Fly Away Home

by Vanessa Del Fabbro

  “And can you imagine the getups we’ll see Mayor Richard in?” added Mrs. Shabalala.

  Francina had never imagined running in an election. In her village, authority was transferred through birth. If she had borne her first husband, Winston, a son, that boy would have eventually taken over as chief from his father. There were times, she was sure, when the villagers wished that the leadership was selected by democratic means, but no one would ever dare put this idea into words. Winston had the power to make his people’s lives easy or difficult, and Francina had personal experience of both.

  If the other candidates in this election were going to make an effort to win, then so should she, or it would all be a waste of her time.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she said.

  Hercules’s affirmation was so emphatic that her suspicions were again aroused. There was more than one reason he wanted her to beat Oscar. She might have only one eye, but she saw everything.

  That night, the family went to Mama Dlamini’s Eating Establishment because Mrs. Shabalala had been so busy baking cookies for Francina’s campaign she had forgotten to make dinner.

  For once, Mama Dlamini herself was in the kitchen.

  “It’s good to see you in your own restaurant for a change,” said Francina.

  “I’ll be here every day for a while,” she replied.

  “Oh, does that mean you didn’t get the job?” Francina realized that, as usual, she had said too much.

  Mama Dlamini smiled broadly. “I’m taking a well-earned rest, because in a week I begin as the permanent head chef of the restaurant at the golf resort.”

  Francina’s family erupted in applause, causing the other diners to stare.

  “You’re the first people I’ve told,” said Mama Dlamini. “I should run away and let you tell the town.”

  Francina nodded. “I understand why the townsfolk won’t like it. But they’ll get over it when you tell them that this type of opportunity doesn’t come often to a woman from your background.”

  “Kind of like you becoming mayor,” said Mama Dlamini.

  “Exactly. We are the same, you and I. Women who have risen beyond expectation.”

  “Like old dough,” she laughed.

  “My mother is going to win,” said Zukisa. “We’re her campaign helpers.”

  “If there’s anything I can do, don’t wait to ask,” said Mama Dlamini.

  “You should remain neutral if you want to protect your business,” said Francina.

  “Sometimes loyalty is more important,” she replied, looking pointedly at Hercules.

  His nod was almost imperceptible. What was going on? wondered Francina. The only people who seemed not to be in the know were Zukisa and herself.

  Later, when Francina went to wash her hands, she entered the kitchen to speak in private with her friend.

  “Are you going to hire someone else to help here?” she asked.

  Mama Dlamini’s happy expression became troubled. “I’ll have to. Anna can’t work full-time, neither can your mother-in-law.”

  Francina told her that she had the perfect person for the job, but that Mama Dlamini would have to keep it secret until everything had been finalized, because Francina didn’t want to get Zukisa’s hopes up.

  Mama Dlamini’s eyebrows shot upward. “You want Zukisa to work here?”

  “No, no. Her cousin, Lucy. She’s working as a cook now in Cape Town.”

  Mama Dlamini was shaking her head before Francina had completed her sentence. “Francina, I don’t need trouble. I’ve heard all about her.”

  “That’s in the past. A person can change.”

  “No, I’ll find someone else.”

  Francina was irritated. Mama Dlamini had never met Lucy, yet she had already judged her. Still, Francina was prepared to overcome her annoyance to plead Lucy’s case.

  “Give her a chance, please.”

  “No, Francina. I won’t stop worrying, and that means I won’t be able to perform well at my job.”

  Francina felt like telling Mama Dlamini that she had been given a chance to prove herself at the golf resort, so why not give Lucy the same opportunity? But she didn’t. She went back to her table, vowing never to set foot in her friend’s café again.

  The following evening, Francina, Hercules and Zukisa set out on the campaign trail. Mrs. Shabalala, who had spent the morning putting the cookies she had baked in individual gift bags, declared herself unfit for the journey and elected to remain at home watching her favorite soap opera. As promised, Hercules had devised a route map and the first area he’d targeted was Sandpiper Drift.

  The windows of all the low, whitewashed stone cottages were open to catch the breeze blowing across the lagoon from the ocean.

  “Let’s start with Miemps and Reginald,” said Francina.

  Their cottage, the last in the row, was different from the others only in that it had window boxes filled with red, orange and yellow geraniums. For almost as long as Francina could remember, Reginald could be found at this time of the evening sitting outside his house, watching the neighborhood boys play soccer in the street, or talking to their fathers. Now Reginald needed assistance to walk, and Miemps could manage only to get him out of bed and to a chair in the living room.

  Francina knocked on the door, and within seconds, her friend opened it, wearing an apron.

  “I’m sorry, are we interrupting your cooking time?” Francina asked.

  “No, no, I was washing the dishes. Please come in.”

  Francina looked at Hercules. Entering people’s houses was not part of the plan. Francina was supposed to tell whoever came to the door that she was running for mayor. She was to say why she thought she’d be good at the job, ask for a vote, and then hand out a bag of cookies and a flag, featuring the slogan This Town Needs a Woman’s Touch.

  “Reginald would love to see you,” said Miemps. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.” She motioned for them to enter the cottage.

  Francina gave Hercules a look that said we have no choice and followed Miemps into her home. A lamp was on, but the television in the corner cast the most light in the room.

  Miemps’s floral furniture had been covered in plastic for as long as Francina could remember, but she noticed now that the plastic had been removed from the armchair where Reginald sat. Perhaps he had finally complained, as Mandla had done, that the plastic made his legs sweat.

  Reginald’s face broke into a broad grin when he saw the visitors. “This is a lovely surprise,” he said, trying to stand.

  “Don’t get up for us,” said Hercules. He shook his hand.

  “Just look at your little girl. She’s almost all grown up,” said Reginald.

  Zukisa smiled coyly and fidgeted with the bag of cookies she’d picked out for Miemps and Reginald. Thankfully, she’d had the good sense to leave the rest outside on the bench. Reginald’s feelings would be hurt if he realized this was a professional visit.

  “Gogo made some cookies,” said Zukisa, handing them over.

  “How kind,” said Reginald. He shouted to Miemps, who had disappeared to the kitchen, to put the kettle on.

  “Already done,” she shouted back.

  For the next hour and a half, over tea and cookies, the talk was of families, neighbors and life in general. Miemps looked after her grandson, Victor, every day while her daughter, Daphne, worked at the hospital and her son-in-law, Silas, wrote the underground newspaper he smuggled into Zimbabwe, and petitioned the South African government to admit his parents and sister as legal immigrants.

  From the way Reginald’s eyes lit up when he spoke of Victor, Francina could tell that he lived for the boy. It saddened her that her own mother saw Zukisa only once a year, when Francina and Hercules took her to visit the village in the Valley of a Thousand Hills. Francina’s mother had other grandchildren; Francina’s eldest brother, Dingane, had two grown sons who lived in the same village, and her other brother, Sigidi, and his white wife had three daughters who lived in
Durban, a port city an hour and a half drive away. But Francina’s mother had never grown close to Zukisa. How could the two of them have formed a bond when they saw each other for a mere two weeks a year?

  Francina noticed that Reginald was tiring, and told Hercules that they ought to be heading home. It was already dark when Miemps opened the front door to let them out.

  “Thank you for visiting. It really lifts Reginald’s spirits to have company.”

  Francina was thankful her friend did not step outside, where she’d see the bag of cookies and flags waiting on the bench where Reginald used to sit.

  “We’ll come again,” she said to Miemps. “Now you go inside and don’t let this cool breeze into the house. You don’t want Reginald to catch cold.”

  Nodding, Miemps said good-night and closed the door.

  “Oh, Mother!” said Zukisa. “Look.” She pointed at the paper bag she’d left on the bench. It had been ripped open, and most of the gift bags of cookies were missing, although some lay on the ground, torn and masticated. Zukisa began to cry. “A dog took them.”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” whispered Francina. She did not want Miemps to open the door again to check what the commotion was about.

  They picked up all the cookie remnants they could find and wrapped them in the ripped paper bag.

  “The dog didn’t touch your flags,” said Francina.

  Zukisa sniffed. “Nothing turned out right tonight.”

  Francina put an arm around her as they walked down the garden path toward the road. “It’s a pity about the cookies, but I think the night turned out just right.”

  They climbed into their car, which Hercules had left at the end of the road where they’d expected to conclude their campaigning for the evening, and drove home in silence. Zukisa was tired, but Francina was deep in thought. Seeing Reginald had reminded her that it was important to grow old surrounded by family, and since she could not have her mother and brothers near her, she would do everything in her power to bring Zukisa’s aunt and cousin to Lady Helen, with or without Mama Dlamini’s help.

  Chapter Thirty

  On the weekend, Hercules drove Francina and Zukisa to Cape Town to visit Zukisa’s aunt. The previous weekend, Lucy had expressed hope that new medication would give her mother strength, but Zukisa’s aunt was unchanged. As usual, Lucy’s son, Xoli was not at home. His younger brother, Bulelani, was watching television.

  “I’ll make tea while you sit with Mama,” said Lucy.

  Hercules, who was uncomfortable being in any woman’s bedroom, sick or well, hurriedly volunteered his services for any minor repair or heavy lifting that Lucy required in a home with no adult male, and boys who wafted in and out like the wind.

  When Francina visited Zukisa’s aunt, she talked about whatever came to mind, usually whatever she had done that week, orders she was working on, memorable meals her mother-in-law had cooked. Sometimes Zukisa’s aunt would offer a comment. Sometimes she’d just lie with her eyes closed, listening. On the rare occasion when Francina ran out of things to say, she would sing the songs her choir was practicing at the time.

  “Can you believe that Hercules has convinced the ladies of the choir to travel to a competition?” she asked Zukisa’s aunt.

  As expected, there was no reply.

  “Yes, we’re going to sing at a festival in Grahamstown.” Francina chuckled. “But the choristers don’t want to rent a minibus taxi, so two of them will drive their own cars. And they don’t want to stay in a dormitory like my choir from Johannesburg always did. Oh, no, dormitories are not for them. So we’re all staying in a hotel. Now that I’m a married woman with a business of my own, I can afford it.”

  She realized that this talk of staying in a hotel might not be appropriate when Zukisa’s aunt and cousin were struggling to put food on the table. She would never have imagined that she’d ever be in a situation where she was able to make such a gaffe. In the past, she’d been the butt of such insensitive remarks. God had truly blessed her. But with this blessing came responsibility, and thinking of this brought back all her irritation with Mama Dlamini. Francina was trying to do the right thing, but her friend was being as stubborn as a cow that would not leave the kraal on a rainy day.

  “We had dinner at Mama Dlamini’s Eating Establishment this week,” she said. “My mother-in-law forgot to cook because she was so busy making cookies for my campaign.” Francina proceeded to tell Zukisa’s aunt about her bid to become mayor of Lady Helen.

  Lucy came in bearing a tray set with three mugs. She gave one to Francina and one to Zukisa, and set one down beside her mother. “Hercules is drinking his in the kitchen. He’s trying to repair the light above the stove. I’ve replaced the bulb, but it still won’t work.”

  Francina hoped her husband had turned the electricity off at the main switch. As far as she knew, electricity was not his area of expertise, and she worried for his safety.

  “My sister-in-law was very good to that Mama Dlamini woman,” Zukisa’s aunt said.

  Francina was doubly shocked; these were the first words Zukisa’s aunt had spoken since they arrived, and Zukisa had never told Francina that her late mother had known Mama Dlamini.

  “What do you mean, Zukisa’s mother was very good to her?” she asked.

  Zukisa’s aunt cleared her throat. “My sister-in-law took in Mama Dlamini when she first arrived in Lady Helen. Mama Dlamini stayed with her for almost a year.”

  Francina was flabbergasted. “Did you know about this?” she asked Zukisa.

  “She was just a toddler,” said Zukisa’s aunt. “My brother met Mama Dlamini in Cape Town. He was working in a fish canning factory and she had a food cart. She sold curry and rice to dock and factory workers at lunchtime.”

  “Mama Dlamini never mentioned to me that she knew my parents,” said Zukisa. She sounded disappointed.

  “Maybe she was afraid she’d upset you by talking about them,” offered Lucy, holding the cup of tea to her mother’s lips.

  Francina, who had encouraged Zukisa to keep the memory of her parents alive, wondered if this was the case or if Mama Dlamini simply did not want to be reminded of her humble beginnings.

  “Mama Dlamini never told me she’d lived in Cape Town before coming to Lady Helen,” said Francina.

  “Did she tell you why she left her village?” asked Zukisa’s aunt.

  Now that Francina thought about it, the answer was no. She and Mama Dlamini had struck up a friendship based on their similar positions in the Lady Helen community as pioneering female entrepreneurs. When either of them mentioned their villages, it was to speak about a letter from home, and their conversations were always about the present, not the past.

  “The women of her village chased her out with sticks,” said Zukisa’s aunt.

  “I can’t believe that!” declared Francina.

  “It’s true. She told my brother when the police in Cape Town confiscated her cart for operating a business without a license.”

  “What did she do to upset the villagers?” Francina wondered if she’d regret asking this question.

  “Mama Dlamini ran a she been in her village, where the men spent all their money on alcohol instead of saving it for their families.”

  Francina could not believe her ears. The woman who did not want to give Lucy a chance because she had once been a drunk had herself been a supplier of alcohol. And didn’t Jesus say to remove the plank in your own eye before trying to remove the speck from your brother’s?

  “My brother felt sorry for her because she couldn’t pay the fine,” continued Zukisa’s aunt. “She started afresh in Lady Helen, thanks to him.”

  Francina found herself smiling broadly. Setting out from Lady Helen this morning, she had expected nothing more from the day than to keep a sick woman company and offer moral support to her daughter. Now she had been presented with the solution to her problem. She couldn’t wait to get back to Lady Helen to have a little conversation with Mama Dlamini. For the rest of th
e morning, while Lucy talked of her fears for her two sons, Francina itched to tell her that very soon her worries would be over.

  By the time Hercules announced that it was time to leave, having given up on the light above the stove, Francina had, in her mind, rehearsed every word she would say to her friend.

  As soon as they pulled away from the block of flats, Francina told her family of her plan.

  Zukisa leaned forward between the two front seats, joy in her eyes. “Do you think it can really happen?” she asked. “Do you think my family can come to live in Lady Helen?”

  Francina wished she could open a window and let her jealousy fly away on the wind. “Yes,” she said, trying not to betray her real feelings.

  Zukisa unbuckled her seat belt so she could reach her to deliver a kiss on her cheek. “You’re the best mother in the world.”

  Francina smiled. “Thank you, sweetie. Now buckle up again.”

  She had nothing to fear. She was Zukisa’s mother and had been for many years. Lucy could never replace her or take away what she and Zukisa had shared, just as Francina could never eclipse the memory of Zukisa’s birth mother.

  When they arrived home, there was a message on the answering machine from Monica, asking if the family could come for dinner that evening. Francina guessed that she wanted to talk about the mayoral race. Since her mother-in-law had not yet started cooking, Francina telephoned to tell Monica that they’d be over at six.

  Monica’s mother opened the door to them when they arrived, on time, bearing cookies.

  “Thank you,” said Mirinda Brunetti, taking the cookies from Mrs. Shabalala.

  Although Francina felt comfortable having Mirinda in her home for coffee and cake as they pored over fashion magazines together, she could not be herself when the situation was reversed and Mirinda was the hostess—even if it was in Monica’s house. Francina had worked for the Brunetti household since Monica was nine. She’d scrubbed the ring from their baths, peeled their vegetables, washed their clothes, cleaned Monica and her brother’s cuts and scrapes, and not once had they asked about her family, about her home. She had moved about the house like a phantom, keeping order, cleaning, listening, observing. When Monica’s brother had been killed by a land mine while in the army, Francina had slipped in and out of Mirinda’s bedroom, taking her food, clearing away her crumpled tissues, running her bathwater. She’d disposed of the empty liquor bottles that Monica’s father, Paolo, had left next to the couch; she’d watered down the bottles in his liquor cabinet, apologized to the postman, the gardener, passersby—any black person on whom Paolo had vented his wrath.