That night, while racked with a fever that made me feel as though I’d been banished to hell, I raged against demons in my sleep. It was Daniel who came to me first, bloodied and dying. He pointed an accusing finger at me, saying he wouldn’t have been at the rectory the night he died if I hadn’t abandoned him in a convent. And I knew it to be true. My son would never have become a priest if I’d kept and mothered him.
After that, Father Thomas’s face replaced Daniel’s, and I must have cried out then because when I woke, Riaan was by my side, wiping at my tears. “Shh . . . it’s fine. You’re safe. You’re fine,” he crooned.
As my heart thumped its drumbeat of fear, I knew that what he said was true. I was safe there with him. I’d always been safe with him because he’d stopped that night forty years ago when I’d asked him to. At the sound of my panicked voice, Riaan had frozen on top of me and then looked at me like he was coming out of a daze, horror at his actions written over his face.
And then he’d stood up, begged for my forgiveness, and walked away. The same couldn’t be said for other men.
“I’m here. You’re safe,” Riaan whispered. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
As my terror passed and I lay back down, Riaan sat next to me holding my hand until I fell back to sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Zodwa
22 May 1995
Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa
The trip to Soweto is a waste of both time and money. The man Zodwa finally tracked down, Cyril Malema—Dumisa’s comrade and supposedly the last person who saw her brother alive, the one Leleti always suspected of lying—is a raging drunk. Leleti had already crossed him off her list but Zodwa needed to speak to him for herself to try to understand her mother’s skepticism.
By Zodwa’s calculations, Cyril’s not even thirty years old and yet he sits slumped in a darkened room like he’s worn out by a lifetime of struggle. He reeks of stale beer and sweat, and his rheumy eyes battle to focus on Zodwa’s face. At the mere mention of Dumisa’s name, he begins rambling incoherently.
“They are coming for me. I can’t hide. There’s nowhere to hide. They’re going to kill me. Help me, sisi. Help me.”
Zodwa realizes that he thinks the security police are still after him. Even though she’s frustrated with him, she pities him too, for living in the hell of the past even now when it’s been so thoroughly vanquished.
She tries coaxing him but is still unable to get a word of sense out of him beyond more entreaties for help, and Zodwa returns to the squatter camp defeated. She was hoping that since all inquiries about her son have led her into dead ends, she’d have more success in finding out about her brother.
Zodwa heads to get water and as she rounds the corner with her bucket, she sees Thembeka at the back of the line for the tap. It’s not the first time this year that she’s seen her. They’ve run into each other more times than she would like. The first few times, when their paths crossed while waiting in line at the latrines and then at the spaza shop, Zodwa tried to pretend that she was indifferent to her ex-friend’s presence. She acted aloof, as though she was the one who’d ended the friendship and not the other way around. The problem with that tactic was that it was only effective if it evoked some kind of response, which it hadn’t.
True indifference could only be achieved once you stopped caring, and Zodwa couldn’t imagine that she’d ever reach that point. It angered her that Thembeka had, that she appeared to feel nothing at all toward her.
The anger spurred her on so that when she and her new shebeen friend, Ntombi, were walking home from work one day and she saw Thembeka, Zodwa turned to Ntombi and muttered loudly enough for Thembeka to hear, “This one thinks she’s too good for the rest of us now that she’s gotten a matric certificate, but what has she done with it? Nothing. She sits around all day doing nothing like her lazy boyfriend. Even shebeen work is too good for her.”
The hostility felt good.
There was such a gossamer-thin line between love and hate; it was finer than a rifle’s crosshairs. Hatred burned just as fiercely as passion, and Zodwa decided she’d take Thembeka’s loathing any day rather than fade into the background of her consciousness.
And her nastiness had elicited a response from Thembeka whereas her indifference hadn’t. Thembeka first looked confused and then wounded by Zodwa’s comment. Her hurt buoyed Zodwa. From then on, every opportunity she got, she was sure to make similar remarks about Thembeka and her terrible taste in boyfriends, her apparent lack of ambition, and the fact that she thought she was so much better than Zodwa.
All those times, though, Zodwa had had friends with her, ones who laughed at her comments and encouraged her malice. Today, she’s alone and Thembeka is by herself too. She’s the last person in the line and so Zodwa has no choice but to join the queue behind her. Zodwa tries to focus on anything except Thembeka’s proximity and her attention flits from one distraction to another.
Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You” blares from a nearby radio and flies buzz around a rat carcass. The enticing smell of roasted mielies wafts over from three shacks down yet it still can’t overpower the scent of baby powder and Vaseline that Zodwa knows comes from Thembeka. Just the thought of the Vaseline almost unmoors Zodwa, who considers leaving and coming back again later.
As if reading her mind, Thembeka turns around. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something and Zodwa cringes inwardly. She’s ashamed by her behavior, ashamed of her relationship with Ace, and knows she deserves whatever insult Thembeka is about to spit out at her. Still, it won’t make it any easier to hear. She waits a moment and then another and when Thembeka still doesn’t speak, Zodwa snaps, “What? What is it?”
Thembeka hesitates again and then shakes her head. She turns around again to face the front so Zodwa is left to study her back and neck. Her beautiful neck that will forever be out of Zodwa’s reach.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ruth
5 June 1995
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
So, how did the appointment go?” Dee asks as soon as we’re through the door. She’s trying to sound bored, like she’s only asking because she has nothing better to do, but I can see that she’s been sitting there waiting for us to return.
“We won’t have his blood tests back for a few days, so I don’t know what his CD4 count and viral load are like, but the good news is there’s no hip dysplasia or any physical problems with his legs, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be walking soon.”
“Of course there isn’t,” she says. She’d told me that it was common for babies who’d been raised in institutions to take longer to reach all the big milestones because they didn’t have that initial one-on-one time with their caregivers, which is why he’d been so slow with starting to crawl.
“I know. You were right,” I concede, and then add dryly, “It’s just all these new-mother hormones raging through my body making me emotional.”
“I’m sure the breastfeeding must be killer too.”
I snort. “Look at you, making jokes like a normal person. You’re hilarious, by the way.”
“Not really. You just think so because of the cabin fever and because you’re a one-year-old’s hostage.”
“Except I’m not quite as fond of him as Stockholm syndrome suggests I should be under the circumstances.”
Dee laughs. “Jokes aside, you really need to get out more. It’s not healthy for either of you being cooped up like this all the time.”
I eyeball her. “Seriously? And where do you suggest we go? To walk around the nursery that’s owned by the right-wingers who we think called and made the last death threat, or to the teahouse run by the Coetzees’ cousin? Perhaps we should go to church so the lovely dominee can tell me again what an abomination he thinks we are, or would you suggest—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” She’s quiet for a moment and then looks at me sideways, as if nervous. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m just surprised.”
“By what?”
“That you’re allowing yourself to be bullied in this way. This isn’t the Ruth I know. The Ruth I know would go out there swinging.”
“Yes, well. The Ruth you’re talking about is BM Ruth.”
“BM?”
“Before Mandla. AM Ruth is excruciatingly aware that she’s not the only one who’ll be a target. Mandla will be too and I just don’t want to put him in danger if I don’t have to.”
The thought of taking Mandla out where we’ll be vulnerable and subjecting him to all that hatred just turns my stomach. I believe in energy, both good and bad. Having all that animosity directed at us, without walls to protect us, can’t be good for either of us.
Dee lets out a long steadying breath and nods. “Fair enough.”
“Will you hold him for a minute while I get his lunch sorted?” I don’t wait for an answer. I just give her a pair of gloves and wait for her to pull them on before handing Mandla across. I can count on one hand the number of times she’s held him. All of them have been in the past few weeks, though, so that’s got to count for something.
“Lunch time!” I say to Mandla once his food is ready and Dee carries him over to his high chair and puts him in. “Yummy. Doesn’t this look positively mouthwatering? This is all the rage in France, you know. All the best chefs are serving this to the babies with the most discerning palates.”
Mandla thumps his hands on his table.
Dee puts his bib on and then picks the spoon up, dipping it into the bowl and bringing the colorful chunky mixture up to her mouth. “Hmm, this looks so good.” She makes a big production out of swallowing it and then smacking her lips in appreciation. “You want to try some?”
Mandla opens his mouth and takes a bite, which he keeps in his chipmunk cheeks for a few seconds before pulling a face and spitting it all out again.
“Are you sure you don’t like it? I’m going to finish it if you don’t hurry up and get in here.” Dee takes another bite but it goes down wrong. As she coughs and hacks the food back out in a spray across the table, Mandla lets out the first real laugh we’ve heard from him.
I want to cry with gratitude. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your choking was totally worth it,” I say, and she nods, eyes still streaming.
When the phone rings fifteen minutes later, Dee answers it and starts to chat with what sounds like Riaan.
“Come, little man. We need to get your nappy changed.” I take Mandla’s bib off, wipe his face and hands down, and carry him to his room, where the changing table is.
After laying him down, I automatically put on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Undoing his nappy, I stretch for the package of baby wipes above his head, and as I pluck one out, Mandla reaches out and grabs my hand. It’s always a strange sensation, seeing his fingers tightened over my mine, feeling the pressure of them, but not being able to touch the bare skin of his hand.
I remember all the nights over the past few weeks that we’ve lain there, chest to chest, as he’s fallen asleep on top of me; all the times he’s thrown up on me, wiped his snot on me, and peed on me before I could get the nappy on quickly enough. I think, too, of all my tears that have dripped down onto him during all the hours I lay awake wishing that I had a relationship with God so that I could pray to keep my boy safe. I think of the cold sweat that’s broken out on my brow every time I thought Mandla might be getting a fever and I thought, This is it, this is it, this is it.
Despite all the bodily fluids we’ve exchanged, I’ve never once worried that I was about to become infected with the virus. I know the facts of its transmission, which happens primarily through intercourse, sharing needles, blood transfusions, and drinking infected breast milk.
So why the gloves?
I slowly strip them off, take a deep breath, and throw them away. The box full of them goes into the garbage can straight afterward. I won’t be touching Mandla with a barrier between us ever again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Zodwa
23 June 1995
Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa
Zodwa.”
The voice carries from behind her in the shadows but it’s unmistakable.
Thembeka.
Zodwa’s heartbeat is as insistent as rain drumming against a tin roof, when she turns to face the woman she loves. “What?” When Thembeka doesn’t reply, just stands there biting her lip, Zodwa asks again, “What do you want?”
Thembeka still doesn’t speak and Zodwa turns to go. She walks three steps before Thembeka calls out: “I heard that you’ve been making inquiries . . . about the baby. Trying to find out what happened to it.”
Of course, nothing is ever a secret in the township. “So?”
“So.” Thembeka pauses before letting out a long, steadying breath. When she speaks again, it’s with surprising gravity. “I wanted to tell you that your baby didn’t die at birth like everyone said.”
The words are spears in Zodwa’s back. She turns around again but this time she’s the one who’s been rendered mute.
“I saw your mother carrying it away the night it was born.” Thembeka’s words tumble out in a torrent as though she’s scared Zodwa will stop listening to her. “I walked past your shack earlier in the day and heard you crying out. I knew the baby was coming and I wanted to see . . . I wanted to see it for myself. To see if it looked like Mongezi in any way. To make certain. If it didn’t . . . then I didn’t need to keep wondering . . . then I could be sure.”
“Of what? That I was a liar?” Zodwa steps toward Thembeka, who shrinks away.
“When you told me, I didn’t know what to believe.” Thembeka’s tone is pleading, like she’s desperate for Zodwa to understand. “Mongezi said he never slept with you. That you were jealous of our relationship and that you were telling lies to break us up. I didn’t know who to believe.”
You should have believed me, Zodwa wants to shout. Me! Because I loved you more than anyone. I would never have hurt you. But the words won’t come.
“So, I was waiting outside the shack thinking that maybe I could talk to you,” Thembeka continues, “or see the baby. It had been festering for months and I was going mad with it . . . with not knowing the truth.” She looks away and then back at Zodwa. “I was standing there when your mother came outside. She was carrying plastic bags and a big kit bag. I was going to wait for her to leave and then try and see you, but as she walked past where I was standing, I heard a cry from inside the bag. A baby’s cry.”
Zodwa’s hands go to her mouth. Mama, what did you do?
“I couldn’t understand why Leleti would be doing that, so I followed her. It was so loud and busy that day. Everyone was celebrating Mandela. With all the noise, no one else seemed to hear the baby but I did again, ten minutes later when we were on the main road. That’s when I saw Leleti set the bag down, take the baby out, and strap it to her back with a blanket. She walked off in the direction of town with the dog following behind her.”
“And then what happened?”
“I couldn’t follow her anymore. Mongezi was expecting me and so I turned around and came back.”
“But why have you waited so long to tell me?” Zodwa wants to grab Thembeka and shake her.
“I had no idea what your mother did with the baby or if you’d even believe me. And then after Leleti died a few days later . . . I didn’t know what to do. I thought . . . if Leleti knew the baby was Mongezi’s . . . if she thought you were raped like you said you were . . . then she may have wanted to get rid of it so you could go back to school. I thought it was better to just keep quiet about what I saw until . . .”
“Until what?”
�
��Until I found out where your baby might be.”
Zodwa’s whole body begins to tremble. Her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against the shebeen fence to steady herself. “Wait . . . what?”
“There’s a farm about a fifteen-minute walk from here,” Thembeka is saying. “Two old white women live there. They have a black baby with them who is the exact age your baby would be. Apparently, they found it on their doorstep one night and they’ve kept him.”
“How do you know this?”
“My mother got work at the farm next door as a migrant laborer picking avocados last week. She heard an old couple who’s retiring from there talking about it.”
Zodwa takes a minute to process the information. As much as she wants to believe Thembeka, it just doesn’t make any sense. Why would Leleti take Zodwa’s baby and give it to strangers?
As though reading her mind, Thembeka asks, “Did Leleti know those women?”
Zodwa’s about to protest that her mother would never give her baby to white people, never in a million years, when she suddenly remembers something.
Who was that you were with now?
Someone I used to work for very long ago when we were both just girls. The good Lord brought us together then and still He works His wonders today.
You were hugging her. I thought you said all white people were demons.
Not that one. That one is God’s child.
Zodwa blinks a few times. Why didn’t she think of that woman before? “Will you take me there? To the farm?”
To Zodwa’s relief, Thembeka nods.
“Tomorrow? We’ll go tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Still, something is bothering Zodwa and it takes her a moment to realize what it is. “Why are you helping me at all?” Zodwa asks. “After everything that happened? You never believed me about Mongezi, so what has changed?”
Thembeka looks away and then her eyes flit back to meet Zodwa’s. “I found the letter. The one you wrote to me.”
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 20