* * *
Soon after I turned fifteen, my dream of becoming a lawyer received an unexpected boost at school. I remember it well: it was a sunny spring morning in September. A lawyer all the way from Johannesburg, a certain Mr Bongani, had come to school to speak to us about our country’s constitution, and especially about youth rights in South Africa. Mr Khumalo had invited Mr Bongani to our school.
When Mr Bongani had finished his speech, he opened the floor for questions. My hand shot up.
“Please, sir, can you tell us a bit more about your career as a lawyer?”
Mr Bongani explained how tough the law courses at university were and how committed one had to be to see them through. He went on to say how rewarding it was to be a lawyer, how a legal practice could be a platform from which one could help others and also make great changes in society.
“Being a qualified lawyer empowers one to change lives,” Mr Bongani said. “There are many people in our country who do not have a voice. They are afraid to speak out and claim their human rights. Lawyers can make a huge difference to their lives. Let me add, though, that many lawyers are not ethical; they are more interested in money than people. I prefer to speak about lawyers who work with integrity, honesty and compassion.”
While he was speaking, Mr Khumalo, who was sitting on the stage facing us, caught my eye. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. I knew that smile of encouragement well; it always made me feel that he really took me seriously.
Maybe you also know what it is like when an adult you like and respect really, really believes in you? That warm feeling which lifts you up and gives you hope and a reason to pursue your dreams? That is how I felt in that moment. Like the sparkling sunlight which streamed through the windows of the school hall, Mr Khumalo’s acknowledgement flooded my whole body with a bright, warm, happy feeling.
Everything the lawyer said was music to my ears. Some learners yawned and one or two nodded off, but I was fired up. I had so much energy that I could have run a marathon, and won.
When the speech was over, Mr Khumalo called me aside and introduced me to Mr Bongani.
“Nandi is a promising student. She works hard and she’s determined to study law one day. She is one of our best debaters also,” Mr Khumalo enthused.
Mr Bongani, with a sincere expression in his eyes, said, “Our country needs good lawyers, and we need women in law. Keep your dream alive, Nandi. You sound like an ideal candidate for this career.” He gave me a tap of encouragement on my shoulder.
He turned to Mr Khumalo. “My son’s school in Johannesburg is planning a debating competition for high schools in February next year. I’ll be an adjudicator. We want to include learners from far and wide, and we would love to invite your school. Why don’t I help you arrange for Nandi to take part? In fact, your school could send your two top debaters.”
“Brilliant idea!” Mr Khumalo replied, beaming. “Nandi and her best friend, Maryke, are our top debaters. How does a visit to Johannesburg sound, Nandi?”
I almost jumped out of my skin with excitement. “Are you serious, sir?” I asked.
“Take it as done. And tell Maryke,” said Mr Khumalo, taking hold of Mr Bongani’s arm and heading off to the staffroom, loudly discussing the details of the debating competition.
I was good at debating. Mr Khumalo always said that all good debaters had one thing in common: they read a lot. And that is exactly what I did. I was a regular in the school library and I loved curling up on my bed, my nose in a book.
“Knowledge creates confidence,” was one of Mr Khumalo’s favourite expressions. And whenever I stood on stage, facing the audience, I felt as if the world was at my feet. And words came easily to me. My mother had been right – I was born talking.
I ran off to find Maryke to tell her about our good fortune. Being who she is, she immediately burst out with, “Boys! It’ll be raining boys!”
I laughed and hugged my friend. I was also excited about the boys we would meet, but I was even more excited about going to Johannesburg. Unlike Maryke, I had never been to the City of Gold. I had been as far as Middelburg once, for a debating competition, but never to Johannesburg. For me it was as good as going overseas, to New York or London. And Johannesburg was where the University of the Witwatersrand was.
Mpumalanga was home, but Johannesburg was my City of Dreams.
3
My bag was packed at least a week before we were due to leave for the competition the next February. Dr Malan offered to fetch me in KaNyamazane and then take us girls to the bus stop in town. From there we would travel to Johannesburg.
I will always remember that short journey from my house to town. As I watched the familiar KaNyamazane scenes from the car window, I felt as if I was already beginning to leave behind the sights and sounds of home for the big world. University was three years away, yet that visit to Johannesburg felt like taking a small yet life-changing step into the future.
While Dr Malan gave us strict instructions on how to stay safe in Johannesburg, my imagination took hold of me. I could visualise myself as a young lawyer, coming home to KaNyamazane, empowered to make a difference in our community, where there was so much trouble, poverty and suffering. I leant my head against the headrest, closed my eyes and smiled.
“Are you with us, Nandi?” Maryke’s voice brought me back to the present. She was staring at me over her shoulder.
My eyes flew open. I knew Maryke was dying to know why I had been smiling, but I didn’t plan to tell her. She probably thought I was thinking about the boys in Johannesburg. Maryke knew about my ambitions, but I didn’t easily share my daydreams. They stayed safely in my Place of Promises.
By the time we were on the bus, having found seats right at the back, we were chatting nonstop. About boys, of course. “Eye candy,” according to Maryke. She got me excited about the boys too, but for me the trip was about much more than eye candy. I was heading for Johannesburg and I had to pinch myself to believe it.
Start now to focus your attention strongly on your dream. Wits has a great law faculty. Believe with passion that you will be studying there one day soon. I can see you there already, Nandi! Mr Khumalo’s words played in my head over and over.
At the top of Schoemanskloof, Maryke fell asleep. Her blonde head fell onto my shoulder every now and again. While she slept, I daydreamt.
On the other side of Waterval Boven I noticed an eagle rise up from the mealie fields on either side of the N4. It was a beautiful sight. The bird rose higher and higher into the blue sky and soared there, dazzling in the sun, floating, free. I kept my eye on it. I felt like that eagle. I was that eagle. Nothing and no one could stop my flight.
Mr Bongani had gone to great lengths to ensure that Maryke and I could attend the competition. He was waiting for us when we arrived at the school which was hosting the competition, in a suburb called Parktown.
With him was a boy, tall and lean. I immediately noticed how his body slumped slightly to the left. I thought how Mr Khumalo with his Madiba shirts would love the way the boy dressed: my eyes fell on his bright-purple cotton shirt and then moved down to his baggy red trousers. Between the trousers and his red velskoens, I noticed a brace.
He’s disabled, I thought to myself, glancing at his face. He looked me straight in the eye. In that very instant I had a “footpath” moment. The feather tickling my tummy told me that I was heading for the sunrise, and that the boy with the braces would be walking with me.
“Girls, meet my son, Bheka,” said Mr Bongani.
“Hi,” said Maryke and I, in chorus.
The boy greeted Maryke first. Then he turned all his attention to me.
“You look like an African princess,” he said, looking deep into my eyes as if he was searching for something only I could give him. Something rare. Something precious.
I didn’t wish my skirt was longer. I didn’t wish I had worn a baggy old shirt. My palms didn’t sweat. I didn’t lower my eyes. A brick didn’t hit my stomach.
I didn’t want to run away.
I felt completely safe. Even when his eyes lingered on mine, dropped to my mouth, searched my body, I still felt safe.
“Thank you,” I said, laughing. “My mother also says I look like an African princess.”
Maryke cleared her throat and looked at me with her green eyes stretched wide. Mr Bongani said, “Hey, son, not so forward!”
But I cared little about Maryke and Mr Bongani.
And if I were just a little bit more forward than I actually am, I would have told Bheka that he had eyes like searchlights. They seemed to be lit up from behind by bright beams of light. His eyes were the colour of my mother’s favourite chair, made from kiaat wood by her father who had been a carpenter. Bheka’s eyes looked like the wood when my mother had polished it: a deep, rich, sparkling brown.
Bheka was not what Maryke would have called “eye candy”, but he was good-looking in a different kind of way. His face was on the thin side, and he had a large forehead. Brainy, I thought. His lips were full and his mouth turned up at the corners. Kissable, I thought. When he smiled, I noticed that his teeth were white and straight. And I noticed his hands. Long fingers. Sensitive fingers which he tapped against his trousers every now and then. Hands I wanted to touch. They would be warm, I just knew that. They would make me feel special and safe.
While I stood there, lost in a haze of surprise and wonder, caught in the gaze of a boy who was a stranger but who felt like a friend, Mr Bongani said, “Bheka, look after the girls. Show them the boarding house where they’ll be sleeping.” Bheka’s father told us that his son had attended the school since grade 1, and he knew his way around. He would help us with anything we needed.
“He will even draw your portraits if you ask him nicely. You can see my son is an artist, I’m sure. Who else would wear red trousers? But he’s a good artist, even though he’s only seventeen, so I forgive him,” teased Mr Bongani.
Bheka, in turn, teased his father about his designer shirt, after which they both laughed and casually hugged each other. Their hug took my breath away. I looked at them with a small stab of envy. How I wished to know what a hug by a kind, loving father felt like.
A bell rang. It was the supper bell, said Mr Bongani. He urged Bheka again to show us to our dormitory.
“At your service, ladies,” said Bheka, leading the way.
I was surprised at how fast he moved despite the brace and a limp. He chatted all the way to our dormitory. Classmates greeted him wherever we went – I could see he was popular. When we reached our dormitory, the door stood open and a few girls were already inside, unpacking.
“Make way for the team from Mpumalanga!” Bheka called out.
Then he suggested we meet again in the lounge area after supper. I said “yes!” so quickly and so loudly that Maryke prodded me with her elbow, eyebrows raised.
Once inside the dormitory, she whispered, “What happened out there? Instant love? At first sight, nogal?”
“Mmm. I think I have just met my very own Special Boy,” I said dreamily.
If we had not had so little time to change for supper, and if Maryke had not been faffing around so much, trying to decide what outfit would impress the boys, she would have peppered me with questions. Instead she got carried away deciding what to wear, and left me in peace. Thankfully.
And as we rushed towards the dining hall, I pleaded with her not to join me and Bheka after supper. I wanted him all to myself.
“I’ve never seen you like this before,” said Maryke. “But promise me one thing: before we go back home, you will kiss him. Don’t let this opportunity pass. I know I sound like a stuck record, but it’s high time you kissed a boy. Remember, we’re only here for a week!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I said, laughing out loud and skipping ahead of her to the dining hall.
Bheka was waiting after supper, ready to spend the two hours of social time we were allowed before the bedtime bell, with me only. He led me to a quiet corner in the large, noisy lounge and drew up his chair to face mine. There were almost a hundred learners from all over the country attending the competition, and all around were sounds of chairs being moved, introductions, laughter, and greetings being exchanged.
“A lot of boys looked up from their plates when you walked into the dining hall,” Bheka said, smiling. “But I just know that a girl like you likes boys who are different. Like me.”
“What do you mean different?” I asked. My eyes moved down automatically to the brace on his foot.
When I looked up, his eyebrows were raised. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away.
“Not different because I’m disabled,” he said. “Different for other reasons.”
I was feeling so foolish that I could not bring myself to look at him.
“You don’t have to be shy about it. Come on, look me in the eye.” His voice was soft and tender.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meeting his glance, feeling ashamed.
“Don’t apologise. Let’s talk about my leg,” he said. His voice was not soft any longer; it was strong and clear. “Let’s get that conversation out of the way so that we can talk about other things.”
I nodded. He began to talk. Shortly after he was born, he said, his father had to spend a few months in the Democratic Republic of the Congo to work on a corruption case at a copper mine. Because Bheka was a tiny baby, his mother had decided to stay behind in Johannesburg, where she had help, friends and family. But she missed Mr Bongani so much that she took little Bheka along on a short visit to the Congo. That visit proved to be tragic. Bheka contracted the polio virus, even though he had been vaccinated. The doctors said it was a special case, unheard of before. It had happened anyway, because that is how Bheka got very ill and lost partial use of his left foot. But he was lucky: his father could afford the best therapies. Bheka was left with a slight limp, and although he always had to wear a brace, he hardly ever needed to use crutches.
His mother died when he was about eight. “Of breast cancer. And a broken heart,” said Bheka. “She never forgave herself for taking me to the Congo.”
I drew in my breath. What surprised me was that I saw no sign of self-pity on his face.
“You aren’t sorry for yourself,” I said.
“About my mother?”
“And about your leg,” I said.
“Why should I be? Disabled doesn’t mean useless! OK, I can’t play sport or run a marathon, but there are lots of things I can do. And let me tell you a little secret,” he said, leaning towards me. “When life throws you a curve ball, you learn ways of catching that ball. You learn to stretch yourself in ways that others don’t. You learn to keep your eye on that ball, on your dreams. You learn never to give up. And it makes you special. That’s what I meant by different.”
A loud noise made us look towards the entrance to the lounge. Refreshments were being wheeled in on trolleys.
Bheka got up. “Coffee? Tea?” he asked.
Thinking immediately of his lame foot, I jumped up and offered to get us something to drink.
But Bheka refused. “Hey, watch me. I know you think I’ll spill your coffee, but let me show you just how much I can do,” he said with a laugh. He came back carrying my coffee with great concentration, and put it down in front of me.
“See?” he said, “No spills,” before going off to get a cup of tea for himself.
“I can see you have a mind of your own,” I commented when he sat down again.
“Quite right,” he said. “I don’t follow other people’s beliefs like a little lamb. I have dreams of my own. I have my own style. You can see I’m not a fashion slave!” He pointed to his baggy red trousers.
“You were quite right when you said I like people who are different, people with big dreams,” I said.
“I can tell you also have a dream for yourself.” He looked at me with those searchlight eyes.
“Right again!” I told him how my mother and Mr Khumalo had met, how my dream of stu
dying law had started, how I worked hard and often got the best grades in class, and how excited I was to be in Johannesburg, because that was where I planned to study after school.
“Which university?” asked Bheka, urgency in his voice. Before I could reply he said, “Come to Wits! I’ll be studying art there. Just think, we could see each other every day!”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My eyes slid from his eyes to his mouth. My eyes lingered on his lips for a while and I was deep in thought, contemplating what it would feel like to kiss those lips.
My concentration was broken by someone calling out my name. It was Maryke, looking flushed and excited, sitting on the other side of the lounge with a whole group of boys. Glaring playfully at me, she brushed her fingers across her lips in a quick movement. That meant, in Maryke’s language, that I should remember The Kiss. I felt my cheeks burn and threw a frown back at her.
Embarrassed, I glanced at Bheka. If he had seen signals pass between Maryke and me, he said nothing about it. He had something much more serious on his mind. He leant over again. Eyes gleaming. Our knees almost touched.
“Before my mother died she said: Bheka, one day when the time is right, find yourself a girl who is different. A girl like no other. I wish she was here tonight to see that I’ve found her.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but for a while I had no words, which was unusual for me. After what seemed like a very long time communicating only with our eyes, I managed to talk: “I could sit here all night. There’s still so much to say. I feel as if I’ve known you forever. As if we are best friends and I can tell you anything I want to, without being shy or scared.”
Just then the bell rang. Two hours had flown by. Before I could continue, Maryke swooped down on me, grabbed my arm and steered me away.
“Hey, wait!” Bheka protested and gave me a hug.
He smelt fresh. And I had been right. His hands were warm; warm and safe on my back while he held me close.
Alive Again Page 2
