If You Want to Make God Laugh

by Bianca Marais

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Delilah

  24 June 1995

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  Does he feel warm to you?” Ruth had her palm against Mandla’s forehead, her face scrunched up in concern.

  I checked. “No, which is a miracle considering how many layers you have on the child.”

  “We have to be careful. He’s so much more susceptible to things than we are.”

  “Things like heatstroke?” I pulled two layers off the child.

  “So he doesn’t feel warm to you. Does he feel clammy?”

  “Ruth!”

  I wished she would stop fussing over Mandla so much. The latest blood tests showed that his CD4 count was as good as could be expected and that his viral load hadn’t gone up. The encouraging prognosis should have reassured her. Instead, rather than allowing herself to enjoy it, it just made her more fretful, as though letting her guard down was inviting catastrophe.

  Ruth was clearly tempted to put the layers back on Mandla but, seeing my frown, decided against it. Between the two of us, we’d finally managed to get Mandla to sleep in his own crib, though the sleep-training regime I put into place was often undermined by Ruth, who went running to pick him up every time he so much as squeaked.

  “He needs me,” she’d said the night I stood guard between her room and Mandla’s with my arms crossed, refusing to let her pass. “He’s crying out for me.”

  “He’s babbling, Ruth, not crying. You only put him down fifteen minutes ago. He’ll never learn to sleep by himself if you come running at every little noise.”

  She’d shot me a filthy look but went back to bed. It took another three nights of us playing that cat-and-mouse game before Mandla finally settled into a routine and slept through the night. Things were much better on all fronts but even so, Ruth kept insisting she had a feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  “Life is the bad thing that’s going to happen,” I’d quipped back. “You can’t protect him from that.” It hadn’t done anything to appease her.

  I left Ruth to her own devices and stepped outside, quickly closing the patio sliding door behind me so as not to let a cold breeze in.

  Riaan had a three-legged cast-iron pot balanced on a Cadac gas bottle out on the patio and was making an oxtail potjie.

  “How’s the food coming along?”

  “Good. The meat’s browned and I’ve already layered the veggies. It should be ready as soon as the rugby’s over.”

  “Shouldn’t you stir that?” I teased, knowing full well that a potjie should never be stirred. Each ingredient was added in a very particular kind of order and the pot created a pressure-cooker effect to steam everything to perfection.

  “Rooinek,” he joked, calling me the Afrikaner insult for the English: redneck. “No clue how to make boerekos.”

  “It’s time. The match is starting!” Ruth called from inside.

  It was the Rugby World Cup final between South Africa and New Zealand, and we gathered around the television to watch the match build up. Rugby was one of the few areas where our parents’ worlds had converged—rugby meaning as much to the Scots as it did to the Afrikaners—and so Ruth and I had grown up watching the sport.

  Because of sanctions imposed against South Africa during apartheid, we hadn’t been allowed to compete during the first two World Cups, in 1987 and 1991. It was a huge deal that South Africa was not only hosting it, but that the Springboks had also made it through to the finals to play against the Kiwis.

  I’d set out bowls of biltong and droëwors to snack on during the game, because rugby just wasn’t rugby without the traditional dried-meat snack. Riaan and I were drinking Castle Lagers while Ruth had wine.

  On-screen, Ellis Park Stadium was packed to capacity and it was heartening to see all the new South African flags waving in the stands. Spectators had painted their faces in the black, yellow, green, red, blue, and white of the flag and the energy looked electric. The crowd was being entertained by singing and dancing, when a deafening noise suddenly ripped through the stadium.

  The screen filled with a Boeing 747 passenger jet flying low over the field. Good Luck Bokke was painted onto the bottom of the plane and wings. Sixty-five thousand heads tilted backward to take in the spectacle playing out above them. And then Nelson Mandela was walking onto the field next to Louis Luyt, the president of the South African Rugby Union.

  “Now, there are the strangest of bedfellows I’ve ever seen,” I commented. Luyt was a staunch Afrikaner who was widely rumored to be racist.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Riaan commented dryly. “Look at that! He’s wearing a Springbok jersey.”

  Indeed, Mandela was wearing not only the South African Springbok jersey and cap, but he was wearing the number six, which belonged to François Pienaar, the Afrikaner Bok captain. It was unusual to see the president looking so casual; he was normally photographed in suits or the iconic African shirts that had been nicknamed “Madiba shirts.”

  As Mandela shook hands with the players, saying a few words to each of them, a chant built up in the stadium and gathered momentum until it became a roar.

  “Nelson! Nelson! Nelson!”

  My tears rose up on the same wave as the goose bumps on my arms. “To think that he was considered such a threat to white South Africans a year ago. Look at them now. Look how much they love him.”

  On-screen, Nelson Mandela, looking delighted, took off his cap and waved it at the predominantly white crowd.

  The first half of the game was nail-biting, and by the time the whistle blew at full-time, the score was tied 9–9.

  “Extra-time is going to be interesting,” Riaan said. “The guys all look buggered.” He excused himself to pop outside and turn off the gas so the potjie wouldn’t burn.

  When the whistle blew again, the struggle began anew. Things were looking good until the All Blacks’ fly-half scored a long-range penalty, making the score 12–9 to the New Zealanders.

  “Damn it!” Ruth yelled.

  I was convinced that that was it for us, and that we’d lost, when Joel Stransky leveled for the Boks. “We’re back to a tie!”

  “How much time is left in the game?”

  “Eight minutes.”

  “Come on, boys! You can do it!” The words were barely out of Ruth’s mouth when suddenly, from thirty meters out, Joel Stransky drop-kicked the ball. We all watched as time seemed to slow down. The ball somersaulted through the air, reaching its zenith before dropping through the poles. The crowd went ballistic.

  When the whistle blew for the end of extra-time, we were all up on our feet, screaming like madmen. “We won! We actually bloody won.”

  “It’s Madiba magic.”

  Later, when the intercom’s buzzer squawked, Ruth looked up at it, frowning. She’d said she was expecting something bad to happen, and judging by her expression, you’d have thought it had just arrived.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Zodwa

  24 June 1995

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  Zodwa lifts her hand and presses the button before she loses her courage. She has no idea what she’s going to say or how she’s going to explain her presence. Her only goal is to see if the rumors are true and if so, to find out if the black child could possibly be her son.

  “Yes, hello?” A disembodied voice floats up from the intercom.

  “Hello,” Zodwa replies, bending down to speak into the box.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for . . .” She trails off, uncertain of what to say. Just then, a dog starts barking wildly in the background, drowning everything else out.

  The camera, positioned on the electric fence and angled down toward the gate, moves and seems to focus in on her. Zodwa smiles up at it uncertainly.r />
  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you with the dog barking. I’m opening the gate.”

  And just like that, the electric gate slides open and Zodwa is inside the huge fence walking toward the house. She turns and looks for Thembeka and catches sight of her hiding behind the wild olive trees where she left her.

  Zodwa wishes that they’d spoken about the letter—that Thembeka had told Zodwa her reaction to reading it—but after she arrived to fetch Zodwa that morning, Thembeka didn’t mention it again. Even with Zodwa’s mind so full of her baby, she’s still desperate to know what her friend is thinking.

  The house door opens up ahead and Zodwa’s head snaps forward. An older white woman steps outside onto the veranda. She’s slender and has gray hair that falls to just below her ears. Though her hair has grown longer since the last time Zodwa saw her, she recognizes her instantly as the woman who hugged her mother on the side of the road more than a year ago.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” the woman asks.

  “Hello, ma—madam,” Zodwa stammers in reply.

  A black dog suddenly slips out the house and runs at Zodwa, who shrinks back in fear.

  “Jez!” the woman calls but the dog doesn’t listen to her.

  Instead, it keeps barreling toward Zodwa, its tail wagging all the while. When it reaches her, it jumps up on its hind legs as though greeting a long-lost friend.

  Oh my God. It’s Shadow. It’s Mama’s dog.

  Zodwa wants to cry. She knows now that she’s in the right place and this is where she will find her son because, of course, her mother left her dog behind to protect him.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” the woman says, chasing down the stairs after the dog. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s usually much better behaved.”

  “It’s fine,” Zodwa says, smiling as she rubs the dog behind the ears like Leleti used to do.

  “Well, she certainly seems to like you.” The woman grabs the dog by the collar and marches it back inside, Zodwa trailing behind her.

  Her mind reels, thinking of what she should say next, but it stubbornly remains blank. Zodwa curses herself for not coming up with a proper plan. Actually, she’d had a plan just to watch the property and see if she could catch sight of the woman or the child, but she’d abandoned that as soon as they’d arrived. Leleti had always accused her of being impulsive and she was right.

  Once they reach the front door, the woman points to the back of the house. “To your basket, Jez.” She claps her hands for emphasis and the dog obeys.

  As it slinks off, Zodwa’s able to look past it, deeper into the house, and what she sees takes her breath away.

  A toddler sits on a couch and he’s the spitting image of Zodwa’s brother, Dumisa. More than that, it’s clear from his bulging eyes and the look of distress on his face that he’s choking on something. Zodwa doesn’t have time to think, she just acts on instinct, pushing the door inward and shouldering the woman out of the way.

  “Hey!” the woman shouts, too shocked to block Zodwa’s way or to come after her.

  Zodwa runs through what feels like mud, taking an eternity before she reaches the child. She’s dimly aware that the dog has returned, spurred to action by its owner’s cry. She hears other shouts too, but they sound distorted, as though they’re coming from a long way away.

  When Zodwa finally reaches the boy, she bends down and picks him up, feeling the dog’s teeth sinking into her hand as she does so. She ignores the sharp pain and focuses on the child’s face instead. His mouth gapes open and his eyes and nose are streaming, his face a rictus of panic. He still isn’t breathing. She turns him upside down and rests him on her extended forearm, using the heel of her hand to smack him between his shoulder blades.

  More shouting erupts from somewhere nearby and then the dog is quiet.

  The boy is limp in her arms.

  No. No. No. No.

  Someone tugs at Zodwa’s jersey as they wail, but she tunes it out, focusing all of her attention on the boy. She’s praying now—praying harder than she ever has.

  Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.

  She whacks the boy’s back once more.

  Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die. Not now when I’ve finally found you.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Ruth

  24 June 1995

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  I’m in the kitchen when Dee yells out and I look up to see a black girl running at Mandla. I freeze, confused as to what’s happening, and then I see Mandla’s face. He isn’t breathing and his eyes bulge obscenely.

  “Do something!” I scream at Dee. I’m rooted to the spot with my hands over my mouth, but the girl has reached him and as she picks him up, Jez lunges and bites her.

  I’m expecting the girl to cry out in pain and drop Mandla, but she doesn’t make a sound. She’s so focused on my boy as she bends him over and starts hitting him on the back that the bite doesn’t even seem to register. I wonder, madly, if she’s an angel.

  Riaan comes running through from the patio just then and Jez is still barking like crazy. Dee shushes her, getting her away from the girl.

  Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.

  Nothing happens. Mandla is still not breathing. And that’s when I bolt toward them. I grab the girl’s jersey, babbling at her incoherently, pleading with her to help him.

  Still she smacks his back and I’m about to tear him out of her arms when something dislodges from his throat. It looks like a piece of droëwors, but no sooner is it out on the floor than Jez snatches it up in one gulp.

  It’s quiet for a moment, too quiet, and then Mandla takes a shuddering breath.

  He’s breathing. My boy is breathing.

  “Jesus. You saved his life. You saved my boy’s life. He’s okay. Oh, thank God, he’s okay.”

  I’m crying and Dee’s crying and the girl is crying as I grab my boy, pulling him from her hands and planting kisses all over his face. He’s screaming and I should probably give him space to breathe, but I’d graft him to my skin right now if that was possible.

  I have never been that scared in all my life. I thought I was going to lose him. I thought that was it. And Jesus, wouldn’t that have been the sickest joke the universe could ever have played? An HIV-positive baby dying from choking. It’s such a crazy thing that I burst out laughing and everyone looks at me as if I’ve gone mad, which I have. I’m mad with relief.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, we’re all sitting on the couch. Mandla is on my lap and I’m holding him with one hand while holding the girl’s bandaged hand with the other. Dee cleaned the bite up and even gave her a rabies shot, which she had in that emergency first-aid kit she travels with. She’s apologized over and over for leaving the droëwors on the table where Mandla could reach it until I finally have to shush her.

  The girl looks uncomfortable to be sitting down next to me but she’s staring at my boy like he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

  “What did you say your name was again?” She’s told me twice but I’ve been so focused on Mandla that I can barely concentrate.

  “Zodwa,” she says.

  She’s a very pretty girl with beautiful, glowing skin. I wish I knew how she gets it like that because it doesn’t matter how much body lotion I rub onto Mandla, his skin always looks dry and gray. Her hair is tied back in two braids and the whites of her eyes glow in the gloom. She has a quiet but firm voice.

  “Zodwa,” I repeat. “You saved Mandla’s life.”

  “Mandla. That’s his name?”

  “Yes, it means—”

  “I know what it means,” she says. “I’m Zulu.”

  All the time we’re speaking, she keeps her eyes fixed on Mandla and he seems equally taken with her because he keeps reaching out to he
r.

  “How did you know to do that?” I ask her. “Are you a nurse or something?”

  She shakes her head. “I looked after all the children in my grandmother’s village when I was little. I learned then what to do.”

  “Thank God you did.”

  “Did you come here looking for a job?” Dee asks. “Is that why you came?”

  She stares at Dee blankly. It must be the shock.

  “Did you hear we were looking for a maid?” I prompt. “Because if you want a job, you have it. You’re hired!”

  Zodwa looks at Mandla for a second as though making a decision, and then she smiles. “Yes,” she says. “I was looking for a job.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Zodwa

  1 July 1995

  Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  This is madness,” Thembeka says as Zodwa packs her few possessions into the very kit bag Leleti used to ferry Mandla away. “You’re really going to do it? Work for them?”

  Zodwa doesn’t reply. She just keeps folding her clothes and tucking them away in the bag.

  “As a maid, Zodwa? What would your mother think?”

  Zodwa knows exactly what her mother would think, but Leleti should have thought of that before she took Zodwa’s baby away and gave him to white people.

  When Thembeka doesn’t get a response, she tries a different tack. “They have your child. Your son. Why didn’t you just take him and bring him home?”

  “And how would I do that?” Zodwa growls. “What proof do I have that he’s my child besides that he looks just like my brother? Everyone here thinks my child is dead, so who are the police going to believe? A poor black girl from the squatter camp or rich white women?”

  “I’ll tell the police about seeing Leleti with the baby and the kit bag—”

  “Even if they believe you, you didn’t see where she took him. It was only a rumor that led us there. Those people have money. They will fight with their money. What do I have? Nothing. This is the only way I can be around Mandla and see him every day.”