by Malla Nunn
“Get what, exactly?”
“Get out,” he says between clenched teeth. “Take your disgrace for a mother and leave.”
“No, I don’t think we will. We have a right to be here.”
“You are an embarrassment.” My great-uncle leans close, all the better to intimidate me with his bulky white richness. “You have no place here.”
My calm disappears. Mayme bore my mother and my mother bore me in an unbroken chain of female labor and pain. No man can break that hold.
“Catch up. Times have changed. In Nelson’s South Africa, we all belong. You better get used to it, because Annalisa and I are here to stay. With, or without, your permission.” I shake my head at the red color in Great-Uncle’s face. “And turn the heat down before you catch fire and burn the church down.”
“Listen here . . .”
The organ music swells, and Father Gibson, dressed in a white robe with a strip of bright purple fabric layered over the top, lifts both his hands in a gesture for us to rise. I hesitate, afraid of making a mistake in front of a church full of posh people who know when to sit and when to stand. Annalisa probably grew up going to this church with these cousins and agitated great-uncles while I am just a stranger from the township. I follow her lead, and Lewis, Lil Bit, and Goodness follow mine. Mrs. M, a regular churchgoer, is relaxed and at ease.
Father Gibson prays, and Annalisa grips my hand so tightly that my fingers go numb. I turn to the entrance and see the reason for her fierce hold. Six pallbearers in black suits walk through the church doors with a coffin balanced on their shoulders. The polished wooden casket is dressed in white flowers, and the gold handles shine in the low light.
“Oh, Mayme,” I whisper through tears. My heart hurts inside my chest. This is the final goodbye for a grandmother who passed through my life like a comet, bright and beautiful. I hate that she’s gone. Her dying has left a hole inside me that can’t ever be repaired, and I wonder if Neville has a hole inside him as well. Maybe, in our grief, we can find the grace to forgive and start again. He is my grandfather, and secretly, I hope for his redemption.
I sway on my feet. Lewis takes my right hand and Annalisa my left. The mourners bend their heads in quiet respect as the pallbearers move slowly down the aisle and rest the casket in front of the altar. Uncle Julien and Neville, both pale and drained, walk to the family pews. I don’t know the other pallbearers.
Neville stops dead when he sees Annalisa and me in the space reserved for family. Lewis tenses, ready to fight for my right to mourn in peace. Uncle Julien moves around Grandpa and holds his hand out to his youngest son. Harry joins him, and together, they join us in the rebel pew. Sam greets his father and brother with a smile, and we shuffle closer to make space for them.
Neville stands in front of the first pew, isolated and alone. I am sorry for him, but he has to be the one to ask for forgiveness for what he’s done. He must change his ways. Annalisa barely notices him. Her attention is on the coffin and the cascade of white roses that release a sweet perfume into the air. Father Gibson places a framed picture of Mayme on the casket. In the photo, Mayme wears a flowered silk dress and a double strand of pearls. She is every inch the great and good Mrs. Bollard, rich society matron and generous philanthropist. Then Father Gibson reaches into his robes and pulls out the beaded necklace that Annalisa found in the depths of her magic bag. He loops it around the base of the photograph. The earth colors and the vibrant Zulu patterns transform the untouchable Mrs. Bollard into Mayme, loved grandmother, passionate gardener, and late-blooming soccer fan.
I wipe away tears and focus on her. Neville is alive. He has time to fix what he broke. This is Mayme’s funeral. This is her time.
“Please, sit.” Father Gibson’s voice breaks on the words. Conducting this service is going to be hard for him. Neville sits next to Uncle Rupert. He is so close . . . Please, Jesus. Keep him away from us! I do not have the strength to deal with another insult from a nasty Bollard man. Rupert leans into his brother and says, “I tried to get them to leave, but that half-caste piece has a mouth on her . . . like so many of them do. She—”
Neville says, “Be quiet, Rupert. Amanda loved the girl.”
I stare at Neville, stunned. To his credit, he does not claim to love or even like me. He is being polite for Mayme’s sake. And while he didn’t exactly defend me, he didn’t use the words kaffir or township trash, either. A low bar to jump, but a small step in the right direction. It might take him a decade to call me granddaughter or Amandla, but I’m not going anywhere. I am part of the Bollard family now.
Neville, I notice, is sick-looking, like he’s lost a part of himself—because he has. Mayme’s passing has hit him hard. Perhaps harder than he imagined it would. He turns and pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He gives it to me.
“From your mayme,” he says.
“When did . . .”
“The night she died. Her time was running out, and it was you that she thought of. You and Annalisa.”
I take the envelope, and he turns to face the front. It’s strange that Mayme went back to the big white house after the bust-up at the office, but I understand. She raised Annalisa and Julien there. Planted trees and a garden. Lived the life of a perfect society wife behind the gates, before she found her own path. Neville does not deserve her grace, but I think he’s trying to earn it back.
Annalisa slumps against my shoulder and presses her face into the crook of my neck. Her tears soak the collar of my dress. I want to be strong for her, but my sadness makes me weak. We hold each other tightly and cry together. Tears are the only way to release the grief inside us.
Lewis sits close and quiet. He is a rock in the storm for me and for Goodness and Lil Bit: Mayme’s Sugar Town Queens who stared down “the Mamba” and gave Mayme the courage to stand up for herself. It’s a miracle that we are all here with Mrs. M, Uncle Julien, and the boys. Mrs. M pats Sam’s hand, and he leans his head against her shoulder for comfort. We are separate individuals joined together by our loss and our compassion for each other.
This, I think, is Ubuntu.
31
I sit in the shade of a Natal mahogany tree planted at the edge of the graveyard while the others go down to the hidden cove below the church grounds. The parking lot is empty now, the mourners are on their way to the wake at the big white house. Neville invited us, but first we have business to take care of.
I lean back against the tree trunk with Mayme’s letter in my hand. My name is written on the front of the envelope in dark ink, in Mayme’s familiar sloping hand. Her last words. For me. There will never be a perfect time to read what she’s written. I tear the envelope open and I begin:
Dearest Amandla,
Your mother says that you are named after me, but that’s not right. Your name means power in Zulu and Xhosa, and you already have more power than I ever did. The power to do things. To make change. Don’t settle for anything less than what’s in your dreams.
There is too much to say and not enough time to say it. Times like this, I like to make a list. Lists help me put my thoughts in order. They give the world shape. Through this letter and the will, I have tried to be brave in the last hour. Now. At last. Too bloody late for us, but not too late for you, Amandla. I’m at my end and you are at your beginning.
My list of hopes/wishes/dreams, in no particular order:
Forgive me.
Be the woman that I never was: strong, confident, and powerful.
Be kind to Neville if you can. Give him time. I know that he will come to love and appreciate you as I do.
Fall in love with whomever you want (no matter what color), and may that person be kind and generous and love you in return.
Visit me now and again. My favorite flowers are white roses.
I have left you two gifts. The first is h
alf my shares in the family company, which will come to you on your twenty-first birthday. Till then, you and Sam will learn the business from Julien and from the board of directors. I know you will use this gift for good.
The second and more important gift is a name: Poppy Malaba. Poppy is your other grandmother, and she lives north of Richards Bay. If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, but you have another family besides the Bollards. They are waiting to hear from you: Joseph’s daughter. His living legacy. His blood. Kiss your grandmother for me.
And one last thing. Thank you for taking care of Annalisa. You are the light of her eyes, and even now, with the dark shadow of death hanging over me, you are the light of mine. Forever and for all time.
With love and gratitude,
Mayme Amanda
* * *
* * *
The path to the cove below the church winds through tall grass and coastal scrub. Waves pound the shore, and gulls sweep across the water, skimming for fish. Clouds float on the horizon, white castles in the air. Two large boulders sit like giant marbles in the sand. More rocks rise out of the ocean, and the waves turn to foam as they try to get around them. Tears sting my eyes as I stumble onto the beach.
Father Gibson and Sam, who insisted on joining the Zulu cleansing ritual, collect twigs from the underbrush with wet hair and wet towels wrapped around their shoulders. Annalisa waves from the water. I kick off my shoes and shed my clothes down to my underwear. Mrs. M, also in her undies, runs onto shore, shivering.
“In you go, my girl,” she says. “Make sure that the water covers your whole body and also your head. That is the only way to wash away the past.”
I run across the sand and plunge under the foaming crest of a wave. The cold is a shock, and I surface with a scream. Annalisa swims over to me and rubs warmth into my arms and shoulders. “Come out when you’re ready,” she says, and swims hard for the shore, where Sam and Father Gibson have built a small fire to heat us up after the dip in the cool ocean.
Lewis surfaces next to me, and I turn to him like a flower turns to the sun. We tangle together with our limbs entwined and our bodies rising and falling with the surge of the ocean. We kiss, all salty and delicious, and he shivers, from the cold or from our closeness, I don’t have enough experience to tell which. Feeling bold, l lean forward and lick the groove of his dimples. Mmm. Nice. He shivers again, and this time, I know that my dimple licking is the cause. It’s hard to remember that we are here on serious business. I concentrate.
“Where are Lil Bit and Goodness?”
“Having a private moment behind that rock to our right,” he says. “I thought it was better to leave them to it.”
“About time they figured it out.” A wave pushes me against Lewis’s cold chest. “Go and get warm. I’ll be out soon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” I say, and kiss him again so that he understands that I am fully sure about being here with him on a wild beach below a graveyard. He kisses me back and swims to shore with slow, powerful strokes.
* * *
* * *
I breach the surface of a wave and blink the salt water from my eyes. The ocean stretches all the way to the horizon, but the current tugs me back toward the shore, where everyone now crowds around the fire to dry off. Father Gibson swam with us. He does not believe that the waves will magically wash away all the bad muti from the attack in the alley, but he does believe that the ocean is powerful enough to heal wounds.
I dive below the water. I imagine Jacob Caluza’s blood and my guilt dissolving off me and drifting out to sea. With the right wind and a high tide, the weight of both these burdens will float out beyond the breakers and into the open ocean. They might reach the island of Madagascar or travel up north as far as Somalia on the horn of Africa. And then, just disappear.
I flip onto my back and float on the surface. The water holds my weight, and the sunshine warms my face. I close my eyes and lie suspended between the ocean and the sky. I try to make a list of all the things I need to do to make sure that my future is a good one.
My mind refuses. There is only water and sand and the motion of the waves.
“Amandla!” Annalisa calls to me from the beach. “Come sit with us by the fire!”
I float for a moment, then I turn and swim toward shore.
To love and adventure.
To family and friends.
Turn the page for an excerpt of the Los Angeles Times Book Prize winner
1
Dying Days
It’s Thursday night, so we walk down Live Long Street to the public telephone booth at the intersection of three footpaths called Left Path, Right Path, and Center Path. My flashlight beam bounces the length of the dirt road and picks out uneven ground and potholes, of which there are many. Mrs. Button, who lives in the pink house behind the mechanic’s workshop, says that all streets should be paved like they are in England, but we’re not in England—we are in the British protectorate of Swaziland, fenced in on all sides by Mozambique and the Republic of South Africa—so what does she know?
“Pick up the pace,” Mother says in a fierce whisper. “We can’t be late.”
We hurry past cement-brick houses with cracks of light spilling from under locked front doors. Dogs bark in fenced yards. A curtain twitches, and a face peers at us through a space the width of a hand. The face belongs to Miriam Dube, the church minister’s wife, who makes it her duty to spy on our weekly pilgrimage to the public phone box. It’s dark, but I imagine that Mrs. Dube's expression is smug disapproval.
Mother holds her head high, like she is balancing the weight of an iron crown or suffering a garland of thorns. The neighbors are jealous, she says. Jealous gossips who frown on her high heels and her dresses straight from Johannesburg that show too much leg. They know we have carpet in the living room, she says. We also have Christmas bicycles with flashing chrome, in the backyard, and new Bata school shoes that still smell of the factory, under our beds.
They have concrete floors, and if they do have rugs, they are sure to be ugly when compared to the tufted field of purple flowers that blossom under our feet when we walk from the settee to the kitchen. That’s why they hate us. That’s why they don’t stop to give us a lift when they see us walking at the side of the road, weighed down with shopping bags. The Manzini market is three miles from our house, Mother says. Three miles across dry fields pocked with snake and scorpion holes. A dangerous walk. A Christian would see our suffering and pick us up. But our neighbors—who call themselves Christians and stuff the church pews every Sunday—they drive by and leave us in their dust.
The phone booth appears in my flashlight beam: a rectangle of silver metal cemented into the red earth. Right Path, Left Path, and Center Path split off and disappear into vacant land covered in weeds. Bored children and drunks have left their initials and their boot prints on the glass walls, but, by some miracle, the interior light still gives off a dim glow, which attracts a circling cloud of white moths.
Mother feeds four silver coins into the change slot and dials a number. Her hands shake, and her breath comes short from walking the uneven road in high heels. As a rule, she never leaves our house in flat sandals or, Lord save us, the loose cotton slippers worn by women who value comfort over fashion sense. The coins drop, and she shapes her mouth into a smile.
“It’s me,” she says in a throaty voice that she reserves for the telephone.
The voice on the other end says something that makes her laugh, and she flashes me a triumphant glare. You see? her look says. I call every Thursday night to talk about what’s happening with you, me, and your brother, Rian, and he answers just like that . . .
Mother wants me to know that, no matter what names the church ladies call her, her relationship with him is special. She has a good man she can rely on, and how many “loose women” and “tr
amps” can say the same thing? Zero. That’s how many. Mother, I think, wants me to be proud of our weekly walk to the phone box.
I pick a twitching moth from my hair and blow it into the air. Its wings leave a fine white powder on my fingertips, and I brush it off onto the front of my skirt while Mother talks low and soft into the receiver.
“Of course. Adele is right here.” She snaps her fingers to get my attention. “She’s dying to talk to you.”
I take the receiver from her and say, “Hello. . . . I’m fine. How are you?”
The voice tells me that he’s tired but it’s good to hear my voice and Mother’s. Did the rest of the Christmas holidays go well? Am I ready for my second-to-last year of high school, and, good heavens, where does the time go? He pays the fees, so I tell him, “Yes, yes, I can’t wait to go back to Keziah Christian Academy.” It’s January 21, three days before the term starts, but my bags are already packed. “It will be good to see my friends again.” Phone time is precious. I can’t waste a second of it by mentioning the bad food or the sharp edge of Mr. Newman’s ruler that raps against my knuckles when I get a wrong answer or look at the mountains through the classroom window for too long. Mother says: Have some pride, girl. Nobody wants to hear your problems. Nurse your sorrows in private like the rest of us. She double-snaps her fingers to let me know that my time is up.
“See you soon, I hope.” I surrender the receiver and step away to give her privacy. A cloud of moths beats a white circle around the phone box while others lie on the ground with broken wings.
I pull a strand of wild grass from the side of the road and chew the sweet end while Mother whispers promises into the telephone. Her right hip and shoulder press against the glass, and in that moment, surrounded by fields of rustling weeds and the low night sky, she seems small and completely alone. Just her and the moths dancing together in the pale light while darkness swallows everything around them.
