He was right. He was no longer a boy, and if not yet a man, then he was on the very cusp of manhood. I looked at him, taking him all in, and was surprised by the changes he’d undergone without my noticing. Riaan’s shoulders had broadened and his voice had deepened. His jaw was covered with stubble that in the moonlight looked like flecks of steel and fire. I wasn’t prepared for how scratchy it would be, how utterly foreign, when he leaned forward and took my face in his hands and pressed his lips against mine.
At first, the kiss was gentle, and his lips felt like a butterfly alighting on mine. He smelled of soap and rain, and he tasted of strawberry jam.
“Stay and marry me, Delilah,” he implored, pulling away and gazing at me, searching for some sign. “Please.” He kissed me more fiercely then, pressing into me as though wanting to possess all of me, until I was lying down on the blanket with him on top of me.
I saw the same fervor in his eyes now that I had during that last night together, but then he blinked and the moment was over.
“Good night, Delilah,” he said, his eyes glistening in the dark.
“Good night.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Zodwa
10 May 1995
Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa
Zodwa’s hand trembles as it clasps the packet of tiny birthday candles. How they can justify charging so much for them is beyond her since they’re more expensive than an eight-pack of full-sized Price’s candles that would burn for hours. She’s slightly horrified that she spent so much on the frivolous things.
When Zodwa set out that morning to the Spar at the shopping center, she went like a sleepwalker, not knowing what she wanted until she stood in front of the cupcakes at the shop’s bakery.
“I’ll have one of those,” Zodwa said to the black woman at the counter, who wore a net over her hair and plastic gloves on her hands even though her white counterpart didn’t wear either.
“Hhayi, sisi. You can’t just buy cupcakes one, one. You must buy them like that in a pack. Six, six, sisonke.” She pointed at the packages of cupcakes in their plastic wrapping. “It’s not like buying cigarettes at the spaza shop.” She laughed.
Zodwa felt herself flush. The desserts were expensive and Zodwa only needed one. Still, she didn’t feel she could leave without them, so she spent a small fortune on six of them and a handful of multicolored candles before returning to her shack.
The pack of chocolate cupcakes is open now on the table. Zodwa considers the impossibly perfect swirl of icing on top of each little cake and wonders how they manage to get them like that. She selects one from the pack, the most perfect of all of them, and sets it down.
Today would have been her baby’s first birthday. It’s also a year since he disappeared. There hasn’t been a day that Zodwa hasn’t thought about the boy and wondered what really happened to him, if he’s truly dead like everyone believes. He has to be, because what else would Leleti have done with him? Why else hasn’t she found him after a year of searching?
The last conversation she had with her mother churns constantly in her mind, like a whirlpool that’s in constant motion but can’t go anywhere.
Where is he? Where is my son?
He . . . he . . . is gone.
Gone? Gone where, Mama? What did you do with him?
I did it for . . . you. And for him.
What? What did you do?
The candle takes seventeen minutes to burn itself down and Zodwa counts off every one of them, certain that it’s longer than all the time she spent with her baby after his birth. As she sits staring at the flame, she reminds herself that her son’s disappearance is her punishment.
The good Lord knows that you do not even want this child.
This was how her gogo had explained away a few miscarriages that had happened in the village. Zodwa had heard her say that babies could hear things from the womb, that they would leave if they suspected they were not wanted or would be born to parents they didn’t deem worthy. But what about a baby that was too close to birth to miscarry? Could such a child work the same sorcery after its birth to make itself disappear? If so, it’s a bitter indictment of Zodwa.
The irony, of course, is how much she wants the baby now. Zodwa would give anything to reclaim those moments after his birth, so that instead of thinking about Thembeka, she would have been focusing on him; so that instead of wishing him away, she’d have welcomed him. Perhaps if she’d paid attention and wept tears of joy instead of tears of regret, he would have stayed.
Zodwa’s first lesson in motherhood is that it’s a condition that cannot be reversed. A mother who has lost her child is no less of a mother; if anything, her maternal instincts are made even sharper since what she nurses is heartache and regret and, just like she would a baby, she carries them strapped to her back at all times.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Ruth
10 May 1995
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
I pour a glass of wine, filling it up to the brim, before putting on my cheeriest voice and slapping on a wide smile. “Gather around, everyone!”
Everything’s fine, everything’s fine, everything’s fine.
It isn’t a large group and they’re all already standing around the trays of catered snacks in the dining room, but don’t think I haven’t noticed everyone checking their watches and shooting looks at the door in the hopes of escaping. Jesus, it’s not like I haven’t wanted to do the same. Mandla has been crying steadily for the past hour. He was quiet for the two hours before that but that’s only because he was napping.
My boy seems to be allergic to me, despite the fact that I’m constantly wearing latex gloves and never get to touch him skin to skin. It doesn’t matter what I do, he screams his head off whenever I’m near him. To be fair, he also screams his head off when I’m not near him, so it’s a no-win situation. It’s been just over four months since I brought him home, and during that first tough week, I told myself things had to get better.
I tell myself the same still.
Needing to inject some enthusiasm into the goddamned event, because it looks more like a wake than a party, I bounce Mandla on my hip and call out, “It’s time to sing ‘Happy Birthday’!”
Dee and Riaan shuffle closer. She leans over the cake, which I’ve only just unveiled. It’s a triple-decker lemon sponge iced with lemon–cream cheese frosting.
“Wow,” Dee says. “That’s quite a creation. It looks more like a wedding cake than a child’s birthday cake.”
I ignore her sarcasm, reminding myself that she’s here under duress and is going to find fault with everything. “That’s because it is. I got a boutique confectionery shop in Sandton to make it to order. It cost a fortune getting them to drive it out here but it was worth it, don’t you think?”
Riaan scratches his head. “Shouldn’t the cake have ‘Happy First Birthday, Mandla’ written on it? And a Disney character or something cute like a teddy bear or toy train?” He eyes the mini-Mandla cake topper like he’s never seen anything like it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff. “It’s the nineties. A cake can be anything you want it to be. And there’s no rule that says just because it’s a child’s birthday cake it needs to be some tacky thing that looks homemade. Besides, it was ordering that cake topper that caused all the drama in the first place and I wasn’t going to back down on that.”
Lindiwe joins us at the table. “What drama?”
“I wanted a black baby made from fondant to be on top of the cake to complete the wedding cake motif, but all the racists in town at their tuisnywerhuids refused to make it.” I’d approached more than five home-industry businesses, all fronted by Afrikaner tannies whose recipes competed for blue ribbons at the local fairs, but none of them were prepared to make the cake to order.
“Maybe they�
��re not racist at all. Maybe they just don’t know what fondant is. These are women who are used to making melktert and koeksisters,” Riaan says. “They’re not that sophisticated.” He manages to pronounce fondant wrong despite having heard me say it properly, making it clear that he isn’t that sophisticated either.
“Oh, please. Stop being a racist apologist. If you can’t recognize blatant racism when you see it, then I can’t help you.”
Dee snorts and says something under her breath about the pot calling the kettle black, which is why I’m gratified that Sarie and her husband, Stompie, choose that moment to join us.
“Dankie, miesie,” Stompie says in Afrikaans, clutching his hat as he thanks me for inviting them. They’re both kitted out in their Sunday best.
“You’re most welcome, Stompie. Thank you for coming.”
I hope Dee has noticed the number of black guests at this party. She keeps insinuating that I’m racist but how can I be when the truth is that I don’t even see Mandla as black? He’s dark skinned, yes, so he’s technically black but he’s not like the rest of them. There’s black people and then there’s blacks. I won’t say the k-word, which just proves I’m not racist. As does the fact that I have so many black friends here.
Stompie leans forward and tickles Mandla’s chin. “Hoekom die miesie vat hom die baby met die gloves?” Why does madam wear gloves to carry the baby?
“Allergies,” I say vaguely.
Of course, Stompie and Sarie don’t know about Mandla’s status. The stigma is just too great and they can’t be trusted to keep it to themselves. If the lynch mobs are pissed off about Mandla being black, his being HIV positive will push them over the edge. As they turn away, I see Sarie nudge Stompie, nodding in the direction of my magazine cover on the wall. He follows her gaze and his eyes almost pop out of his head when he catches sight of my naked form.
“Ek het jou mos gesê,” she whispers. I told you so.
Stompie looks like Christmas, Easter, New Year’s, and his birthday all came on the same day and I make a mental note to take the picture down. No one used to bat an eyelid in Cape Town but the farm crowd isn’t quite as cosmopolitan as the Clifton crowd. I only put it up to annoy Dee anyway.
Sarie and Stompie recently announced their plans to retire, which is sad considering how long they’ve been a part of the family. But then, they have gotten on in years and now that we’re living at the farm, we don’t need caretakers anymore, though we will need to hire a maid to do housework.
I made a decent profit on the Camps Bay apartment and have some money in the bank even after paying Vince back, with interest, for the loan for all the security upgrades. I make a mental note to chat to Dee and see if we can pool our resources to give Sarie and Stompie a decent retirement gift. They’ll need all the help they can get wanting to live in some godforsaken village of their birth and taking care of the entire family, and they’re not going to get it anywhere else, that you can be sure of.
“Time to blow out the candle!” I slip a cream votive candle onto the cake and light it.
Everyone starts singing in that horrible stilted and hushed way people do, as though they’re terrified that someone will actually hear their voice. I raise my own voice, both to drown them out and to show them how it’s done. “Happy Birthday, dear Mandla. . . .” I draw out the ahhhh sounds. “Happy Birthday to you.”
“Hip hip,” Dee surprises me by calling out, and the small group replies with, “Hooray!”
“And nog a hip hip,” Riaan shouts.
“Hooray!”
Jez barks, as though throwing in her two cents’ worth.
It’s time to blow out the candle. This would be the tricky part if Mandla knew how to do it. I was told to be careful about mucus, so getting it all over the cake would be a problem. I pluck the candle from the cake and then blow it out myself.
Sarie is standing by with the cake knife I had specially engraved with Mandla’s name and date of birth to mark the occasion. His last name is officially Nkosi, which is Lindiwe’s surname. That’s how they legally name the children who come into the orphanage: by picking a first name and then assigning one of the care workers’ or social workers’ last names to them.
I didn’t include this on the engraving.
Sarie puts some cake in a bowl for Mandla, who I’ve put into his high chair. By some miracle, the sight of the cake stops his crying. I give him a spoon and he uses it to attack the bowl with a few karate chops before setting it down and reaching for the cake with both hands. Everyone laughs, grateful that the screeching has stopped, and I reach for my camera to commemorate not only Mandla’s first birthday, but his first taste of cake. Sugar is a no-no for HIV-positive children but you only turn one once. I’m willing to make an exception.
His fingers sink into the lowest tier of the cake and he grabs two chunks of it, one in each hand. As he brings one up to his lips, I start snapping pictures, wanting to get the expression on his face as he gets his first taste. It’s not what I expected. Mandla curls his lip up in disgust and spits the cake out.
“Look at that. He isn’t a big fan of sugar,” I say proudly. My boy is already setting himself apart from the pack.
“I actually think he isn’t a big fan of lemon–cream cheese frosting,” Dee says dryly. “What with his being a baby and not having the most discerning palate.” She walks to the kitchen and pulls out a plate of chocolate cupcakes that are covered with enough blue icing to sink a battleship. “Sarie was kind enough to bake these and bring them with her. I have a feeling they’ll be more to Mandla’s liking.”
I’m annoyed that Sarie has stolen my thunder by bringing baked goods I didn’t ask for, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Once the plate is in front of Mandla, he eyes it skeptically before grabbing one of the cupcakes, which he shoves straight at his face. Everything is quiet for a moment and I’m waiting for him to react the exact same way so I can say, I told you so.
Instead, the traitorous little bugger squeals with delight. He tries cramming even more of the cupcake in his mouth and smears so much blue icing all over his face that he looks like a Smurf. The only thing that’s made him happy all day came from the efforts of a black woman.
I refuse to take that as a sign.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Delilah
15–22 May 1995
Van Tonder Farm, Magaliesburg, South Africa
When I came down with the flu, Ruth banished me from the house.
“You may be contagious and we can’t take the chance that Mandla might get sick. You need to leave and take your bloody germs with you!”
“Where do you want me to go?” I sniffed, feeling congested and sorry for myself.
“I could book you into a hotel or a B and B, but why don’t you ask Loverboy if he can look after you?”
“No, Ruth. I couldn’t impose like that.”
“Oh, please.” She waved me off and then marched to the phone. “What’s his number?”
When I refused to give it, she looked it up in the phone book and dialed it. “Hello, Riaan? It’s Ruth, here. Dee’s coming down with something and I don’t want her around Mandla. Do you think you could look after her for a few days at your place? You could? Oh, thank you so much. How about you come over now and pick her up. I’ll make sure she’s waiting for you.”
“Ruth,” I groaned when she put the receiver down.
“What? How many women get to play a real-life Jane Bennet when she falls ill at Netherfield and Bingley has to take care of her?” She cupped her chin and then said, “I suppose that makes me Mrs. Bennet in this scenario.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. And to think everyone thought you were the clever one! You really should read more books.” She tutted and then headed into my room, throwing things into my rucksack. “Don’t you have an
ything more alluring than this?” She scrunched her nose up at my old nightgown. “What happened to the silk kimono I gave you? Did you cut it up for curtains in a reverse Scarlett O’Hara move?” Before I could dig it out of the back of the wardrobe, she marched into her own room and pulled three silk nightgowns from her cupboard. “Here, take these.”
“For God’s sake, Ruth. I’m not wearing your ridiculous lingerie.”
“Suit yourself, but—” She was interrupted by a knock. “Wow, someone is sure eager to have you over at his place,” Ruth said before unceremoniously opening the door and shoving me into Riaan’s arms. “Don’t come back until you’re a hundred percent better.”
Had I been healthier, I would have been mortified. Things had been strained between Riaan and me since the camping trip at the site at Drimolen when it had become clear that he still harbored romantic feelings for me. The closer he tried to get to me, the more I withdrew. Ruth thrusting me on him like that was not only rude but it also sent mixed messages, which was the last thing I wanted to do. But, as things were, I felt terrible and was just grateful to have someone care for me while I convalesced.
Riaan’s farmstead was much more modern than ours, having been rebuilt from the original thatched-roof bungalow in the ’80s, and I had a large guest bedroom with an ensuite bathroom to myself. He came in to check up on me regularly, bringing me chicken soup, taking my temperature, and administering medications. The tenderness with which he performed all of his nursing duties touched me greatly. Having been the one to tend to others all my life, it was disorienting to be taken care of. In a world in which so much was constantly changing, it amazed me that something could stay exactly the same, that Riaan could be just as steadfast as he’d always been. The man who sat spooning soup into my mouth was as committed to me as the boy who’d begged me to stay.
There was a part of me that wished so much that I had.
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 19