Mother to Mother

by Sindiwe Magona

  Swifter than a blink, my mind sped to Cape Town. To a special someone there. Was he up? I wondered. China. The dear face swam before my eyes. Fleeing the all-too-familiar pain, I kicked the blankets off, got up, left the hut and went around to the back.

  I was just reaching for the door, on my way back, when Makhulu’s voice hailed:

  ‘Sowuvukile? Unjan’ ukuvuya, nivala?’

  ‘Ewe, Makhulu,’ I answered. That yes would suffice for both questions, I reckoned. I was up and sure was glad the school holidays had come. Finally.

  The last day of the third quarter of the year. My first quarter at a new school, hundreds of kilometres from home. My mind turned to the last school closing. June. And the events surrounding it. Events it hemmed. So remote they seemed now. Their consequences, however, were my daily bread. Bitter as gall. They were the reason for my being where I was: Gungululu Village, my mother’s girlhood home.

  I remembered my fervent promises to Mama. But those promises of good behaviour fell on deaf ears. Thinking about it, even now, made me so angry, my eyes smarted. I had given Mama no reason for concern, but had that stopped her from pursuing ‘ . . . the only solution I can see.’? She banished me to this remote village of the Transkei, where I thought I would die. The by-product of Mama’s caution, separation from China, was unbearable.

  China. I was certain that were it not for him . . . and, to a lesser extent, Makhulu, the end of the school semester would not have found me alive. Dear, dear China.

  But it was Makhulu, Mama’s mother, whose daily ministrations, especially in the beginning, had helped keep me not only sane . . . but bodily alive. She made sure I ate, in a roundabout way finding out my preferences and making sure to cook those even when, as I found out later, she didn’t particularly care for the dish herself. When I returned from school, I could bet on her saying, ‘Kalok’ umam’ akho akakho apha,’ as she plonked a bowl of umvubo or some other titbit on the kitchen table even as I changed from the black gym dress and white shirt to my day clothes. But I saw through her guise. If Mama’s absence were the only reason for her caring so much, her kind acts would surely have worn off soon after Mama left. However, Makhulu’s kindness, her gentle ways, could not stop that other hunger. The gnawing question in the mind of the abandoned child, the banished child, the forsaken child. Since the day I watched as Mama walked away . . . watched her dry-eyed, still as a heron fishing by the riverside, I had never again been alone. Mama left. A stranger walked into the place in my heart she had left unoccupied: grief, sharp as a new razor.

  But here I was. I had survived the first three months. Three to go. Then I’d be done with Primary School. What then? What special brand of torture was Mama brewing back in Cape Town? As far as I could see, we had two choices: Cape Town, where I could attend one of the two high schools in the area. Cheaper, as I would be living at home. Or, I would be sent to boarding school. I prayed it would be the latter. But of late, God had been less than inattentive to my prayers; so although I had not come to discount Him completely, I thought it best not to depend on Him wholly. Look where that had got me in the past.

  Three weeks before school closed, on my way from school, I had stopped for mail at the village shop, where the whole region, some twenty or so villages, got its mail. Baas Setheni, a white man, and his wife ran the shop. No letter from China. Leaving the shop, the detour I’d made suddenly wearisome, tedious and long, my feet lead, I trod homeward. Mocking me, was Makhulu’s letter in my hand. What did she need with a letter?

  As was her wont, Makhulu was sitting on her grass mat on the floor, doing some mending, when I got home. She sat with her back against the wall, and her legs, stretched out in front of her, were loosely wrapped in her black skirt so that only the feet peeped from beneath the loose floral pinafore she wore on top.

  ‘Where is it from?’ she asked when, following the exchanging of greetings and a few pleasantries, I told her she had a letter. She didn’t look up.

  ‘East London.’

  ‘East London?’ she stopped. Stopped the sewing and looked up. ‘East London!’ she repeated. However, this time, her words were more exclamation than question.

  ‘Yes, Makhulu,’ I said. ‘It is from East London.’

  ‘Hurry and get every living thing inside,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not rain but a deluge that’ll fall upon us, if that letter’s from Funiwe!’ In the same unhurried voice, Makhulu continued. Sewing still in her hands, she had not resumed the mending but sat there, looking at me as though she couldn’t quite believe what I said. Auntie Funiwe is Mama’s younger sister. Her only sister. Malume, their brother, is the middle child.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Makhulu asked suddenly. ‘Open it and read it for me!’

  ‘What?’ midway through the letter, she interrupted my reading. ‘Read me that again,’ she said. ‘Read over that again.’

  I did.

  Again and again, Makhulu made me stop and go over some detail.

  ‘Bulisa kuBhuti lowo. Yithi ndiyamkhumbula, kumnandi ke kuba siza kubonana kungekudala. Greetings to older brother. Tell him I miss him and am glad we will see each other before long.’ I had come to the end of the letter. At long last.

  The mending carelessly thrust to her side — for once, she had not folded it neatly and put it back into the sewing-bag — Makhulu sat still, her jaw dropped so that her mouth hung open as her eyes stared blindly into the distance.

  ‘He, Mntan’ omntan’am, Hey, Child of My Child,’ Makhulu said solemnly. Her voice a bare whisper, she continued, without looking at me, standing there at her feet. ‘Where does it say, this letter, that it is coming from Funiwe?’ she asked, eyes still focused on some distant object only she could see.

  I showed her the name, knowing full well the squiggles on the page meant nothing at all to her. Makhulu scrunched her face. Eyes narrowed to a slit, she peered at the point where my finger lay. It would not have mattered two hoots whether I had showed her to the salutation, body, or ending of the letter. But the way she poured over those letters made me a little uneasy. As though she could really divine the mystery they held.

  I thought she was satisfied for, nodding her head, she harrumphed and made as though she were about to resume her mending. But as I turned around to go to the bowl waiting for me on the table at the top of the hut, once more, Makhulu’s voice arrested me to the spot.

  ‘You said, did you not, Mzukulwana, that the letter comes from Funiwe herself?’

  ‘That’s right, Makhulu.’

  ‘And it says she is going to have a baby?’

  ‘Yes, Makhulu.’

  There was a pause, but I remained where I was for I sensed that she was not done with her questions. I was right. Although, what came next were not really questions but observations, musings.

  ‘SesikaLizbethi waseBhayibhileni, ndifung’ uBaw’ ekobandayo! It’s Biblical Elizabeth’s story all over again, by my father’s bones in the cold earth!’ There followed some mumbled comments I couldn’t catch before she went on in a more audible manner, her voice once more raised:

  ‘Funiwe? The same who got married even before you were born? Funiwe? Expecting a baby?’ Then, in a calmer voice, she turned to me and, addressing me more directly, said, ‘Does she say she’s had the baby or she’s still expecting it?’

  ‘Makhulu,’ I answered, ‘Auntie Funiwe says she’s coming here to have the baby.’

  ‘Here?’ she asked and quickly added, ‘When does she say she’s coming?’

  ‘She doesn’t say exactly when . . . only as soon as schools close. But yes, she’s coming to have the baby here.’

  ‘Schools? Schools?’ Makhulu asked, brow furrowed. ‘What has she got to do with schools? When did she become a teacher?’

  She made me go over that letter four more times. Then, when she finally accepted what it said, when she allowed herself to believe the news, her shoulders sagged as a long soft sigh escaped through her immobile lips. Hands lay open and limp on her thighs. Her ey
es closed. Only to open an invisible tap inside. Great blobs of silent tears coursed down her trembly cheeks and washed over the finely wrinkled face. I stood there, unable to move, filled with fear lest I disturb the wordless thanksgiving, so heartfelt.

  Many moments later, Makhulu brought herself back. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she tried to smile. But that just brought a fresh waterfall. Quickly, she bent forward and reached toward her toes, grabbed the hem of her pinafore, turned it over and brought it to her face.

  That night, as I lay dozing off at that time between warm woozy wakefulness and complete collapse of consciousness, the final plunge into oblivion, a bell rang . . . deep in the inner recesses of my mind: BOO-OING! Triggered by something Makhulu had said earlier.

  Yes! I would ask Auntie Funiwe. I would ask to go and do my high school studies in East London. Stay with her. I could help with the baby too. She would need help. Anyone who had a baby couldn’t help it . . . they always needed help. They were such a load of work, babies were.

  The very next day, I sent off a letter to China, outlining my strategy.

  Every day thereafter, sometimes several times a day, Makhulu would make me read the letter to her. Whether she didn’t or couldn’t bring herself to totally believe the good news or bouts of doubts assailed her at moments, I couldn’t say. But her behaviour increased my curiosity about this aunt of mine, whom I had never seen. The aunt who was married seven months before I was born. The aunt I had determined would be my salvation. Escape from Mama. Escape into a better arrangement, nearness to China. He must apply to the boarding schools in the Ciskei, I’d told him in the letter.

  New life injected itself into Makhulu’s being. She hummed ceaselessly as she went about her chores. Old daily tasks were done with the speed of lightning. New ones were found and attacked with ferocious enthusiasm: let’s air the blankets! Are the visitors’ sheets clean? Have all the pots been scoured till they shine? Sinda! Smear the floors with cow dung to clean and freshen them. Auntie was arriving in two days. I began to fear that the excitement would kill Makhulu long before she arrived. I had not seen her this excited in the three months of my stay in Gungululu. She was a woman possessed. I shared Makhulu’s enthusiasm for Auntie Funiwe’s advent. I shared it because, for the first time since my bitter banishment, the serrated knife that ceaselessly tore at the tender flesh of my heart took a pause. I dared not hope, though. I had been too badly scarred by the move. I was too scared to hope . . . I couldn’t afford to have anything as precious as that be dashed. Once again.

  Now, wide-eyed, I lay on the bed, blankets flung to my feet, eyes wide with excitement. What did China think of my plan? Surely, he’d got my letter by now. And would Auntie Funiwe take me up on my proposal? Oh, Dear God, would she? And when, exactly, would she come?

  Stirrings outside. The animals, awake at last. To the gaggling of geese, who seemed always to wake up arguing querulously, sheep baah’ed and cows lowed. From behind the homestead, the trees were alive. Birds twittered and chirruped. A lone owl to-hoot-hooted and I imagined him circling lazily before gliding on one wing to his diurnal haunt. Through gaps in the curtain peeped jagged pieces of an angrily red mist risen high up above the still-black mountain peaks. Dawn had broken.

  Not one child was in uniform. The teachers had told us the previous day to come in our house dresses. There was to be a big clean-up for the closing. Looking at the motley gaggle all around me, I could have sworn there were more children than usual. Had the numbers swelled and multiplied? Then again I thought that might be the result of the day dresses we were wearing. Whatever it was, on one thing though, I’m certain: school was anything but ordinary that day. Even classes stopped early, with lunch break. Thereafter, assembly was called.

  In the courtyard, the hard clearing sheltered from the forever howling southeaster by the huddle of rondavels, our classrooms, we waited with barely concealed impatience. Eager and noisy. Unable to stand still or keep quiet. Again I was struck by how little resemblance there was between the rabble I found myself in and the neat rows of spindly-legged girls in black gyms and white shirts and boys in grey flannels and black blazers usually assembled there on normal school days. A slight, brief hush fell as the five teachers came and stood in front of us on a raised platform made from desks. The first six classes: A and B; One and Two; Three and Four shared a teacher and only Standards Five and Six had teachers all to themselves.

  We quietened down some. The teachers were about to give out the results of the end-of-term test we’d just written.

  Class by class, starting from the little ones, the Sub Standards As and B’s and going right up to Standard Six, the teachers called out the names and class positions of their pupils. After the Sub Standards came Standard One. Then, Standard Two. Then, Three. At fourteen, I was in Standard Six. And, at long last, our turn came. Mrs Songca stepped out of the line of teachers and called out:

  ‘Sidney Sokuyeka!’ My heart turned to a ragged-edged block of ice that tore at something inside me till it bled. I had not expected to gain first position, for although I had done exceedingly well in my old school, I’d been a little lost, if not downright bewildered, on coming to Upper Gungululu Primary School, back early July. All these months, it had not occurred to me that I could come last. But once the thought planted itself in my brain, it fastened itself there like a sore tooth. I could not shake it off though I told myself it could not be. There were hopeless cases, real duds, who could never, ever, get better marks than me or anyone for that matter. But still, the doubt stayed. How badly had I done? There were thirty-three of us in the class. I’d never in my life brought up the rear. Would this be the first time? Suddenly, my mouth went dry. I swallowed, but nothing went down. Again I swallowed. As though to make quite sure. Again, my throat remained stubbornly parched.

  Just then, the teacher called out:

  ‘Mandisa Ntloko . . . Number Two!’ A loud raucous burst of air escaped from my mouth. Till then, I had not realized that I held my breath. Waiting. Fearing I might be the tail. What would Makhulu have said to that? And China? God, I would have been so embarrassed. China was such a good student. Almost as good as I had been, back at my old school, my real school, Vuyani Primary School in Guguletu.

  After the cleaning and final announcements, we were dismissed. On the way home, I soon outran my group, left them behind. Twenty of us made the daily trip to and from the valley to the school, high up the ridges walling the village in. Not for me, today, the dillying and dallying of my school mates and fellow travellers.

  My feet swift and light, my heart sang for I was quite pleased with the test results. I knew that Makhulu would be pleased. So would China. And to me then, China was who mattered most.

  The thought of China lent me wings. However, much more than the ten days off school or even the good examinations results made my heart sing. My Auntie Funiwe, Mama’s only sister, was coming. As soon as schools close, the letter had said.

  Half-way home, I stopped at the village shop. To get Makhulu her Extra Strong’s, the triple X mints she called her snuff. Also to check the mail.

  Two letters. The maize-coloured envelope, one of them. Trying hard not to show my impatience and excitement, I snatched the letters from Baas Setheni’s hand, spun around and was at the door when a voice stopped me. Could this already be the reply to my letter to him last week? The letter about next year’s plans?

  ‘The Extra Strongs!’ Baas Setheni shouted, a hard bang on the counter, telling me he’d put them there.

  Leaving the shop, Makhulu’s mints gripped tightly in one hand, I raced downhill. The fast walkers ahead, clearly visible. The hum or buzz of voices too near for my liking. Especially with China’s letter burning a hole over my heart.

  If it had not been for his letters, I don’t know how I could have got over the months of banishment. Not that Makhulu was not kindness itself. But there was a lump in my throat each time I thought of how Mama had plucked me from Guguletu, in Cape Town, and c
ome and dumped me in this remote village. Far away from everything and everyone dear to me. Not that, as I have already said, I was ill-treated or anything like that. The school was not bad either. I could have forgiven Mama all those things. Except China. Her taking me from Guguletu meant that I was separated from China. Even the pleasure of a good examinations result was marred by the anger that I still felt. It would have served Mama right had I failed the test. Served her right for taking me away from school, from my beloved teachers, and from all my friends. And China.

  Tall, handsome China. Small slanted eyes. Short hair, never combed but always resembled peppercorns carelessly strewn about. A decided mix of uncomplementary features that, somehow, managed to end up with the most pleasing outcome. And such a good sportsman. So popular with both students and teachers. How I missed him.

  However, as of now, my heart sang, my feet were swift and light, barely touching ground as I galloped towards the cluster of rondavels that, for the last three months, I’d called home. To be honest, though, I was not so much hurrying home as I was hurrying away from the other children.

  I reached the hillock beyond which lay Makhulu’s homestead. My back against a gum tree, I sat and took out the letter. Carefully, I down-tapped the letter, making sure the top end of the envelope was clear. Then, slowly, I tore it open. Slowly. Carefully.

  Four pages. Folded in three equal parts. Always meticulous.

  The unfolded pages lay open. The familiar scrawl. A never-ending source of amazement. China, so handsome, so elegant. How did he end up with such a handwriting? As though one had dipped a fly in an inkwell, fished it out, and let it crawl all over the page as the fancy took it.

  Nights in the village are total, pitch black and impenetrable, unless there is a full moon. Auntie arrived on a moonless night. In the unmitigated darkness outside, before she came into the rondavel in which Makhulu, already in bed, awaited her, I sensed more than saw that she was at least as large as Mama. Once she was inside, by the dim light of a candle, she appeared to have a milky-coffee complexion where her sister is the colour of the berry of isipingo, a blue-tinged black. However, because of the time of day and conditions of light, this was all rather vague, more an impression than firm opinion.