This was Julia who had been Sipho’s mother’s employer for fifteen years, and there had long been bitter rivalry between the two for Sipho’s affections. Julia had spoken to him in English, excluding his mother from their conversations, but now that maMdletshe was on home ground, she was determined to have her say. “You tried to steal my son by turning him against me, filling his head with your eccentricities, but you failed, Julia. You failed, and Sipho, my son, took his name back and came back to me.”
Julia had nurtured Sipho academically, paying for his university education, so she felt some claim on his memory. “I saw that he had talent and all I wanted to do was help the boy to fulfill his dreams. The school here in the village taught him the rudiments, Harriet, but after he passed Matric somebody had to help him. You are the one who walked off in a huff. I was the one who insisted that he visited you. What do you want from me?”
“Do you know that you nearly made me lose my mind when you tried to take him overseas with you? Why would you want to steal my child?” maMdletshe demanded.
“But I didn’t! I paid his tuition and I left because I couldn’t stand this country and all its bullshit,” Julia snapped.
Now it was Sipho’s mother’s turn to cackle. “But you came back, didn’t you? There is no place like home, Julia. You missed us over there where they say there is no sun for months or maids to clean your toilets. You must have been miserable.”
Julia let out an exasperated breath, flounced around, and with a flip of her hands, instructed the men to take the coffin out. They obeyed immediately, as they were used to doing with Madams.
“Danny had a free spirit, Harriet, he belonged to no one,” Julia said, and then dissolved into a mess of tears.
Sipho’s mother softened, took Lady Julia’s hand, and led her to the coffin, where they stood silently together for a moment.
And then music began. But it wasn’t a sad funeral melody. It was the voices of the maidens that Sipho loved.
The mourners from another funeral, burying someone next to Sipho’s tomb, were Zionists and they had drums with them. When they heard the maidens singing, they joined in and beat their drums, as a taxi passed by with a song of Mfaz’ Omnyama blasting out, and Sipho’s party broke out clapping, singing and jigging.
Mvelo looked at her mother and saw satisfaction; Zola’s prayer had been answered, there was a celebratory funeral for her Sipho. Then Mvelo looked at the old, white lady who had stood up to Sipho’s mother and she decided that she liked her. This Lady Julia was spoiled, and expected the world to serve her, but it had taken guts for her to come here today.
The thing that nobody knew was the real bond that existed between her and Sipho. She was the one who had introduced him to forbidden fruit. She had snuck up on him in the shower one day, and what followed had turned him into the confident man who had made it a lifetime’s pursuit to make women swoon.
When his mother decided to stop working for Julia, he had disobeyed her for the first time by refusing to come home with her. It had broken her heart, and was tough on Sipho, but he wanted the luxuries that came with living in a city. The thought of moving back to the rural areas was too much for him. He had dug in his heels, and promised to visit his mother.
Now, as the funeral party prepared to move back to the hospice, to continue reminiscing about Sipho with those who had been too sick to attend, Julia made her final exit from his life. The shining lights on her Mercedes faded away as she was driven back to her mansion in Kloof.
That night Mvelo listened to her mother reminiscing about Sipho with Dora, their neighbor, outside their shack after the funeral. Zola liked sitting outside in the moonlight on summer evenings. She unwrapped the silver foil covering the muffins they had taken from the funeral for supper, and gave one to Dora. She didn’t take one for herself. This was the way they were able to save for the next meal, by skipping one if they didn’t feel too hungry. She called out to Mvelo to take the rest inside. “It’s bedtime, Mvelo. You had better get some sleep. I’ll be out here with Dora.”
Mvelo heard her mother tell Dora that even with all the women who had come to the funeral, Sipho was not some mythical saint of a man. “Lady Charmer, yes, he made the panties drop, but saintly, far from it,” she chuckled sadly. “I loved Sipho since I was a teenager, but I am a grown woman now and, as much as I worshipped him then, as his other women did, he was a fallible man with many faults, some of which had fatal consequences. His charm left many women hovering on the thin line between love and hate for him. Isn’t it just the way, that the ones we love most can hurt us the most.
“He had that skill of reading women and taking on the role that he thought would appeal to each one. He was a provider and protector to me, to my daughter he was a father, and with Nonceba, he was hopelessly in love and very vulnerable. He had a never-ending need to be loved. Like all his women, I wasn’t immune. I was devoted to him, but I wasn’t blinded. I sensed his sadness. All that love at his disposal, yet no one really knew him. He used to say, with each new woman he felt like a virgin again because he was encountering new curves, new scents, and new movements.”
Zola and Dora laughed softly like girls exchanging secrets.
“He was not the best looking man. It was his presence that left women confused and helpless.” Zola seemed to be struggling to find the right words to explain her lover. “When his friends asked, he always said, ‘The woman who turned me into a man was not a fumbling, blushing girl. I was a fumbling boy and she was worldly, like old wine.’ His eyes would shine as the guys hung on to every word. Then he would take a swig of his whiskey. ‘Women are mysterious creatures,’ he would say, ‘with subtleties that you have to study closely. My first taught me how to treat a lady until she is butter in my warm hands. I don’t make them scream, with me they roar like beautiful, powerful cats of the jungle. Some cry their eyes out and speak in tongues because it becomes a religious experience for them.’ Then he would laugh like a cat himself that had got all the cream.”
This talk of sex horrified Mvelo. It was a side of her mother that she knew nothing about. She felt guilty for eavesdropping, but remained glued to the spot. From the crack in the doorway, she could see Zola. She looked down as she spoke to Dora, who mostly offered no comments but simply smiled and nodded, as if to say, “Yes, I know what you mean.” Mvelo was happy that her mother had someone adult to speak to. Dora was a picture of compassion.
She watched her mother smooth her black skirt with her hands. After a long, thoughtful silence, she said, “You know, Sipho was terrified to just be himself. He never trusted any of his women to love him regardless. It was only on his sickbed that he tried to let go of his masks, but even then it was only to me and my daughter.” Mvelo had never heard her mother be so personal with anyone before. Then Zola told Dora about how Sipho had asked her to finish him off if he ever got to the point of losing his bearings.
A few days before he died, he had grabbed her arm and held on. His strength surprised her. “When I start shitting myself and I can’t talk, or recognize you, you have to do something for me. Let me rest, let me go. Use a pillow, a knife, or anything that will put me out of this misery. I have caused you so much pain. I don’t deserve your kindness. But if you have ever loved me, I ask this of you, do not let me live another minute when I become the living dead,” he whispered, his eyes looking into hers, feverish and determined, willing her to say yes.
Zola recoiled in shock, every ounce of her body rejecting this curse of a dying man’s wish. But looking into his eyes, she knew she had to lie and say yes. Her response brought a smile to his face. “That’s my girl,” he said, squeezing her hand. She smiled back with tears in her eyes, and it was sealed.
She sat there feeling close to him again, like in the old days. He seemed free and relieved. Then he began to get better and hope was resuscitated in them. But life is cruel like that, like caressing the chicken before twisting its neck.
Zola said his death was like being riddl
ed with bullets by a firing squad. “I think I temporarily lost my mind, my heart was ripped out of me.” Tears didn’t come for her now, but her inner cries were audible to Dora’s sympathetic ear.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After Johan had sunk further and further into depression and taken a near-fatal overdose of prescription drugs, Petra surprised him one day and announced in her business-like way that she was going to begin a search for his child. “We have to find her,” she said. “I can see that it is killing you and I don’t want to lose you.”
Johan fell in love with his wife that day, after all the years of their empty marriage, and the two of them became a team in the hunt for his daughter.
They had tried to find Nonceba for some years now but it had proved fruitless. All he knew was that Zimkitha had a surname that meant bush or forest when translated into English. He also knew that she came from the coast, but he was not sure which coast, east or west.
On a hunch, they moved to Durban, partly hoping to find a lead pointing to Nonceba, and partly to help with the scourge of HIV-AIDS that was ravaging KwaZulu-Natal. They moved into a modest house in Manor Gardens and worked with youth encouraging them to choose responsible lifestyles. Unlike their neighbors, their home was unfenced, and left to fate should the tsotsis pay them a visit.
Johan was a different man after coming out of his dark depression. The thing that he was most afraid of, being rejected by his family, had already happened and he had survived it. In fact, he had been liberated by it. He was no longer confined by his father’s inflexible teaching, no longer searching for his father’s approval. He felt free, with a new surge of purpose, and so he and Petra threw their energies into helping to build a new South Africa.
Although they had by now stopped actively looking for the young woman whose name they didn’t know, they both still hoped that fate would bring them together.
Petra’s longing for a child of her own remained a throbbing wound that could never heal. For a while it had got her down and made her depressed, especially when nature decided to shut down her monthly reassurances that it was still a possibility. The finality of it cut through her hopes and broke her heart. Their plans of adopting remained talk. It never came to fruition because they were so busy. Johan, on the other hand, still hoped that one day he would meet his own flesh and blood. He kept looking at young women in their thirties, hoping to see the fierce eyes of Zimkitha looking back at him.
Petra threw herself into helping young women with bigger problems than her own, and this took the focus away from her private pain. The Bible remained her source of comfort.
They spent most of their days in the neighboring shacks doing home visits for those too sick to get to hospitals. They learned about the dignity and resourcefulness of the shack dwellers. Unattractive as their shacks were on the outside, the interiors showed incredible innovation and survival skills. The walls were beautifully covered with decorative wallpaper made from magazines and gift wrap. Almost all had TV sets, some running on vehicle batteries. The shacks that were situated closer to the suburbs often had illegal electrical wires connecting them to the city’s electricity grid.
Petra was constantly amazed by how shack dwellers made a plan and lived their lives to the full. On weekends, radios were on full blast, with people dancing, swaying their hips this way and that to the music. If one of them surrendered to death, the community got together and offered assistance where they could bury one of their own with dignity.
But there were some things that did not make sense to her. The fights that broke out during the drinking sessions, the constant incidents of children losing their innocence through brutal rape, and the growing number of children left to fend for themselves.
The two of them would come back from their visits feeling exhausted, silent during their drive home, with each of them focused on their own thoughts about the day. Sometimes it would be a feeling of helplessness at the chaos of human lives engaged in surviving anew every day; at other times they were filled with hope at having witnessed a patient recovering from their deathbed. It was an emotional roller coaster. Petra focused on fundraising from international NGOs and churches. When Johan was not at the shacks, he was studying new research on HIV-AIDS. He trained young volunteers on caregiving, and treated ailments ranging from mouth sores to tuberculosis.
Petra wrote deeply personal and earnest letters to the donors. It was this approach that kept their work fully funded. She liked to use the story about saving millions of starfish, vomited up by the sea, one by one. She would say that she was aware that it was impossible to save all of them, but the ones they managed to throw back gave her the strength to wake up and do it again the next day. For her, it was enough that she made a difference to somebody’s life. On difficult days, Johan felt his source of strength came from this incredible woman.
It was on one of these long, hard days that they arrived home to be confronted by a screaming baby wrapped in a blanket on their doorstep. They looked at each other with shock and disbelief. Petra picked up the screaming infant, placed it against her chest, and hushed it. Johan stood rooted in front of the door, trying to think of the next step. The baby quieted, and Petra became quiet along with her.
“You shall be with child,” she said softly.
“What?” Johan asked.
“And the Lord said, ‘You shall be with child.’ Remember that story of Abraham and Sarah, they were old and well advanced in years. The Lord appeared to them and said—”
“Oh no no no, Petra, we can’t. We are too old and too busy to raise a child. Please, tomorrow morning we’re going to the police. We don’t even know if this child is sick, or God knows what.” Johan was panicking when he saw the look on her face. “Maybe the mother was drunk and she will come back sober tomorrow,” he said. But he saw complete determination in Petra’s eyes. She was going to fight him on this.
They used the fortified milk formula that they kept for the positive new moms who couldn’t breastfeed. The baby suckled energetically like a thirsty new calf, and fell asleep contentedly. All of the dormant maternal instincts in Petra were unleashed. She was completely and utterly taken by this new miracle of life they had found. She didn’t hear any of Johan’s protests. In her excitement, she didn’t even want to go to the police. If it had been in her power, she would have kept the baby without dealing with any of the legal red tape.
Johan managed to convince and pacify her by arguing that they could keep the baby only after reporting the matter to the police and applying for legal guardianship, should no one come to claim her. He did not think that social welfare would let them keep the baby.
The following day, the police came to the house to take a statement. They said, with authority, that legally the baby should be given to social welfare “until we get to the bottom of this.” Everyone knew it would take ages to get to the bottom of anything.
Petra’s voice was cracking as if she was about to cry. “All I’m saying is that we have a loving home right here and I can look after the child myself while you ‘get to the bottom’ of whatever it is you think you will find.”
The police left and said they would come back with social welfare to take the baby. They seemed defeated by the lady’s determination. She was fiercely protective of the baby. Johan couldn’t stand to see Petra distressed and still had a particular dislike for the police. He asked the policeman if he had children, and the man said yes. “Well, Officer, we have never had children, even though we wanted to for a long time. So can you see what this is doing to my wife?”
The policeman was baffled by this couple fighting for a black baby. “Bloody bleeding heart liberals,” he mumbled as he got into the car.
A curious neighbor called out, “Is everything all right there, Petra?”
Petra gushed out the whole story of the miracle found on her doorstep. “Can you tell me, what is the word for being found in isiZulu?”
“Tholakele, the word is Tholakele,” said the neighbor,
who was still in her pajamas, and was now standing in their yard cooing over the baby. “She is so adorable,” she said.
Johan had lost the fight, and the idea of being a father was growing in him as well. They stood there cooing, filled with anxiety, anticipating the arrival of the social welfare people. Meanwhile the baby slept peacefully. “You have been found,” Petra whispered to the baby, “and I shall name you Princess Tholakele.” She looked back at Johan who was peering over her shoulder. He nodded, and it was sealed.
They drew strength from each other and geared themselves up for the fight of their lives with social welfare. The knock on their door sent cold shivers down their spines. They opened it, only to be relieved that it was Mbali, the social worker who served the same area of the shacks where they did their home visits. She was a sweet lady, with an unhurried, calm determination in her work with the children at the shacks.
Petra and Johan were comforted that she was handling their case. She told them that adoption would be a lengthy process that would start once the police had conducted a thorough investigation to find whoever had abandoned the baby. Meanwhile, they needed to convince social welfare to allow them to keep the child in their care. Their community involvement and Johan’s medical background would stand them in good stead. Their age, both in their late fifties, and the fact that they were of a different race and cultural background to the child could be a problem, though. They hadn’t thought about these things.
“Yes, the child is black,” Petra argued, “but how do you determine her cultural background? She’s probably not more than five days old. She could be Zulu, Xhosa, Congolese or anything. I would like them to tell me how they determine her cultural background!”
Mbali calmed her down, reminding her that she was on their side. “I’m in your corner. You know that I will do my best for you, but right now I’m advising you that if you want to fight to win, you’d better get yourself a good lawyer.”
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