“Each day Zaziwe would land on the ledge of my cell window. I started to leave bits of dry porridge for her, and soon we had a date every day. She never let me down. Every time I was taken from my cell to be tortured and interrogated, when I was thrown back, she was waiting. When I awoke in the black of night, petrified by dark dreams, she was there, silhouetted against the moonlight. When I needed to talk, to keep my mind calm, she listened; and when I left that godforsaken place she came with me. I called her Zaziwe. It means ‘hope.’”
We buried Zaziwe on the hillside, the long stems of watsonia bowing to a breeze that muddled the whites, pinks, and purples into a mash of mauve. After Thabo had fashioned a small cross from some twigs, we stood at her grave while he said a prayer. Then the heavens roared and opened, and big, cool drops of water fell to the parched and thirsty earth.
Thabo turned to look at me. At first I looked away, unable to bear the strength of his stare. Then I looked back. Inside the loud thunder and lightning, our silence was intense and our anticipation tightly sprung. Like magnets, our bodies leaned toward each other, ignoring the invisible restraints of our cautious minds. When he touched my hand I gasped. Then he touched my face—tracing my features like a blind man. I closed my eyes. Electricity crackled across the sky. He pressed his lips to mine.
My nipples rose up through my sodden blouse. Thabo acknowledged them carefully. He undid my bra and my breasts swung free, settling full and round in front of him. He lingered there, touching and kissing, caressing and tweaking. His smell, mixed with the scent of rain, was intoxicating. I’d only ever had teasing hints of it before, but now, close up, I inhaled deeply, losing myself in his bare torso.
The storm raged around us. I licked away his salty tears and sucked at the sweet raindrops that gathered on his jawline. A sense of urgency overtook us, and Thabo lowered me onto the wet earth. He was leaning over me, strong and black, and I was aching for him. As the sequence unfolded, he sought wordless permission at every step, yet there were no pauses in this dance. I took his hand and guided it, my arousal seeping onto his fingers. His head moved down my body and he played in my lap, driving me to the brink of ecstasy. Then it was I bent over him.
He entered my warmth and together we traveled beyond the confines of our lives.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was Sunday when we drew into Knysna. We’d spent the previous night with a friend of Thabo’s in a township on the periphery of the seaside town. It had been a subdued evening and Thabo had gone to bed early.
After a breakfast of tea and warm doughy bread smeared with peanut butter and apricot jam, we set off for the town center. A holiday atmosphere prevailed. People in summer prints and wide-brimmed hats meandered down the streets—black, white, and brown bodies blending with apparent ease. Shop windows boasted all the trappings of recreation and relaxation—hammocks, surfboards, arts and crafts. Restaurants spilled patrons onto umbrella-lined sidewalks, and flower sellers enticed with their beautiful blooms. It felt good to be in the middle of all this positive energy.
We bought pies from a local baker and sat on a whites-only bench to eat them. But after a few minutes I lost my nerve, so we found a spot in the shade of an old plane tree overlooking the ocean. They were the best pies I’d ever tasted, the pastry rich and crumbly, the curried-meat filling delicious.
I looked up into the branches. The leaves had just started to turn; summer’s green was making way for the orange of autumn.
“Funny how something as superficial as color can be so important,” I mused. “Imagine if this poor plane tree was subject to apartheid. What a dilemma it would pose for the officials. Well, tree, you can only reside in Knysna during the spring and summer months. In autumn you must move to the townships, and in winter—well, in winter you won’t belong anywhere.”
We fell back onto the spongy grass laughing. Thabo was so close, but we didn’t touch. The previous day two damaged and lonely individuals had offered themselves to each other in consolation. Now guilt and the confusing complexity of real life intruded. Strangely, my mind wandered back to Rita. For the first time some of her actions seemed almost understandable.
“I feel so happy-sad,” I said.
“Yes, this is a land of paradoxes.” There was a small bare patch in front of Thabo where he had mindlessly picked away the grass. “South Africa has been the arena of my life,” he said. “It’s where the best and the worst have happened to me. A place of great beauty and ugliness.”
We looked at each other.
“I feel so alive-dead,” he said after a while.
Still we didn’t touch. We couldn’t.
—
Later we went to a service station to get directions to the Eloffs’ house, and within fifteen minutes found ourselves sitting in Sylvia Eloff’s lounge awaiting the coffee she was preparing for us. One entire wall of the room was glass, confusing the boundary between inside and out—the rugged carpet of fynbos, the stretch of glittering sand, and the teal-green waters all invited into the room, itself a trove of maritime treasures and curios.
I counted seven shell ashtrays. A stuffed marlin drove out of the wall above the fireplace. A driftwood chandelier—its gnarled arms bearing six globes—hung suspended from the ceiling. There were bottles of sand art and balls of tumbleweed . . . A second wall told another tale. Devoted entirely to books, from floor to ceiling, it told many stories—Travels to India; War and Peace; Cry, the Beloved Country; Driving Routes through the Lake District; Birds of the Cape; Fifty Ways to Cook Chicken; Healing Hands; and Lord of the Flies. Nadine Gordimer, Alan Paton, and Saul Bellow rubbed spines with Chaucer and Shakespeare and Wilbur Smith.
On the coffee table stood a vase holding a solitary protea—South Africa’s national flower. With its thick woody stem, tough gray leaves, and furry pink petals, it was clearly equipped to survive the harshness of this wild continent.
“Here we are.” The woman’s voice was round and reassuring. She put down a wicker tray bearing a coffeepot, three mugs, and a plate of buttered date loaf.
She had a youthful appearance, light reflecting off her forehead to give her complexion a pearly translucency. Her eyes were half-hidden beneath soft hoods of skin, and her hair, cropped short and cinnamon in color, was interrupted by bold streaks of gray. Her long fingers trailed after graceful sweeps of expression, and a skew smile worked to hide her slightly overlapping front teeth.
“What a thing! Celia’s daughter—just incredible!” Like a chameleon, she had started to adopt Thabo’s accent, as if to put us at ease. “How do you take your coffee, black or white?”
“Well, seeing we’re in the suburbs it’ll have to be white,” I jested, surprised at my brazen familiarity.
We all laughed.
“Celia and I still keep in touch,” she said.
I covered my mouth to catch the strangled sound of my surprise. My thoughts started to tear around inside my head like a child left unchecked at a birthday party. After waiting months to hear these words, my mind would not be still for long enough to fully appreciate them.
“Celia was my right-hand woman. In the latter years, especially after Jo died, she was an invaluable friend.” She swallowed a mouthful of cake. “We met under awful circumstances—she needed admission to hospital, and I—” She stopped, perhaps checking herself as she considered what details I could cope with.
I sat on the settee that afternoon at the tip of Africa, hearing about my mother. Sylvia Eloff paused every now and then to give me time to absorb what I’d heard, and throughout this uncharted journey of emotion, Thabo clasped my hand tightly.
“Did I miss her when she retired and went back home last April! No one can make shortbread like Celia. Most of all, though, she was an outstanding companion.”
She stood up to catch a praying mantis that was climbing up the vase. In cupped hands, she took it over to an open window and released i
t. “Celia used to travel home each year to Venda, her homeland, where she was rebuilding her house. It was a very slow process. A couple of years back I gave her something to help get the project completed. But then her heart started plaguing her, and I decided it was time for her to go back home for good and let her children look after her.”
Her children. The words hit me in the stomach, winding me. I’d forgotten . . . had not considered . . . Of course! I had siblings! The news was overwhelming. I couldn’t remember, or could I? Had I simply expunged this fact from my childhood mind?
“She had a heart attack last March. Her heart had been broken for some time; the attack was really just the physical manifestation of her inner pain.”
I sat still, not daring to interject with any one of the hundreds of questions jamming my head, just in case a crucial bit of information was lost. After years of living with an incomplete puzzle, I couldn’t afford to lose a single piece.
“Celia was in hospital for almost two weeks, and after that, well, between us, we decided it was time to let her boys take care of her.”
Thabo squeezed my hand.
“Three boys. Lovely lads,” Sylvia Eloff continued, brushing the crumbs off her lap. “The eldest, Christian, was training to be a doctor when he became caught up in politics. He suffered terribly at the hands of the police; died in detention. His death changed Celia. She was never the same.”
I felt the loss and grief immediately. I had gained and lost a brother in seconds.
Sylvia Eloff continued. “Nelson, the middle boy, he’s a builder in Pretoria. Then there’s Alfred, the youngest and shortest,” she said with a chuckle. “He’s a teacher in Dzanani. More coffee?”
“Thank you, no,” Thabo said, answering for both of us.
I could only shake my head. Brothers. Siblings. These were still just words—words to be kept at bay. They led to possibilities and places I wasn’t yet ready to visit.
“And then there was Miriam.” Sylvia Eloff smiled fully, for the first time revealing her skewed front teeth. “Celia told me about the beautiful daughter she had lost. She never elaborated, though, and to be perfectly honest, I assumed she meant you had died. I’m sorry.”
We spoke of many things that afternoon, that perfect afternoon. But as light fell and nature started to fold away the glistening sheet that had been draped over the ocean all day, we took our cue and said good-bye.
Under my arm I held a bulky brown parcel secured with string.
“How can I ever thank you?”
Sylvia Eloff leaned in and held me in a gentle hug. Her fragrance of linen and lavender enveloped me and stayed with me for years to come, merging with the memory I would always guard of those flawless few hours.
“I am just so pleased for Celia,” she said, finally letting go. “She’s in for one big surprise. Do be careful,” she cautioned. “With her weak heart. And don’t forget to give her that.” She tapped the parcel in my hand. It felt heavy. “I’ve had it in the back room for ages. I keep meaning to post it. It’s just some things she left behind in the upheaval of the move. I found them when I got around to clearing out her room. I’ve let it to a student. Some company, you know, and a bit of rent.”
We drove through the night, stopping at about 2:00 A.M. on the side of the road so Thabo could snatch a few hours’ sleep. I fell asleep beside him, my arms wound tightly around the brown paper package marked Celia Mphephu in bold black ink. Below was an address—my mother’s address.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Stop! There’s something in the bushes,” I cried.
The Beetle screeched to a halt.
Hovering above a large tuft of grass was what looked like a gray pipe cleaner that had been twisted into a trembling spiral. The tuft wavered. The spiral disappeared. Then the golden grass parted and out trotted one truncated body, four stubby legs, and a snout that looked like an ice-cream tub. The creature passed in front of our car, clearly unperturbed by its audience, and disappeared into the long grass on the other side of the road.
“It’s a bush pig,” Thabo said.
“A bush pig! I’ve never seen one before,” I squealed. “In fact, it’s the first bit of wildlife we’ve encountered—except for those stray policemen.”
“Then you must have a picture.” And with that, Thabo veered off the road and into the scrub after the animal.
Completely ignoring my protestations, he negotiated the unforgiving terrain, shaking up every bit of loose plastic in the car. I grabbed for the hand rest as I was bounced off my seat.
The tail we were chasing came briefly into view. “There!” I screamed.
Several crazy minutes in pursuit of the elusive pig followed, then the car came to a sudden stop, the smell of burned rubber in the air. Our hilarity instantly evaporated and we turned to each other like two naughty schoolkids who’d just crashed the parents’ car.
“Have we broken down?”
“It’s probably just overheated.”
He leaned over the back of his seat to retrieve a plastic lunch box. “Might need to take an early lunch break, while the engine cools down.”
I climbed out of the car into a sea of golden grass, which swept from my feet to the horizon, uninterrupted except for an occasional rocky outcrop. I looked around. “Where’s the road?”
Thabo pointed behind us. “It’ll be over there somewhere.”
Anxiously I followed his finger to a giant billboard rising absurdly out of the veld to advertise Coca-Cola. I stared, incredulous. But it wasn’t the advertisement that had captured my attention; it was the colossal tree beside it.
“We can lunch in the baobab’s shade,” Thabo said, following my gawking gaze.
Approaching the tree, we started to shrink and soon we were standing directly beneath the tree’s enormous canopy, Lilliputians dwarfed by Gulliver. The tree dominated the landscape, leaving no doubt as to its status as king of the African vegetation. Its gnarled trunk straddled meters of earth and its twisted branches writhed and reached out in every direction.
“According to San legend, the baobab didn’t grow on earth,” Thabo said, patting the rutted trunk. “The Bushman believes that one day the great tree just appeared, dropped from the heavens.” He sat down and leaned back against it. “You know, it can live for over a thousand years.”
“A thousand years?” I fingered a knot of bark.
I plonked myself down next to Thabo, so our shoulders grazed each other. We’d not made love again, nor would we. It was a mutual understanding—our minds and souls in silent agreement. All the same, I was glad we were comfortable with each other again.
Sheltered from the shimmering heat, we ate day-old Peck’s Anchovette sandwiches (not my favorite) and fistfuls of cold mielie pap.
I stopped chewing, emptying my head of all noise, so it could fill with the mewling cry of birds overhead, the swish of wind through the grass, and the scratching of a dung beetle foraging in the dirt.
An hour later, we were on the road again.
“Nearly there,” Thabo said, slapping my knee. “We’ll head to a hostel and then tomorrow visit your mother.”
The landscape was changing. Mountains, forests, and rivers now defined our new vista, while the sweet smell of pine needles, eucalyptus, and damp clay infused the air. As evening settled, a fine mist rose up from the deep lakes and dark forests to shroud everything in a haunting beauty.
The night was hot and muggy, the smell of rain strong. A thunderstorm had threatened all afternoon, but the underbelly of cloud seemed impenetrable; the day remained trapped beneath the sagging gray canopy.
I could just make out Thabo’s angular contours on a squab on the floor as I tossed and turned on the dormitory bunk, the air unbearably dense and close. Around me figures shuffled and snored and grunted, these sounds punctuating the long dark hours. At length I fell into a fitful sleep
and began to dream. I hadn’t dreamed in so long.
A woman stands alone in a vast desert, her arms outstretched. Each time I try to reach her, a group of pale freckly boys hurl mangoes at me. Just as I succeed in getting past them, the woman vanishes like a mirage. I see a baby crying on a dune. I call out to the infant, but I make no sound. One minute the baby is white, the next brown, then I see it is actually blue. Frantically I try to climb the mound, but the sand keeps giving way and I slip back down. A wiry Indian girl jumps out from behind a baobab and picks up the dead child.
“Zelda! Zelda! I’m here. Bring me my baby!” I scream, but my voice is lost in a stampede. The earth shakes, sand swirls, and men wearing hard mining hats tear past me on the backs of lions. In their bloody hands they are carrying pieces of black rock, which they are holding up like trophies.
“No. Not gold, I want my baby. It’s in Sixth Street . . . Sixth . . . Not Second . . .”
“Miriam!”
I stared wildly into the darkness. Thabo was leaning over me, his face gleaming in the blue moonlight. “You were having a nightmare.”
I sat up, my shirt damp with perspiration. “It was awful, I was trying to—”
“Shift over,” he whispered, and he edged onto my narrow bunk. Outside, the clouds finally relinquished their treasure and rain started to clatter noisily onto the tin roof. Thabo lay facing me. He was so close I could feel his warm breath on my face. His strong hands stroked my head until I found myself falling down a deep black hole to where dreams don’t venture.
When I woke, sunlight was streaming through the small squares of window. Thabo was still asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wrought-iron headboard. A comforting aroma of coffee, paraffin, and porridge wafted into the room. I looked around. People were quietly busying themselves packing up their bedding and gathering their belongings.
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