The boys blurted out the shocking news of the accident and pandemonium followed. Mr. Zondo took the wheel and stepped on the petrol as Pearl held Zola on the back seat. They were forced to stop and deliver the baby in the car because Zola could not wait. She had heard what the boys had said and her body wanted the baby out.
He was gone. Her life support was gone. Now it was just her and this baby.
Pearl and Mr. Zondo decided to take the young mother and baby to the Pinetown Clinic. When they got there, they were sent to the maternity ward of the King Edward Hospital. She had bled badly.
The news that Zola had given birth came as no surprise to maSosibo. She was relieved, and secretly excited. Of course she pretended to be just as surprised as her husband was when he turned to stone. All he said was, “I have no daughter. She and her bastard are not welcome in this house. She has brought us nothing but shame.”
His words left maSosibo with no strength to argue. The next day she sneaked out to go and see Zola at the hospital while her husband was at work. Zola was grieving the death of Sporo and preoccupied with the baby. Like her father, she had turned to stone. She was silent while a million thoughts were racing through her mind about her next plan.
The sight of her mother did not frighten her. She simply showed her the baby but did not speak, except to say that she would move in with her Aunt Skwiza in Mkhumbane. Her mother protested mildly, but she knew it was the only option.
Zola apologized to her mother for shaming her, and asked her please to relay the message to her father. They held each other and cried, before maSosibo kissed her new granddaughter and left.
Zola remembered that Sporo had said if the baby was a girl, she should be named Nomvelo, “as beautiful as you.” His words came back to haunt her. When Zola went to register the baby, she wrote down her name as Nomvelo Zulu, and the address of Skwiza’s shebeen.
On discharge day, she rolled the baby into the blanket that her mother had given her and headed to Mkhumbane for a new life in the shebeen with Aunt Skwiza, who welcomed Zola and Mvelo with open arms.
Nothing was for free with Skwiza. Zola had to work for her keep. She helped with fermenting the pineapple and bread for the homebrewed alcohol, she cleaned the house, and did whatever else Skwiza asked her to do. But as much as she worked Zola, Skwiza made sure that she and the baby were taken good care of. Secretly, Skwiza was grateful to have the chance of living with real family, with blood ties.
In Mkhumbane, Zola closed the chapter on her youth. She did not attend Sporo’s funeral.
Occasionally she heard from her mother, who had been forbidden to keep in contact with her. Zola didn’t attempt to go back to school or contact Sporo’s family. She simply concentrated on her baby and working in the shebeen.
She was not one to pay any attention to men. Sporo had been special. The men in the shebeen did not interest her. Their addiction to alcohol seemed weak to her. She watched them from a distance and they seemed to sense that she was not someone to try their luck with. She was cold and indifferent to their antics.
Mvelo grew in the midst of the chaos of the shebeen. She was four years old when people headed for the ballot box to vote for the first time. There was a lot of jubilation and music all around her. She clapped her little hands and danced along with everyone.
She was a delightful toddler who was spoiled by Skwiza and the patrons, who offered her treats to get Zola’s affections. Mvelo simply called her “Skwiza,” like everybody else, when really she should have been calling her Gogo. But Skwiza would have been mortified. Aging was something that repulsed her. “It smells of death,” she said. So everyone just called her Skwiza.
In the middle of all this jubilation, one day the phone rang and Skwiza fell on her knees, crying out to God. Zola’s parents were dead. Her father was accused of supporting the wrong political party and a vigilante youth group poured petrol in their house and set it alight with them inside. “My sister is gone, Zola, she’s gone. Oh God.” Skwiza folded herself into the fetal position and howled. She frightened little Mvelo who had never seen her like this.
Zola remained dry-eyed and went numb inside. The church dominated the funeral and the burial. They did not acknowledge Zola and the baby in case she got any ideas about claiming an inheritance. Her father had bequeathed his pension and savings that should have been for her higher education to the church as sole beneficiary. She did not contest it and discouraged Skwiza from doing so as well. The turn of events brought Skwiza and Zola closer than before. Zola and Mvelo were the only two remaining blood relatives that Skwiza knew of.
Business was booming at Skwiza’s shebeen. While the black middle-class emerged and headed for the suburbs, on weekends they sojourned at Skwiza’s for beers, meat, and township flavor.
In this exodus from townships to suburbs, a lawyer called Sipho Mdletshe stayed put. He was Skwiza’s favorite customer because he not only bought his own drinks but he also bought rounds for others who clung to him like bees to honey.
Skwiza was proud of him because he was acquainted with highly respected leaders in society, but his friends were the customers at her Mkhumbane shebeen. This was a calculated self-protective measure on his part. He became close to those who were socially beneath him because they couldn’t hurt him. Instead they looked up to him.
While his colleagues headed towards upmarket Mount Edgecombe and Umhlanga in their fancy Hummers and Z3s, he would go in his humble yellow Getz from his fancy office with its view of the Durban harbor to his modest house in Mkhumbane.
His colleagues referred to his township as Cato Manor, but he reminded them that George Christopher Cato was some bugger born in England, probably a misfit in his own country, who then came to take his chances in the land of the naïve natives. They were so gullible that they allowed some of their land to be named after him, calling it his manor. “The audacity of these colonists is mind-boggling,” Sipho would say, stating that he was perfectly happy with Mkhumbane, a vibrant old community named after a little stream that ran through the historic township, and making it clear that the subject was now closed.
He would go to the shebeen every evening with umngenandlini, presents for little Mvelo and for Zola. Mostly chocolates for Mvelo, which he sometimes gave her secretly because Zola did not approve of too many sweets, and Zola got fruit and biscuits called Oreos. His gifts did come with expectations of affection from Zola, and Mvelo latched on to him. She called him babayi, claiming him as her dad.
He had an easy manner that reminded Zola of Sporo but she fought these feelings as best as she could. He was a known ladies man, a womanizer, and he didn’t hide the fact. He was tall, but he loved all kinds of women, tall and short, fat and thin, young and old, black and white, they came to him in their numbers. This made it easy for Zola to dismiss him, because she was not interested in sharing him.
Sipho was trying to use a nonchalant exterior to hook Zola, but he was beginning to think it wouldn’t work. This was new to him, feeling so helpless with the rock that this woman seemed to be. He had tried to persuade her with gifts, by loving her daughter, and even ignoring her. But none of it seemed to work.
At first he felt very sad for her because she looked haunted by something that had hurt her so badly that she had stopped living. He watched her working at Skwiza’s, clearing tables in her distant way, as if she were alone in the middle of the rowdy crowd. He noticed her toned muscles from lifting the beer crates.
“Forget about it, my bra, this one is for the angels,” said his drunkard of a brother. “She must have been hurt real bad. She is out of circulation, not for sale, unlike your gold diggers who are with you for your money.”
Sipho laughed at him and said everybody wanted to be loved.
“Oh, rest assured, she will be loved.” He paused meaningfully. “By me,” he announced. And they both laughed raucously and continued to drink.
On the stroke of midnight, when 1994 closed with renewed hope, Zola drank a bottle of cider an
d felt light in the head. She was swept up in the spirit of celebrating the new democracy and wanted to close the chapter that had been so painful for her. The new year held promise, as she watched her four-year-old daughter grow to be a sassy little princess with the easy attitude of her late father. Zola felt proud that she had at least accomplished this in her twenty years of life.
In her tipsy state, she laughed and danced around with Mvelo. Sipho could not believe his eyes. He knew that if ever there was a chance for him, it was now. He cut in and offered his hand to Zola, pleading with his eyes. Mvelo gave her mother a shove that made her fall forward into Sipho’s arms. The music slowed and Sipho took his cue. His drunken brother looked on with his mouth hanging open in disbelief and envy.
And in that moment, those four years of flirting culminated into a relationship between Sipho and Zola. But it was with a strict condition from Zola. “I will not share you with anyone. If that is a problem for you, speak now and let’s go our separate ways.”
Sipho was silent. He was so enjoying the moment that he did not want to deal with this “all or nothing” stand. A few tense, silent moments passed before he responded. “All I know for sure is that I don’t want to lose you. I will do my best to be faithful to you, but if I am unable to keep my promise, I will be honest with you.” As he said these words, he felt something tighten around his neck.
When he told his friends about how this girl was different from any other girl he’d dated, how he was both miserable and indescribably happy, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her and her sweet little daughter, they all said the same thing: “Perhaps for the first time in your thirty-six years, you are in love.” Then he felt even more panic-stricken. He was distracted and couldn’t work or concentrate for long without recalling Zola’s dry and clever jokes.
One day he went to the shebeen and asked Skwiza for her blessing to have Zola and Mvelo move in with him. She gave him a hug and laughed. To her, Zola couldn’t have chosen a better man. Besides the obvious benefit of having Sipho the lawyer as her son-in-law if it led to marriage, she really wanted Zola to find happiness. Love had already transformed her into a quietly blossoming flower. Sipho had brought a small, happy song to Zola’s lips. Anyone with an ear for music could hear there was talent lying dormant in her. Until now, Mvelo was the only one who had cracked her open with a love that couldn’t remain indifferent.
When Sipho proposed to Zola that she and Mvelo should come home, Zola looked confused. “But we are home,” she said.
“No, I mean you should come home with me. You and Mvelo belong with me. Please say you will move in with me.”
She was resistant. “I don’t think that Aunt Skwiza would—”
“I have already asked her blessing,” he assured Zola, “and she said yes. Please say yes, you belong with me.”
And so Zola agreed, but first she had to speak to Mvelo.
Again Sipho was one step ahead of her. He had asked what the little princess thought of the arrangement, and she had answered him by jumping up and down.
So they moved into his house not far from the shebeen, and those were good times for Zola. Remembering what it was like to have a family, she threw herself into creating a home for Mvelo and Sipho.
It was a long time before Sipho plucked up the courage to take her to visit his overbearing and possessive mother in the rural area of eMpendle. At the back of his mind, he knew it was a bad idea, but Zola wanted it and he wanted to make her happy. Since the loss of her own family, she had begun to crave a sense of belonging. She missed her mother and thought perhaps Sipho’s mother could fill that void in time. “Am I not good enough to meet your family?” she had asked him when Sipho once more evaded the issue. He finally gave in, and they packed their bags for the weekend and headed to the homestead.
At the sight of Mvelo, who he explained was Zola’s child, it was over before it started. Sipho’s mother looked straight through Zola, and resisted the charms of little Mvelo. She called her son aside and gave him a tongue-lashing. “How long are you going to keep bringing these unsuitable girls into your father’s house? This girl has no meat on her bones. Look at her, she is all muscles like a man. Her behind is an ironing board. Not to mention her having a child with some other man. She is second-hand, Sipho, iskeni. You are better than that.”
Sipho steeled himself and took it, not knowing that Zola had overheard.
Zola repacked the bags and asked to be driven back immediately. “I heard everything, Sipho. I am sorry that I insisted to come. I was wrong. I will spare her the pain of pretending.” She was surprised by how much it hurt to be rejected by this woman whom she had never met. The next time she would see Sipho’s mother would be years later, under very different circumstances.
The drive home was very subdued. Tears were dangerously close to spilling down Zola’s cheeks. Sipho drove with one hand and held her hand with the other.
Mvelo sat very quietly at the back. She knew something was wrong.
Just as what begins as a small pimple can end up as a festering sore, cracks began to show in their happy home. Sipho began to work long hours, sneaking back home in the middle of the night. When he was there, dinners were tense and no longer filled with laughter and stories from the day at the office. Like a turtle, Zola retreated back into her shell and became her old sad self again.
Mvelo tried hard to keep her family entertained, but it didn’t work. The house was cold and she became angry, mostly at her mother. “Why can’t she just be happy?” she would ask herself.
Zola’s sadness was infectious. It seeped into everything and repelled Sipho to stay at the office or the shebeen.
Zola sensed she was losing him. She felt angry at him for not standing up for her with his mother and at herself for failing to keep him interested in her. A wave of panic came over her each time she thought of the future without Sipho. She fought hard to fight back the tears when she looked at Mvelo. What would become of this child? She knew she could not stay with Sipho if he began sleeping around with other women. The talk of the deadly HIV-AIDS sent shivers down her spine. She swore to herself that she would not contract the disease and leave Mvelo alone.
But she was her own worst enemy and, hard as Sipho tried to keep the family together, she pushed him further away. She worried and panicked that he was not being honest with her and she would contract the disease, so she rejected his advances. She demanded tests and insisted on condoms. Rules tightened the noose around Sipho’s neck, until one day he woke up choking and could no longer remember why he was with this woman. He didn’t know how to tell her, and his bond with Mvelo made it harder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sipho loved Zola. He had been with her alone for six whole years. But it had got too tricky for him. Women loved him and he loved women. “It is just unnatural for me,” he told Zola.
She tried to turn a blind eye until he came home one day with a party of visiting American lawyers from work. Among them was a woman who was very beautiful. They had dinner at Sipho’s house and then they went off to the shebeen, for a “township experience.” At dinner it was clear to Zola that his charm had won her over.
Unlike most African-Americans, Nonceba Hlathi was umXhosa who went to live in the States with her African-American grandmother, Mae. Her name came as a surprise to the locals. She looked so exotic, they expected her to have an English name. But she was forceful about her heritage and identity. She made it known by constantly engaging Sipho in her mother tongue. The Americans were fascinated and broke into fits of giggles at the click sounds. She and Sipho enjoyed showing off the language to the other guests.
Nonceba’s skin had a golden tone and glowed as if the sun was shining on her. Her cheekbones were chiseled, and she had sharp eyes that did not miss anything. She wore her hair in braids. Sipho was as charmed by her as she was by him. Their shameless banter made the others look at each other with surprise. They had never seen Nonceba flirting. They called her the ice queen behind her back.
Seeing her softening like this amazed them, and Sipho intrigued them because of it.
But Nonceba was unaware of the misery she was causing Zola. Sipho had not been honest about the nature of his relationship with Zola. He remained vague, saying she was a close friend in need and that he was looking after her and her daughter. The way he said it, it sounded to Nonceba as if Zola was a live-in helper whom he was assisting to get back on her feet. It didn’t help that Zola remained distant and cold towards Sipho in their presence. She retreated to her room and ate her dinner alone while the lively conversation went on at the dinner table.
Zola was a natural beauty, but contrasted against this woman, she did not see the light of day. She knew it and, after serving dinner and holding pretentious small talk, fearful Zola excused herself and went to bed.
She could hear the sounds of laughter and intelligent conversation going on, until Sipho moved the party to Skwiza’s. Skwiza was thrilled to have visitors from America.
This was the loneliest night for Zola since she had come to live with Sipho, because she knew it was the anticipated end of the dream, and she cried herself to sleep. Mvelo couldn’t sleep either, but for a different reason. She couldn’t stop thinking of the beautiful woman from America, and she vowed that one day she would be as beautiful as her.
At ten years old, Mvelo had little understanding about matters of the heart. While her mother was devastated, she wasn’t, because she knew without a doubt that Sipho loved them.
The millennium was looming with a new chapter for Zola. When they broke up, Sipho had sat both Zola and Mvelo down. It was a solemn and tense moment. He was emotional. He apologized for failing to keep his promise. And then he openly declared a different kind of love he now felt for Nonceba. He stressed that nothing would stop him from being a father to Mvelo, and how much he still loved them both, but Nonceba was somebody that he did not want to lose.
We Kiss Them With Rain Page 4