough.”
The words come out sweetly and with confidence, but deep down, they don’t feel right, either. Goodness said that Lil Bit and me make up our own world. Friends with different voices and different points of view could help expand our “little” world into a bright, new universe.
“Walk me home.” I hurry Lil Bit through the school gates. Wanting more is dangerous. Wanting more will only lead to disappointment. I have to be happy with what I have here and now.
“Will you go tomorrow?” Lil Bit asks when we turn into the lane between Tugela and Sisulu. “Just to see what’s there.�
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“Yes, I’ll go.” I decide to learn what I can. And there’s the matter of personal pride. How can I expect Lil Bit to stand up to the church ladies and be strong if I can’t get myself to Durban North in broad daylight?
“Come tell me what you find out,” Lil Bit says. “Sunday, after church.”
“Why wait? I’ll come straight over to your house from the bus.” I open the door and peek inside at Annalisa, still sleeping. “If Mrs. Naboni asks you to stay longer, tell her no. You have places to go and people to see.”
“It’s not Mrs. Naboni. Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of Father getting caught with that girl. I need to make sure that my mother doesn’t do anything stupid.”
I understand difficult mothers and hard choices.
“Sorry about your ma. I’ll see you after church on Sunday.”
Lil Bit nods and walks in the direction of Amazulu Street, where she lives in a one-bedroom house that’s crowded with reminders of Reverend Bhengu: Hymnals and military history books. The small desk where he wrote his sermons. The ashtray he used to stub out his cigarettes. His one vice, they thought. They were wrong. Lil Bit’s mother could sell it all, but she refuses.
She needs to burn everything, Annalisa tells me. That’s the fastest way to heal a wound. With fire.
Lil Bit waves from the corner of Tugela Way and disappears into the pale shadows that fall across the broken shacks and the children playing football in the dirt. I rush inside and pull the new sketchbook and pencils from my backpack. The image of Lil Bit standing in our doorway earlier, backlit by slanting rays of sunlight, fierce and supernatural, is still sharp in my mind. I sit and I draw.