“No.” She was hurting me. I couldn’t put a proper reply together while her fingers were wrapped around my wrist like a vise.
“Why did her mother not come?”
I hadn’t prepared myself for having to explain the whole situation to Phumla. I thought it would be enough to tell her that Beauty needed Nomsa, and then—if I had to—I’d tell Nomsa the truth about what I’d done. The words caught in my throat as I tried to free myself of her grip.
“Why was her mother not there?” she demanded again, and when I didn’t reply, her free hand went to her mouth as an upsetting thought occurred to her. “Did you tell someone about seeing Nomsa that day?”
“No.”
“Did you report it to someone? Seeing her?” She shook my arm. “Did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, though without much conviction. The girl was frightening me. Her anger was so intense that it bordered on hatred. I’d never done anything to her so why would she hate me?
“Have you led the police here?” There was now an edge of panic in her voice, a hissing urgency that made me feel like I needed to pee again.
“What? No!”
“How did you get here? Who brought you?”
“I came with King George, he—”
“What happened to Nomsa’s mother? Where is she?”
“She’s . . . she’s in hospital,” I stammered.
“Because of you?”
Her accusation took me off guard. How could she know of my culpability when no one else knew that I was to blame? How could she know my darkest secret when I’d only confessed it to Morrie? “Yes, but—”
“You will not find Nomsa, do you hear me? You little spy! You white people are all the same; the treachery is in your blood from the day you are born.” Her eyes glowed with righteous indignation and her words, along with her intensity, brought a glimmer of understanding.
“No, Phumla, you don’t understand—”
“I do not understand? Why? Because I am uneducated? Because I am a barbarian and a savage who cannot understand the way of the white man? I understand only too well. Now get out of here! Go, before I call our security.” She stared me down and when I didn’t turn and flee, she turned and started walking back to the shebeen. “In fact, let me fetch them now and you can explain what you are doing here asking your questions.”
Every impulse told me to run. And I did run then, but instead of running away from the danger, I ran towards it.
Fifty-five
ROBIN
3 OCTOBER 1977
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
I got to the door a few heartbeats after it had slammed closed and yanked at it, scared that Phumla might have locked me out. The door opened with no resistance at all, and I stumbled backwards from using too much force. Once I’d righted myself, I rushed through and followed Phumla’s retreating form down a long corridor. A serving girl suddenly stepped out from one of the side rooms, her drinks tray laden, and we almost collided.
“Sorry!” I said, looking back to see her grabbing at the glasses and bottles to stop them from toppling over. When I was sure everything wouldn’t come crashing down around her, I kept going only to see that Phumla had disappeared ahead of me. I’d hoped to reach her in the safety and anonymity of the corridor, but she’d already exited into the main room where all the customers sat. There was nothing to do but follow her in there.
I tried to slip in quietly, staying close to the wall in the hope that no one would see me, but it was too much to expect that my arrival would go unnoticed. Even though the patrons were mostly jaded people who’d seen just about everything in the course of their lives, the arrival of a ten-year-old little white girl in an illegal drinking establishment in a blacks-only township was akin to an alien sighting.
The person sitting closest to me, a young man hunched over his beer, did a double take when he spotted me, his mouth dropping open in shock. Two older men who were seated at a table next to him were more vocal in their surprise, crying out so that other people turned to see what the commotion was. The room wasn’t as packed as it had been the first time Beauty had come there; it was only a quarter full, which allowed a large enough space to open up around me, making me the center of attention.
Some people craned their necks while others farther back in the room stood up to get a better look at me. The record that was playing abruptly stopped, the needle scratching against the vinyl as one of the servers cut the music. Once the pennywhistle died, all I could hear was angry muttering throughout the room, as well as my breathing, which suddenly sounded abnormally loud.
“You see,” someone called from the shadows. “I told you I saw a white child here weeks ago, but you all said I was drunk and seeing things. Look! It is the white child again!”
Phumla ignored the speaker. She was searching through the room for someone and I knew who that someone was. I was grateful to King George for getting Shakes out of there.
“Phumla, please,” I said, ignoring everyone else and making my appeal directly to her. “Please just listen to me so I can explain.” The room quieted down, all eyes on us.
Phumla let off a string of angry words in Xhosa that I couldn’t understand because she was speaking too quickly. The group’s muttering started up again. The room was thick with cigarette smoke; it insinuated itself around me, tickling my throat and making me want to cough. Its haze was oppressive, making me even more nervous than I already was in that room full of black men, and as I shifted my feet, my takkies stuck to something sticky that had been spilled on the floor.
It was hot in there and I wished I’d worn something lighter than my jeans and jersey, yet as uncomfortable as I was, I knew I had to ignore everything else and focus on my words if I stood any chance of getting through to Phumla. Before I could implore her again, a voice boomed out from behind me. “What’s going on here?”
I turned. The large, turbaned woman was standing behind me, one hand on her cocked hip and an incredulous expression on her face.
“Mama Fatty,” I said.
She blinked in surprise and her glossy mouth curled into a smile. “Well, my dear, it seems that I’m at a disadvantage in my own shebeen. I have a rather unusual guest who knows who I am and yet we haven’t been formally introduced.” She stepped forward, her bulk swaying as she advanced. She held out her hand and a dozen bracelets jangled at her wrist. “Let’s do this properly, shall we? I’m Mama Fatty, the Shebeen Queen of this very fine establishment. And who, my dear, are you?”
“I’m Robin. Robin Conrad, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” I took her hand and shook it before I remembered that you had to curtsey to royalty. Dropping her hand, I dipped low and bowed my head. There were a few titters from the crowd.
Mama Fatty laughed and the rolls under her chin jiggled about. “‘Your Highness,’ did you hear that? The child knows royalty when she sees it.” There was laughter, but I didn’t join in because I didn’t get the joke. “Now tell me, what’s a white child doing in my shebeen?”
“I came to speak to Phumla, Queen Fatty.”
She looked from me to Phumla, frowning. “Zinzi,” she said pointedly and I remembered that’s what Phumla was called in the shebeen, “please explain yourself.”
Phumla spoke in Xhosa, but once again, it was too rapid for me to understand any of it. Whatever she’d said caused agitation to ripple through the room and there were one or two shouts. Mama Fatty raised her hands up as though conducting an orchestra, and right on cue, everyone settled down. She turned to me.
“Zinzi accuses you of being a spy and of working with the security police. Is that right?”
“No, Queen Fatty, no. That’s not right at all.”
“Liar!” Phumla had switched back to English. “You said yourself you came here to find Nomsa, and that you have already put her mother in hospital.”
There was a collective intake of breath. Even Queen Fatty was frowning and I spoke quickly before she turned against me. “Yes, but I’m not looking for Nomsa because I’m a spy or with the police. Really, I’m not like other white people.”
There were a few laughs and Phumla joined in. “That is funny because you look just like other white people to me. In fact, you look just like the kind of white child who is used to getting her own way, and who thinks that she can come into the township and make demands like she would in her house in the suburbs. You think we are your servants here, but we are not.”
A few people heckled me, hissing their support of her.
“No!” I shouted in a shrill voice. “No, I really don’t think that. I’ll prove to you that I’m just like you,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice as I struggled to pull off my jersey.
I revealed my T-shirt and twirled around so everyone could see it properly. “See? This says ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ and there’s a picture of him on the back. I could get arrested for wearing this shirt but I don’t care.” I frantically tried to remember everything Beauty had told me about him so they could see I knew all about their hero. “Rolihlahla is a good man, a freedom fighter, and he shouldn’t be in prison for the rest of his life. I hope he will lead us one day and that he will heal us all so that we can live together as equals.”
I was saying the right things because there were murmurs of agreement. I used the brief moment while the crowd was on my side to go to the record player. “This record that was playing before it was stopped? It’s Spokes Mashinyane’s ‘Meva.’ I have the record at home. Beauty taught me how to dance to kwela music.”
I put the needle back and the record suddenly came to life, the pennywhistle loosening my muscles and filling me with hope. I looked around the room for a dance partner, but the grown men scared me. I was relieved, instead, to catch sight of a boy who looked only slighter older than me. He was leaning against the wall, a mop and bucket at his feet.
“Ungathanda ukudansa?” I held out my hand to him.
He looked around the room after I issued my invitation to dance, and a few people whistled and called out encouragement. He shrugged and then stepped forward, taking my hand in a gallant way. He tapped his feet, leading us into the dance, and then we swung into it, knees loose and arms bent. The kwela was part rock ’n’ roll, part jive, and was punctuated at different points with fingers snapping or jazz hands waving. Even when we separated to do the moves individually, the rhythm kept us bound together so that our legs bent and kicked in unison as our hips and shoulders swayed together. The music was wonderful; it was something alive and pulsing through me, and when I smiled at the boy, he smiled back.
The audience was appreciative, and as we worked our way through the steps, circling each other, twisting and turning, dipping and swaying, they rose to their feet and started cheering. There was clapping and hollering, whistling and stomping, and the faces blurred as I whizzed and spun past, but I could see that they were smiling. When the song faded, I was breathless but elated, and my dance partner bowed to me and I bowed back.
Once the applause died off, I looked to Phumla, hoping that I’d made an impression but she just shook her head impatiently. “So, you have a Nelson Mandela T-shirt and you speak a bit of Xhosa. So you have learned one of our dances. So you are a little performing monkey. So what?”
My elation drained away.
I’m not winning her over. What else can I do?
I raised my hand to my locket, something I unconsciously did when I was nervous, and my fingers connected instead with Beauty’s pendant. It gave me hope and I tugged on it, holding it up to the light.
“See this? This is a Saint Christopher pendant given to my gogo, Beauty, by Maggie, the White Angel. Maggie is white but she fights for black people’s freedom. See the word on the back? It says ‘Believe’ because Maggie says we must believe that the black man will one day be free. Maggie is my friend, and she wouldn’t be friends with a bad person, she just wouldn’t!”
“You know the White Angel?” Mama Fatty asked, looking impressed.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I do.”
There was more murmuring, which Phumla’s voice cut through. “Child, you pretend to be one of us, but you are not one of us. You will never be one of us and I have no reason to trust you. What are you doing here, really? What is it you want with Nomsa?”
All my bluster faded away in the face of her questions. I had no more ideas, no more plans that I could put into effect. I had no tricks or reveals, nothing left in my repertoire to try to convince her that I was a good person. And even as I was crushed by that knowledge, I realized that I was failing because it was a lie and she could see through it.
I’m not a good person. I’m not someone who doesn’t hurt black people because didn’t I hurt Beauty in the worst possible way?
I was an imposter and a hypocrite, and all that I sincerely had to offer her was the truth. I just never thought I’d have to offer it up like that, in such a public place in front of a jury of people who would judge me harshly without mercy, but then again, I couldn’t expect kindness and forgiveness because I simply didn’t deserve it.
So I did as Victor had told me to do. I faced up to my fear of finding out that I was unlovable after all, and I bared my shame and told my darkest secret. I told the truth. “Beauty didn’t meet Nomsa because I didn’t give her the letter.”
“Speak up, child,” Queen Fatty commanded, and I tried to dislodge the fear that was constricting my throat.
I looked straight at Phumla so that she could see how sincere I was. I hoped that my vulnerability would succeed in getting through to her where my bravado had failed. “Beauty didn’t meet Nomsa that day because I didn’t give her the letter. I hid it away and didn’t tell Beauty that I’d seen Nomsa because I didn’t want Beauty to go back to the Transkei with her.” I’d started crying by then. I was so ashamed of what I was saying, what I was revealing about myself, that I couldn’t hold back the tears. I knew my face was made ugly by grief, but I sniffed and kept on talking, determined to get it all out no matter how terrible it was.
“My parents were killed on the day of the Soweto uprising, the same day Nomsa went missing. They were killed by black men after a party. My father was a shift boss on the mines. They say the men didn’t know my father, but I don’t know if that’s true. My dad was a good dad and I loved him very much and he loved me, but he wasn’t always nice to black people.” I felt like a traitor saying that about him, but it was the truth, and by this moment, I’d made up my mind to reveal everything.
“After they died, I was sent to live with my aunt, but she didn’t really want me and wasn’t able to look after me properly. I didn’t want to get sent away to an orphanage and so when Beauty came to look after me, I started feeling safe again. She . . .” I trailed off, trying to get air into my lungs because the tears were making it hard to breathe.
“She looked after me and she loved me and that’s all I wanted was for someone to love me and for someone to stay. So when Nomsa came, I didn’t want Beauty to leave and go back to the Transkei. So I didn’t tell her. And then she found Nomsa’s letter and she had a heart attack.”
Phumla gasped, but I couldn’t stop to take in her shock. I had to keep going. “And Beauty might die, and I don’t want her to die without seeing Nomsa because that’s why she stayed with me. Not for me, not really, even though I told myself that’s why. She was always honest with me and she told me that she’d leave me one day. She was only staying so she could find Nomsa and now I have to bring Nomsa to her. It’s the only way to make things right.”
The room was deathly silent. The only sound besides my voice was the record spinning round and round, all its music wrung out of it just as all my emotion was wrung out of me.
Phumla shook her head as though trying to clear her thoughts. “Why should I believe you? H
ow do I know that this is not a trap and that as soon as Nomsa gets to the hospital, she will be arrested?”
A few people in the crowd murmured their agreement.
“Phumla, I know you don’t believe me but I helped you once. Can’t you help me now?”
“You? Helped me?” Her face had become hard again.
“Yes, don’t you remember?”
She made a dismissive clicking sound. “When did this happen?”
“That night of the uprising, at the Brixton police station. I was there because of what had happened to my parents and I was sitting in the waiting room, and you came in, and you had no clothes, just a torn shirt and your underwear, and—”
“You gave me the blanket to cover myself.”
“Yes.”
Her face had softened at the memory. “That was really you?”
“Yes,” I pushed on, “and I was hoping you’d help me now.”
She didn’t speak. I could see she was conflicted and I held my breath, too scared to say anything. The silence stretched out into what felt like an eternity.
Finally, Phumla opened her mouth with an answer. “No, I am sorry. I cannot help you.”
I couldn’t believe I’d failed Beauty once again.
Fifty-six
ROBIN
3 OCTOBER 1977
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
No one was in the parking lot when I came running out and I was relieved to find King George’s car unlocked. I slipped into the passenger side and closed the door behind me. He’d said the story about the giant rat was a lie to throw the cop off, but I wasn’t so sure. I pulled my legs up and rested my feet on the seat, cradling my backpack in my lap.
I let out a shaky breath, crushed with disappointment. I’d been so sure Phumla would help me and now I was at a loss for what to do. Without Phumla’s help, there was no way I could get a message to Nomsa. There was nothing for me to do but give up.
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