Mother to Mother Read online

  FOR MY FATHER

  Author’s preface

  Fulbright scholar Amy Elizabeth Biehl was set upon and killed by a mob of black youth in Guguletu, South Africa, in August 1993. The outpouring of grief, outrage, and support for the Biehl family was unprecedented in the history of the country. Amy, a white American, had gone to South Africa to help black people prepare for the country’s first truly democratic elections. Ironically, therefore, those who killed her were precisely the people for whom, by all subsequent accounts, she held a huge compassion, understanding the deprivations they had suffered.

  Usually, and rightly, in situations such as this, we hear a lot about the world of the victim: his or her family, friends, work hobbies, hopes and aspirations. The Biehl case was no exception.

  And yet, are there no lessons to be had from knowing something of the other world? The reverse of such benevolent and nurturing entities as those that throw up the Amy Biehls, the Andrew Goodmans, and other young people of that quality? What was the world of this young women’s killers, the world of those, young as she was young, whose environment failed to nurture them in the higher ideals of humanity and who, instead, became lost creatures of malice and destruction?

  In my novel, there is only one killer. Through his mother’s memories, we get a glimpse of human callousness of the kind that made the murder of Amy Biehl possible. And here I am back in the legacy of apartheid — a system repressive and brutal, that bred senseless inter- and intra-racial violence as well as other nefarious happenings; a system that promoted a twisted sense of right and wrong, with everything seen through the warped prism of the overarching crime against humanity, as the international community labelled it.

  In Mother to Mother, the killer’s mother, bewildered and grief-stricken, dredges her memory and examines the life her son has lived . . . his world. In looking for answers for herself whilst talking to the other mother, imagining her pain, she draws a portrait of her son and of his world, and hopes that an understanding of that and of her own grief might ease the other mother’s pain . . . if a little.

  1

  Mandisa’s lament

  My son killed your daughter.

  People look at me as though I did it. The generous ones as though I made him do it. As though I could make this child do anything. Starting from when he was less than six years old, even before he lost his first tooth or went to school. Starting, if truth be known, from before he was conceived; when he, with total lack of consideration if not downright malice, seeded himself inside my womb. But now, people look at me as if I’m the one who woke up one shushu day and said, Boyboy, run out and see whether, somewhere out there, you can find a white girl with nothing better to do than run around Guguletu, where she does not belong.

  And hey, while you’re at it, Sonnyboy, hey, if she’s American, all the better! As though that were something — a badge or label — she would have worn on her face. As though he would go out there, weigh the pros and cons, and carefully choose her for her sake, for being who she truly was.

  My revilers seem to think that, with such perfect understanding between mother and son, I wouldn’t have had to say one word more. Naturally, he’d’ve just known what it was I wanted done . . . what I wanted him to do.

  I should have such an obedient son! Why do they think he did what he did if he were such a lamb, a model child?

  Let me say out plain, I was not surprised that my son killed your daughter. That is not to say I was pleased. It is not right to kill.

  But, you have to understand my son. Then you’ll understand why I am not surprised he killed your daughter. Nothing my son does surprises me any more. Not after that first unbelieving shock, his implanting himself inside me; unreasonably and totally destroying the me I was . . . the me I would have become.

  I have known for a long time now that he might kill someone some day. I am surprised, however, it wasn’t one of his friends or even one of my other children he killed. Mind you, with his younger brother, he was wise not to try. That one would have killed him with his bare hands first. And perhaps that would have been for the better. If it had happened, your child would still be alive today. Except, of course, there is always the possibility she might have got herself killed by another of these monsters our children have become. Here in Guguletu or in Langa or Nyanga or Khayelitsha. Or, indeed, in another, far-away township in the vastness of this country.

  But, let me ask you something: what was she doing, vagabonding all over Guguletu, of all places; taking her foot where she had no business? Where did she think she was going? Was she blind not to see there were no white people in this place?

  Yes, the more I think about this the more convinced I am that your daughter must have been the type of person who has absolutely no sense of danger when she believes in what she is doing. That was your daughter’s weakness, I can see. How many young white South African women were here in Guguletu that day she was killed? Do you see them driving up and down this township as though they are going to market? But people like your daughter have no inborn sense of fear. They so believe in their goodness, know they have hurt no one, are, indeed, helping, they never think anyone would want to hurt them.

  I bet you anything, if she ever thought she might be in danger . . . she probably saw that coming from the authorities, who might either hamper and hinder her in what she was bent on doing, or in some way stop her altogether from doing it.

  To people like your daughter, doing good in this world is an all-consuming, fierce and burning compulsion. I wonder if it does not blinker their perception.

  And, if he had killed one of the other women who were with your daughter, d’you think there would be all this hue and cry? He’d be here now; like the hundreds of killers walking the length and breadth of Guguletu. But then he never did have any sense. No sense at all in that big head that burdens his shoulders till they stoop. Full of water, it is. What a shame. For the years he has lived, hasn’t he learnt anything at all? Did he not know they would surely crucify him for killing a white person?

  And your daughter; did she not go to school? Did she not see that this is a place where only black people live? Add to that, where was her natural sense of unease? Did she not feel awkward, a fish out of water, here? That should have been a warning to her . . . a warning to stay out. Telling her the place was not for her. It was not safe for the likes of her. Oh, why did she not stay out? Why did she not stay out?

  White people live in their own areas and mind their own business — period. We live here, fight and kill each other. That is our business. You don’t see big words on every page of the newspapers because one of us kills somebody, here in the townships. But with this case of Boyboy’s, even the white woman I work for showed me. The story was all over the place. Pictures too.

  It’s been a long, hard road, my son has travelled. Now, your daughter has paid for the sins of the fathers and mothers who did not do their share of seeing that my son had a life worth living.

  Why is it that the government now pays for his food, his clothes, the roof over his head? Where was the government the day my son stole my neighbour’s hen; wrung its neck and cooked it — feathers and all, because there was no food in the house and I was away, minding the children of the white family I worked for? Asked to stay in for the weekend — they had their emergency . . . mine was just not being able to tell my children beforehand that they would be alone for the weekend . . . not being able to leave them enough food for the time I was away . . . not being able to phone and tell them of the change of plans. Who was on the phone, in Guguletu then? And why would the awarding of phones have started with a nobody such as I am?

  Why now, when he’s an outcast, does my son have a better roof over his head than ever before i
n his life? ...living a better life, if chained? I do not understand why it is that the government is giving him so much now when it has given him nothing at all, all his life.

  God, you know my heart. I am not saying my child shouldn’t be punished for his sin. But I am a mother, with a mother’s heart. The cup You have given me is too bitter to swallow. The shame. The hurt of the other mother. The young woman whose tender life was cut so cruelly short. God, please forgive my son. Forgive him this terrible, terrible sin.

  2

  Mowbray – Wednesday 25 August 1993

  A clear autumn morning. The room, window facing east, awash with the thin August light. The window is open. Your daughter slept with it like that all night through.

  What thoughts filled her mind as she woke! What dreams were hers the night just past! What hopes did she harbour in her breast for the day just born! What, for the homing morrow!

  The shrill cry of the telephone jolts her. It dredges her from deepest sleep. Is the call expected or does it come as a complete surprise? I can’t say. But she is very happy talking on the phone.

  She tells the person, ‘See you soon!’ her voice, a swan’s at break of day. As she puts the receiver down, her face is bathed in radiant smile.

  She lies back and hums a tune, the smile lingers on, lighting her eyes. Mother? Or . . . boy-friend?

  Whoever it was has made her happy. A little while later, singing still, she leaps out of bed and jumps into the shower.

  Body, tall and strong, every sinew and limb fully awake, alive, tingling, she steps out of the big, white bathtub, with cracks and chips over its bone-coloured surface from which all gloss has long evaporated. The house is one of those old, decaying structures students love so much.

  A big, fluffy towel wrapped around her, barefoot, she heads for the kitchen. Long thick dark strands of hair plastered down her back, in quick, efficient movements, she fixes herself breakfast. Hurriedly, she gulps down cold-milk cereal. Chases it down with black coffee, piping hot. And a slice of wholewheat bread. Toasted. Butter and a dash of Marmite. As an afterthought, she grabs a thick slice of cheese.

  Still unclad except for the white towel, back to bed she pads on her long thin feet, pink against the deep brown, almost black carpet. Back to bed. To read, scribbling notes as she goes along, the hand holding the pen wagging furiously like the tail of an over-eager puppy. A little frown pleats her forehead.

  She stops. Cocks her head. Hears the shower gurgling. That tells her one of her room mates is up. Lisa? Tess? For a moment she listens. Smiles. Then her eyes go back to the book that lies open against her chest.

  What is the last act of her morning routine this day? Does she shout, ‘See you, later!’ to her room mates? Briskly, she walks to the car parked out in the open yard. Key turns. Door opens. She slides in behind the wheel and her eyes automatically leap to her wrist. The big round watch that looks like a man’s tells her: seven fifty-five.

  Twenty kilometres away, in Guguletu, that is exactly the time I leave the house.

  ‘You go on sleeping,’ I’d said earlier to the silent, inert log in the smaller of the two bedrooms. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock, if you care to know. I’m about to leave.’ My daughter had mumbled and turned to face the wall.

  The ritual is unchanging. First I try her, then I go to her brothers, both older than her. Standing at the back door, the kitchen door, facing the back yard, where the boys sleep in the tin shack, the hokkie (you know these one-size-fits-all houses of Guguletu don’t expand as the children come), I holler:

  ‘Hey, you two! Time to get up!’ As usual, no response came from the hokkie.

  ‘Mxolisi!’ (That’s the older boy, circumsized just last year) He prides himself on his ability to stay up half the night. What he has not learnt, in all his many years, is that there is a direct relationship between when one goes to bed and when one wakes up. He will readily acknowledge his inability to get up in the morning, but sees no cause and effect, no link, between that daily difficulty and the hours he keeps. He insists that his condition is natural, just as some people have soft voices while others’ voices are gruff.

  ‘Lunga! Lunga, get up and wake your brother up! Hurry, before the water I’ve heated for you gets cold.’

  ‘Yes, Ma!’ Although Lunga’s voice sounds as though he has cotton wool in his mouth, I am reassured, deeply gratified that, once again, my power has worked, I possess the ability to raise the dead.

  Soon he and Siziwe are in the kitchen, having coffee and bread with jam.

  ‘Sit down! Sit down!’ Why my children never sit down to eat, especially mornings, is beyond me. Of course, now, they are in a hurry; you should see how they wolf the food down. Why do they never get up on time?

  ‘Is your bhuti still in bed?’

  Just then, a scratchy voice says from the door, ‘Can we have some money for eggs, Mama?’ My heart lurches. Some days Mxolisi sounds so much like his father I forget the years and think I will see China standing there when I raise my eyes.

  Giraffelike, knees semi-genuflected while neck flops head down to escape scraping the top of the door frame, he comes in. Soon he will be shaving, I see. Tall and muscular. Suddenly, Lunga, next to him, seems small for his age . . . or a lot younger than the six years between them.

  ‘Did we all sleep in the same room?’ I throw at him.

  ‘Good morning, Mama! Morning, Siziwe!’ in a voice gone loud and serious, he says; hand, palm up, stretched out toward me.

  ‘I’ll bring eggs when I come back from work.’

  At that, he turns his attention to his sister, ‘What’re you having?’

  Her mouth choc-a-block full, Siziwe mumbles something and shows him her bread.

  ‘Ma,’ he says, rummaging around the cupboard, ‘can we have the pickled fish?’

  ‘There is plenty of fruit,’ I tell him. ‘There’s bread, jam and the peanut butter, too.’

  ‘Bread’s running out,’ grumbles Mxolisi, holding up what is left of the loaf, about a quarter.

  ‘So am I,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘. . . running out. Or else, I’ll be late.’ There is no answering smile on his face. Instead, he says, ‘Wayeka nokusenzel’ isidudu, Mama! You’ve even stopped making us porridge, Mother!’

  ‘You’re old enough to make that for yourselves!’

  ‘But we miss your hand,’ says Lunga. I swallow my guilt. What would happen if I stayed home doing all the things a mother’s supposed to do? We couldn’t possibly survive just on what Dwadwa makes . . . we hardly make it as it is, with me working full time.

  As I step out of the door minutes later, I hastily throw out a couple of reminders: what they’re supposed to do for me that day around the house, what food they’re not to touch. ‘And remember, I want you all in when I come back!’ Not that I think this makes any difference to what will actually happen. But, as a mother, I’m supposed to have authority over my children, over the running of my house. Never mind that I’m never there. Monday to Saturday, I go to work in the kitchen of my mlungu woman, Mrs Nelson; leaving the house before the children go to school and coming back long after the sun has gone to sleep. I am not home when they come back from school. Things were much better in the days when I only had Mxolisi. I took him to work with me . . . did that till he started school. But what mlungu woman will allow my whole crèche into her home? Besides, the children are all big now, they go to school. To remind them of my rules therefore, each morning I give these elaborate, empty instructions regarding their behaviour while I am away. A mere formality, a charade, something nobody ever heeds. The children do pretty much as they please. And get away with it too. Who can always remember what was forbidden and what was permitted? By the time I get back in the evening, I am too tired to remember all that. I have a hard time remembering my name, most of the time, as it is. But, we have to work. We work, to stay alive. As my people say, ukulunga kwenye, kukonakala kwenye, the righting of one, is the undoing of another (problem). Life is never problem free.
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  Does your daughter drive with others to school or is she by herself? Is the car radio on or does she put in a cassette, play a song that brings to mind her young man so far away? What plans does she have for the evening?

  Traffic is light as she leaves Mowbray. So is her heart. Light. Soon. Soon, she will be home. Strange how she was able to bear it — bear being away. Until now. With a day to go, it has suddenly become unbearable. Since that party on Saturday night. Smashing send-off these lovely people gave her. Really smashing. So, why is she feeling so blue? Ah, well, she thinks to herself, I’ve always had a problem, saying goodbye.

  She hardly has a moment to breathe through the day. So busy. Her very last day at this place she has called home these ten months past. Here at the university too, many people want to talk about her trip back home. If only they knew. If only they knew. Excited as she is about the prospect of seeing her family, of going home, seeing her friends, with all that . . . still, saying goodbye is not easy. Never has been for her. That is what she’s doing now. How she wishes everybody would just forget she was going back home. But no. People insist on saying goodbye, on giving her party after party. Therefore, she is forced to take leave of her friends, to acknowledge the pain of parting. Bitter sweet. How she wishes she were home already. But, of course, before that can happen, she has to say goodbye to all these dear, dear friends, these people of whom she has grown so fond. But perhaps she will come back. Of course, she will come back, one day. A not too far-away day too, that’s for sure.

  Yes, I can see how torn she must have felt. Excited and grieving. Happy and sad. At one and the same time. For the same, the very same, reason.

  Wednesday is a school day. However, not one of my children will go to school. This burdensome knowledge I carry with me as a tortoise carries her shell. But, it weighs my spirit down.

  Two days ago, the Congress of South African Students (COSAS) ordered the school children to join Operation Barcelona, a campaign they say is in support of their teachers who are on strike. Students were urged to stay away from school, to burn cars and to drive reactionary elements out of the townships. Flint to tinder. The students fell over each other to answer the call. Now, anyone who disagrees with them, the students label ‘reactionary’. This has struck stark fear in many a brave heart. One student leader has publicly announced, ‘We wish to make it clear to the government that we are tired of sitting without teachers in our classes.’ These big-mouthed children don’t know anything. They have no idea how hard life is; and if they’re not careful, they’ll end up in the kitchens and gardens of white homes . . . just like us, their mothers and fathers. See how they’ll like it then.