“Robin,” Edith shouted as she gripped my shoulders to steady me. “Cat isn’t real,” she cried. “Cat isn’t real, you know she isn’t real. Your sister isn’t real.”
No, of course she wasn’t.
Nine
BEAUTY
17 JUNE 1976
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
Sunrise struggles to penetrate the haze of smoke that has settled over us like a collective sadness. I sit outside on an old tree stump in Andile’s patch of yard and greet the day. It is a ritual I have undertaken every dawn since I can remember; it helps me forget now that I am wearing borrowed clothes in a foreign city and that my child is missing.
“Molo, sisi.”
Andile stands behind me holding two mugs. Steam rises into the cold morning air obscuring his face. When it clears, I can see from the pouches under his eyes that he has slept as little as I have.
“I brought you tea. Three sugars, the way I like it. I hope you like it that way too.”
Of course my brother does not know how many sugars I take because men do not serve women in our culture. The kindness of the unfamiliar gesture, and his awkwardness in carrying it out, make me want to cry. He hands the mug across and puts his own on the ground before going back inside. He returns after a few moments carrying a rusting white garden chair, which he sets down beside me. “You sit here. The tree stump is my chair.”
It is another kindness, but he tries to disguise it as staking his claim on what is his. I know that thanking him will only embarrass him and so I say nothing. We exchange places and I wrap my hands around the tin mug. Its heat is a balm. My fingers regain feeling, and when I take a sip, the warmth seeps through me settling into my stomach. Its sweetness gives me strength.
This is the first time Andile and I have had a moment alone together to have a proper conversation. Yesterday was spent in constant motion with us all splitting up to look for Nomsa. We were certain we would find her; it was just a matter of looking in the right place. I searched at the schools and gathering points where the children had retreated once the violence broke out. Andile and the boys went to the homes of Nomsa’s friends and classmates. Lindiwe, Andile’s wife, searched the hospitals and clinics.
At first, I put the same question to every child I encountered. “Do you know Nomsa Mbali?”
I expected to repeat the question many dozens of times before I might get one affirmative answer, but I was surprised by how many of the children nodded.
“Yes, I know Nomsa.”
“The Nomsa Mbali who goes to Morris Isaacson? She is seventeen years old.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
They shook their heads and returned to their conversations.
I tried a different question with the next children I asked. “When last did you see her?”
A girl furrowed her brow as she thought about it. “I saw her this morning, Mother. She was handing out placards to some of the students to carry.”
“And after that?”
“She was one of the first people out of the gate after the bell rang for assembly and we all followed. I did not see her after Mputhi Street once the children from the other schools joined us.”
After hours of searching and asking, I found many other children who relayed similar accounts of the morning, but I could not find anyone who had seen Nomsa after the confrontation with the police. It was hours after dark when I stopped my frantic movement and forced myself to be still and think. I had been so focused on finding Nomsa that it had not occurred to me that she might be at Andile’s house waiting for me.
Of course, I thought, that is where she is. They have found her and she is waiting there.
It took an hour of walking to get to Andile’s house, and when I opened the gate, the boys ran out to greet me.
“Is she here? Did you find her?” I pushed past them and rushed inside, searching the faces for my daughter’s features. When the hope drained from Andile’s face, I knew. They had not found her. They had waited for my return, hoping that I would bring Nomsa with me.
I collapsed then, drained of all hope and strength, and Andile rushed to steady me. Lindiwe bathed me with cold water as I sat, paralyzed by anxiety, on my mattress. I prayed as she wiped the encrusted blood from my face. I prayed still as she removed the filthy, torn clothes from my body and pulled her own cotton nightgown over my head, raising my arms and guiding them through the holes as if I were a child. The bitter tea she brewed helped ease me into a deep, dreamless sleep so that I was able to find oblivion for a few hours.
Now, I am stronger. I am ready. “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me everything.”
Andile clears his throat. “A few weeks ago, Langa came to me. He said he was worried about something and he needed to speak to me in confidence.”
I nod for him to continue.
“Nomsa had invited him to a Soweto Students’ Representative Council meeting where he heard about a protest they were planning. She swore him to secrecy, but when he heard how many children would be involved, he began to worry. He knew that any march of that size would attract the attention of the police.”
“The Students’ Council? Is Nomsa a member of that?”
Andile frowns. “You did not know?”
“No. When she begged me to let her come here for her final year of study, I made her promise she would not get involved in politics or any of these organizations. She promised.”
“But she wrote you letters every month. She did not tell you then?”
“No, she told me she was studying hard and enjoying school.” His frown deepens at my reply. “Are you telling me, bhuti, that she was lying?”
Andile sighs and rubs his chin. “Nomsa said she told you about it and that you had given her permission.”
“So she was lying to me. She was a member of this council?”
Andile shakes his head. “Not just a member, sisi, but one of the leaders who arranged the march. One of the main organizers.”
His words settle like stones on my chest. Yesterday, all the children seemed to know who Nomsa was, and the young girl’s words ring in my mind: She was one of the first people out of the gate after the bell rang for assembly and we all followed. I thought it was bad luck that Nomsa was at the front of the group, but it was not bad luck, it was by design. She was leading.
“What happened then?” I ask.
“Langa tried to speak to Nomsa about his concerns of the dangers involved, but she called him a coward and told him she was embarrassed to be related to him. She would not allow him to come back to the meetings or tell him anything more. When he started to hear rumors at the school, he came to me again and then I spoke to her.”
“What did she say?”
“She did not deny that they were planning something, but she would not tell me the details. She was defiant and that is when I wrote to you. I had to take care with my wording in case the security police intercepted the letter. You can never be too careful.”
Defiant. The word echoes in my ears and I burn with shame to think that my daughter would disrespect her uncle and guardian in this way.
“The night before the march on Tuesday,” Andile continues, “Lindiwe overheard a conversation between Nomsa and a friend of hers, Phumla Ndlovu, and understood from that the march would take place the next day. That is why Lindiwe and I did not go to work yesterday. We stayed home in case Langa was right and the children were in danger, but Nomsa got dressed for school in her uniform like it was a normal day. She said she had a test to write and was determined to do well, so we let her go. We did not think they would leave for the march after going to school first. We thought Lindiwe had misunderstood.” Andile hangs his head.
I know from speaking to teachers and other parents that most elders did not know what was planned. Before the sun even ro
se yesterday, they had stood in lines for the green Putco buses that would take them to their jobs in the city, away from the march, and also away from any chance of protecting their children. By the time they heard what was happening and had fought their way home, the acrid smoke was blanketing the horizon and hundreds of children were already dead.
“I have let you down, sisi.” Andile’s voice is raw with emotion. “I promised to look after your child and take care of her and I have failed you.” His voice breaks. “If anything has happened to her, I will never forgive myself.”
Ten
ROBIN
17 JUNE 1976
Boksburg, Johannesburg, South Africa
When I was six years old and spying on the grown-ups, I eavesdropped on a conversation I should never have heard, and in that moment of my shame, my twin sister, Cat, was born.
I knew she was a figment of my imagination. I didn’t actually see her standing there as I would a real person; it wasn’t as if I was hallucinating. On the contrary, it took a lot of time and practice to conjure her into life; creating her took a great deal of effort.
For the first while, mirrors were essential to her survival. Cat was my reflection and that was where she lived, confined to the looking glass. I would go there to find her, and we would have long conversations that ended abruptly when I was forced to turn away. Soon though, any reflective surface was enough. If I could catch a glimpse of myself in a window or a pool of water or on a newly waxed wooden floor, then I could see Cat. In this way, she followed me out of the mirror and into the world.
My parents humored me at first. My father said it was the sign of a creative mind and that he’d spoken to his dog all the time when he was a child.
“It’s wonderful to have two of these faces running around,” he said as he pinched my nose. “You know how much I love your freckles.”
That was the day Cat’s complexion miraculously cleared up, not a freckle to be found. My face remained beloved, while Cat’s became a blank slate.
We were each defined by the other: when I wanted to cry, Cat shed my tears; when I had to be brave, Cat became a coward; when I did something wrong, Cat took the blame. It wasn’t long at all before my parents grew tired of tedious Cat and I became the favorite. You can’t be the preferred child when there’s only one of you, and so Cat served her purpose; just as she would’ve in that moment at the police station if Edith had only let her.
“Robs, Cat isn’t real,” Edith cried. She shook me as though trying to shake some sense into me. “Why do you keep pretending she is?”
It was a good question but one I couldn’t answer, not then and certainly not for many years until I finally understood how fractured I’d become in my quest to be lovable. In trying to be everything each of my parents wanted me to be, I dissected myself to excise the parts that weren’t acceptable. I sloughed off bits of myself—the gangrenous, unlovable aspects of my personality—and like Frankenstein, I built a monster.
But I didn’t have the language then to explain that to Edith, and since she wouldn’t let me use Cat as the shield she was, I steeled myself instead to deal with what couldn’t be put off any longer.
“Mommy and Daddy are dead.” I uttered the words as matter-of-factly as I could, testing the weight of them.
Edith took my hands and bent her head, a tear dripping onto me as she nodded.
“Black people slit their throats,” I said.
Edith’s head snapped up. Her eyes were red, as red as her nose, which leaked unattractively. She pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her nostrils. “Christ. Who told you that?”
“The policeman,” I said.
“Oh, Robs, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out that way. What else did he say?”
“He said ‘Squad Cars’ isn’t real.”
Edith grimaced. She knew how much I loved the program as I’d made her listen to it every weekend she’d ever visited.
“Is Mabel dead too?”
“No, she isn’t,” Edith said. “She’s here somewhere and we’re going to find her.”
I would find out later that Edith was meant to be headed to China that day and was scheduled to be away for more than two weeks. The virulent stomach bug that she’d called my mother about had forced her to book off sick and the airline had replaced her. I tried not to think about what might have happened if the police hadn’t gotten hold of Edith that morning, and how long they would have kept me there. Or what they would have done to Mabel.
Edith opened her handbag and pulled a wad of pastel-colored tissues from it. She plucked out a few for herself and then tried handing me one. I shook my head and left it in her hand. Edith looked at the tissue and then looked at me. She seemed to see me, properly see me, for the first time since she’d arrived.
“Robs, I know it’s been a terrible night, you must have been frightened out of your mind, but I’m here now. You don’t have to be strong anymore.”
Edith’s empathy tugged at the knot of sadness that had been building in my throat until it had formed a lump of emotion so huge, it made it difficult to swallow. The adrenaline had petered out, the shock dissipating with it, and I was left feeling hollow. My parents truly were dead. There hadn’t been a misunderstanding and it wasn’t some kind of sick joke. The thought closed up my windpipe and made it difficult to breathe. Tears began to sting my eyes and I waited for the release they would bring, but with them came the memory of what the policeman had said.
“Edith?”
“Yes, kiddo?”
“Is it true that Mommy and Daddy are in heaven and that they’re watching over me and that they’re with me all the time?”
Edith paused for a second and I could see her thinking things over. After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”
My parents are watching me. They can see me now just as they always could. And then something alarming occurred to me. Now there is nowhere to hide.
Before, when I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, I’d run to my room so I could cry where my mother couldn’t see me. That wasn’t an option anymore. Mommy can see me all the time so I can’t be a crybaby anymore. It was the first time I’d ever envied Cat her invisibility.
Edith checked me to see if I’d need the tissue after all but I remained resolutely dry-eyed.
“I want Mabel,” I said.
Edith nodded. “Then you shall have her.”
• • •
Mabel was shoved into the waiting room an hour later, after Edith threatened the station captain that she would contact the Rand Daily Mail to give an interview about their officers’ treatment of me. We didn’t have much time to register Mabel’s appearance as we hurried outside, wincing in the face of the harsh winter sunlight. Once we were far enough away from the station to feel safe, Edith slowed and came to a stop in the parking lot. We turned to look at Mabel. I gasped at the sight of her. She looked even worse than the night before.
Mabel’s right eye was swollen closed and would have been a vivid purple if her skin had been white. Her nose was crusted with blood and her lip was split and puffy. What startled me most was the sight of Mabel’s hair, something I’d never seen before as it was always covered with a tightly woven doek. It was mostly braided into cornrows but a few tufts had been pulled loose and stood up haphazardly.
Edith dropped the cigarette she’d been about to light and reached for Mabel’s face, but Mabel flinched and backed away from her touch. The one bloodshot eye that was functioning darted around the parking lot.
“Oh my God, Mabel, what happened to you?”
Mabel wasn’t listening. She was taking in her surroundings and looked heartened by the number of black people milling around the parking lot.
“Come, Mabel, I’ll take you to the hospital. We need to have a doctor look at you.”
Mabel shook her head and cringed
. The movement caused her pain.
“You’re hurt. I don’t know what those bastards did to you, but we need to get you treated.”
“No,” she rasped. “No.”
Edith flung up her arms in despair. “So what do you want to do?”
“I am going home. To my homeland.”
“Your homeland? Where is that?”
“QwaQwa.”
I normally delighted in the explosive clicks of the Sotho language. Mabel could make certain words sound like a champagne cork erupting from a bottle, and though I often tried to imitate her, my tongue was lazy and disobedient. This time, the sound of her uttering the name of her homeland, speaking in the dialect of her people, elicited nothing positive, only a nameless dread.
“That’s way too far for you to travel in this state.” Edith looked like she wanted to argue more, but could see that it was hopeless. Mabel had made up her mind and there would be no stopping her.
Before any further words could be uttered, I stepped forward to hug Mabel. I raised my arms, wanting to wrap them around her waist so she could pull me up against the sturdy, reassuring warmth of her, but she stepped back outside of my reach. I looked up at her, surprised. I could see by her vacant expression that something had changed between us during those long, lonely hours as night turned into day.
Mabel was the one who always knew how to fix my pain, and I’d never been in so much pain in my life. Each time I pictured my parents’ necks slit, the blood gushing from them, I wanted to be dead too. And if I couldn’t be dead, then the only person who could take my misery away was Mabel.
I reached out to her again, lunging before she could step away, and I wrapped my arms around her hips as tightly as I could. I inhaled the familiar, comforting scents—Vaseline, tobacco, soap and onions—but there were other smells too, new ones overlaying the old ones, the offensive tang of fear and sweat. Mabel reached her arms around her back to unclasp my grip, but I held on tighter. I needed her to tend to my wounds. I needed her to kiss it all better.
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