by Graham Lang
Silence, then a muffled voice.
He opens the door and enters. I hesitate at the door, taking in her quarters at a glance: a bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. Above her bed, a framed picture of Christ holding a lamb. The blanket on her neatly made bed is grey with three black stripes across one end. The kitchen has a hot plate, a kettle and a fridge. A crucifix hangs on the wall above a simple wooden table. A smell of soap and tomato soup.
‘Kunjani, Sister – how are you?’ Reverend Mkhondo says cheerily.
She is sitting at the table, facing us. In front of her is an enamel mug with a plastic spout and a pile of books, including a Bible and a dictionary, and a writing pad on which some neat paragraphs are written. A walking stick with a worn handle leans against the table. She wears a nurse’s uniform: a white folded cap pinned to her grey hair; a knee-length purple dress and white blouse with epaulettes; a crucifix and a watch hang over her breast. She has a veil which covers half her face, from the bridge of her nose down, held in place by a cord looped over her ears. The veil is damp over the mouth. When she breathes it billows slightly away from her face. She is stout and very old. The joints of her hands, clasped together on the table, are swollen with arthritis.
‘I have brought a visitor,’ Reverend Mkhondo says. ‘All the way from Australia.’ He turns to me. ‘Come in, sir. Come closer.’
She stares at me as I come forward. Despite her veil, I recognise her at once – her eyes, though lined and bleary with age, are unmistakeable. Those beautiful almond eyes, like an Egyptian queen. I know without a shadow of doubt that it’s her. Lettah. I stand mute, returning her stare.
Reverend Mkhondo laughs. ‘Heh–hehh! What a commotion! You mustn’t get too excited!’
I find my voice. ‘Lettah, I’ve found you at last. Do you remember me? I’m Frank. Frank Cole. Errol and Lydia’s son.’
Lettah nods, a smile in her eyes. From beneath the veil comes a garbled sound: ‘Hhrank. Hhrank.’
‘As you can see, Sister Lettah cannot pronounce her words properly,’ Reverend Mkhondo says. ‘Those who are used to it understand her. Strangers have difficulty.’
Lettah gets slowly to her feet and extends both her hands. ‘Sahhona, Hhrank.’
I take her dry raspy hands in mine. To my astonishment, my eyes brim with tears, my throat aches. I choke as I embrace her. She stands still in my arms, her face buried in my shoulder.
Reverend Mkhondo shifts his feet uncomfortably. ‘I’ll leave you alone. Call me if you need me.’
He leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
I regain my composure and loosen my grip on her. She stands back. Her eyes downcast, she speaks slowly, flicking her tongue around syllables: ‘Like sunn tea?’
She points at the kettle.
‘Tea?’ I repeat. ‘Yes, please. I’d love some tea.’
Lettah takes her walking stick and shuffles across to the kitchen counter and switches the kettle on. She spoons tea leaves into an aluminium teapot, then watches the kettle intently as it heats up, as though the process demands rapt attention.
Wiping my eyes on my shirt sleeve, I say: ‘Reverend Mkhondo has explained what happened to you. He explained the physical nature of your injury. I’m so sorry such a terrible thing happened, Lettah. The world is a cruel place. What men do to others is beyond comprehension. Please don’t feel that you must talk, if it’s difficult. I’m just very happy to have found you. I’m just happy to be in your company.’
Lettah glances at me and returns her attention to the kettle. An admonishing glance? I realise immediately that I have been speaking very slowly and loudly, as though she were hard of hearing, or retarded. I wait in silence as the kettle boils and she makes the tea. She opens a cupboard and takes down a cup and saucer and some Marie biscuits. She pours my tea through a strainer and points to a bowl of sugar on the counter. I shake my head. ‘No sugar, thank you,’ I say. She shuffles across and puts the tea and the biscuits in front of me. Then she takes her enamel mug to the counter, removes the plastic spout and pours herself some tea and replaces the spout. She returns to her chair.
I sip my tea and nibble at one of the biscuits, which is slightly stale. Lettah pushes the spout under the veil, tilts her head back slightly and swallows loudly. It occurs to me that she would have no ability to sip. When I begin to talk, she holds up her hand, gesturing for me to wait. She pushes the writing pad across the table and points to the words she has written. I read the first paragraph out loud:
This is how I communicate with those who cannot understand my speech. You can speak, I write. My heart was glad when I was told that you will be visiting me. I remember you and your family well and have often longed for that time. How are your parents, Errol and Lydia? How is Maxwell?
I look up. ‘Max is very well. He is happily married with children. He lives overseas in Australia – in Perth, where I live, where Errol lives. My father is old, but well. He said if I find you to pass on his best wishes. My mother, Lydia, passed away a short while ago. She was very ill. She’s the reason I’m here.’
I continue to read:
Reverend Mkhondo said he would explain to you my disfigurement. It is something I do not like to think about. But for you I will explain. When the soldiers did this to me I wanted to die. I wanted to die with all my heart. I wished they had burned me with my family. They called me uMahleka – she who always laughs. For years I hid because of shame. I covered my mouth with a rag. I drifted from one place to another in Zimbabwe, an outcast. I lived on the streets, begging, always wishing I was dead. Then God saved me. He sent Reverend Jones to save me. To bring me here. It was Reverend Jones who found me and gave me refuge and purpose. I am no longer ashamed of my disfigurement. I wear this veil only because it keeps my mouth damp and because it saves others from discomfort. The children I tend to would be frightened if I did not wear it. Are you frightened of my disfigurement?
I look at her, astonished at how she anticipated my reactions.
‘I’m frightened, Lettah. But I’m prepared for it.’
Lettah returns my stare. She reaches up and releases the veil from around her ears. She folds it neatly and places it on the table in front of her. She keeps looking at me.
I’m not prepared for it. I’ve been told by Reverend Mkhondo what to expect, but nothing could have prepared me for this. The awfulness defies words. She has no lips. They have been hacked away, crudely, along with the muscle and skin up to her nose and as far down as her chin, leaving only a scarred ridge that makes a ragged grey circle around her teeth and gums, bared in a perpetual grin. I can’t help myself. The horror of it makes me close my eyes. In the blackness of my vision, I can see her lips as they used to be. The small scar on the upper lip. Laughing. Always laughing. I force myself to open my eyes, to look at her. I think of the life she has had to lead.
‘Hleka,’ Lettah says, her tongue flicking behind her teeth, the remnants of muscle around her gums quivering futilely. She points to the word uMahleka on her pad. The name given to her by devils.
Hleka – laugh. One word she can pronounce without difficulty. How is it possible to forgive this? How is such evil possible? What sort of men are capable of this? Men who revel in the terror and suffering of their victims. Capable of herding a whole family into a hut and setting it alight. Listening to the shrieks of the dying, then turning on the family’s only survivor, raping her and committing this wickedness. Is this strength? Does strength come down to harming the weak and defenceless without qualm or mercy? How do you combat such strength? By committing the same acts? Must we become evil to fight evil? Must we fight fire with fire?
I’m filled with hatred for the men who maimed her. I wish the same horror could be inflicted on them. Yet Lettah’s eyes hold no anger. She watches me undergo my revulsions with a serene patience. She lifts her tea, tilts her head back and drink
s. I glimpse her tongue squeezing the spout up against the roof of her mouth.
Bewildered, I shake my head. I reach across and put my hand on hers. ‘It’s impossible for me to comprehend what you’ve been through. There are no words for this. I lose faith in everything when I think of the men who committed this evil.’
Lettah frowns. She says something completely unintelligible. I shake my head. She pulls her hand from under mine and reaches across for the pad. She takes a ballpoint pen from the pocket over her breast; slowly, she writes something and pushes the pad back across to me: No. It is what brings faith. Tell me about Lydia please.
I explain the circumstances of Lydia’s sickness and death. Lettah listens with that expression of serene patience. She shakes her head when she hears of Lydia’s suffering; she quietly utters: ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’ I explain the details of Lydia’s will. At the mention of the money Lettah displays no emotion. She just listens and nods. As I speak, I’m conscious that my eyes are darting about, unable to find a place to land on her face. Sensing my discomfort, Lettah retrieves her veil and fastens it back over her face.
She nods when I finish. ‘Thankku,’ she says, taking the pad again.
It is sad about your mother. I loved her very much. I am sure she is in heaven. What about you, Frank? Tell me about yourself. Where do you live? Do you have a wife? Do you have children?
Lettah listens as I talk, sucking on her tea every so often. Her eyes linger for a few seconds on my broken nose. I reach a point where telling the story of my life no longer seems to matter. All my little worries, my petty paranoias . . . what are they in the face of Lettah’s life? My voice fades to silence.
Outside, the church bell rings.
‘I had so much to tell you, Lettah, but it’s become so little,’ I say.
Lettah’s eyes smile. She writes: Come, let me show you my children.
We walk down the gravel road towards the hospital. Progress is slow. Lettah shuffles along, aided by her walking stick. It’s obvious that her arthritis is not confined to her hands. As she walks, her writing pad, hanging on a chord around her neck, sways from side to side. She hums a tune – hnnn nah, hnn nah nah – and pauses at a tap at the roadside. She leans down and splashes water onto her veil.
‘Dry,’ she says, pointing at her mouth.
As we walk, I get down to business. ‘The money my mother has left for you is waiting in Australia. I can get my father to send over the documents. Once all the paperwork is done the money can be transferred into a bank account here.’
Lettah appears not to hear. She stops to listen to the raucous calls of a flock of hah-de-dahs flying overhead. She mimics them, ‘Keh! Keeeh!’ and laughs.
‘What happened between you and my mother?’ I ask. ‘All these years I’ve wondered what happened.’
Lettah looks at me, surprised. Her eyes crease with humour. She gives a wave of her hand, as though dismissing my question.
We turn up a cement path that goes around the hospital and up the hillside to the small modern building and prefabs that Reverend Mkhondo had pointed out earlier. Lettah points her walking stick at the building. ‘Ornage,’ she says.
‘Orphanage?’ I say. ‘Reverend Mkhondo said you would bring me here.’
There’s a sign above the entrance: Little Flower Children’s Home. We enter a reception office; a young nurse with intricately braided hair behind a computer greets Lettah cheerily: ‘Hello, Mama. Kunjani. How are you today?’ Lettah splutters a reply unintelligible to me to which the nurse laughs gaily. ‘You are my mama. You are everyone’s mama!’ she says. Lettah introduces me by writing my name on her pad and holding it up for the nurse to see. ‘Hello, Mr Cole,’ the nurse responds. She points to a badge on her chest. ‘My name is Sister Mary Ngobeni.’ She briefly explains that she, Lettah and two other nurses run the orphanage. No mean task, apparently. This small team must cope with nearly seventy-five children on a shoestring budget. When she explains that Lettah has forgone her retirement to help keep the orphanage going, Lettah gives an impatient wave of her hand and ushers me out of the office.
I follow her along a corridor and enter a large hall, into a deafening buzz of chatter. Children ranging from infants to early teenagers are crammed around tables, lustily shovelling food into their mouths and talking simultaneously. The walls of the hall are covered with brightly coloured paintings, crayon drawings and cardboard figures with papier-mâché heads. Fans whirr overhead. A strong smell of putu and boiled cabbage.
Lettah claps her hands. ‘Hallah!’ she calls.
The chatter ceases.
‘Hallo, Mama!’ the children sing back in chorus.
Lettah points at me. ‘Say hallah.’
‘Hallo!’
The chatter picks up again. I’m introduced to the other nurse on duty, Sister Dorothy Mvubu, who is busy spoon-feeding a toddler. A plump middle-aged woman, Sister Dorothy has a no-nonsense demeanour.
‘What are you doing here, you naughty girl?’ she demands of Lettah. ‘This is my shift – you are supposed to be resting!’
Lettah laughs and Sister Dorothy’s stern façade dissolves into a smile. She holds her hands out helplessly. ‘What can we do with her, Mr Cole. All she wants to do is work, work, work!’
We watch while the children finish eating. They appear a happy, exuberant bunch, carrying on like kids anywhere. Boys goofing around, girls giggling. I’m reminded of Rosie and Geldof, of their bright, boundless enthusiasm. But there among the noisy horde, surreptitiously pointed out by Sister Dorothy, are the ones who remind me that these are not normal kids. The quiet ones with the blank stares and nervous gestures. The ones yet to realise that this boisterous mob is their only family now. Sister Dorothy explains the financial struggle to keep the orphanage going. ‘We can only trust in God to provide,’ she says.
When they are finished Sister Dorothy leads the infants off to some thin foam mattresses on the floor in an adjoining room for their afternoon siesta. Then with a booming voice she tells the rest to stack their bowls and cups on trolleys and go outside and play. While Sister Dorothy ensures the trolleys are properly stacked, Lettah rummages in a cupboard and produces two enamel mugs, one with an identical spout to that which she used in her room. She goes over to a stainless steel urn on a table against the wall and pours tea into the mugs and then leads me out to a long veranda where we sit at a table. She begins writing on her pad. A group of small boys approaches. One of them, carrying a battered soccer ball, asks Lettah a question in Zulu. Lettah laughs and writes: They want you to play.
I hesitate, complaining of the heat. Lettah frowns; the boys give a collective groan. Come on, you lazy old oxygen thief, their looks say. Hoisting a half-hearted smile, I step off the veranda into the blazing sun and follow them to a dusty, sloping playground nearby with makeshift goalposts at either end. I find myself in a team of five players; the opposing team numbers eight – I’m mildly flattered the boys deem this surfeit appropriate to even things up. The game commences. For a while I acquit myself reasonably well (one of my cross-kicks even results in a goal). Sadly, though, my inevitable transition from team asset to liability is embarrassingly emphatic and the boys quickly realise, as they begin to run rings around me, that their earlier adult-to-child calculation was seriously flawed. They laugh with delight at my clumsy attempts to control the ball, at my huffing and puffing. They convulse with mirth when one of them dribbles the ball straight through my legs. Every so often, I’m forced to rest, bent over, hands on my knees, sucking in air. I glance over at Lettah on the veranda, busy writing on her pad. A small girl interrupts her, leaning against her, laying her head on her lap. Lettah places her pen down and strokes the girl’s head, then continues to write. She writes for a long time. Stoically, I play on, though my contribution now consists of ambling around issuing instructions (the memory of Hazel laughing at my pathetic attempts at soccer as a
boy springs cruelly to mind). Each time I look over at Lettah, the little girl still has her head on her lap. Then Lettah lifts the girl’s head gently and gets up. She beckons me.
I take leave of the boys and head back to the veranda. The boys stop the game and follow me, imploring me to continue playing. Lettah says something in contorted Zulu that seems to placate them. Sister Dorothy comes out onto the veranda, holding a cup of tea and fanning herself with a newspaper. Lettah points at me and says something to her.
‘You are leaving us already!’ Sister Dorothy says. She puts the tea and newspaper down on the table and bellows for the children to gather. They come running, surrounding us. Some of the smaller kids cling to Lettah’s dress.
‘Say goodbye to Sister Lettah and to Mr Cole!’ Sister Dorothy booms.
‘Goodbye, Mama! Goodbye, Mr Cole!’
Some of my soccer teammates give me high fives. That they could be so charitable gets me a bit choked up.
Lettah and I walk away from the hospital complex, past the church and along a path that leads to a padlocked gate in the security fence. Lettah takes a key from her belt and unlocks the gate. She ushers me through and locks the gate after us. We proceed along a ridge up the hill into the bush surrounding the mission. As the ridge winds around the hill, a valley suddenly opens up in front of us. We come to a wooden bench beneath a big spreading tree. Leaning on her stick, Lettah slowly lowers herself onto the bench; I sit beside her. In front of us the hazy scrub-freckled hills of Zululand stretch out forever.