Mother to Mother Read online

  As for Mxolisi, I’m not sure we didn’t make a mistake, sending him to the bush, last December. But, he was of age. Was old enough. However, since coming back, instead of showing improvement, he has grown lazier than ever. Whatever they removed from him at circumcision, it certainly wasn’t laziness or letting his foot hit the road. Although he is always but always the last to get out of bed, Mxolisi is always the first to leave the house. And the way he bullies his brother and the girl, he hardly does any of the chores. Often, unless the others throw it out for him, my husband and I have come back from work only to find the basin in which he washed himself in the morning still holding that dirty water of his. Lazy boy. Forever gadding about. Oh, yes! That is the one thing he is never lazy to do: going from the home of this friend or acquaintance to the home of that one . . . on and on and on . . . the whole blessed day. Seeing him do his daily rounds, one would be excused in thinking he delivers milk to these houses and gets paid for it.

  This day, Mxolisi leaves the house. He stands at the gate and takes a long look at the street. Like a general surveying his armies, up and down the street he looks.

  A whistle.

  That jerks his head up.

  From the corner, a wave of arm.

  He waves back and slowly saunters out the gate.

  ‘Yes, Bajita!’ he hails his friends.

  ‘Ja, Mjita!’ the others reply in chorus. The group opens up and swallows him. In their midst, he is lost. You couldn’t tell him from the others now. Although they are not wearing their school uniform, the clothes they have on are so similar in colour, cut, and the way they hang on their long, lithe and careless frames that the boys appear as though they are wearing a uniform of sorts.

  Like a gigantic, many-limbed millipede, the group swells as it moves up NY 1. There is neither haste nor dawdling in the manner in which its numerous feet eat up the distance. Hunched shoulders and uniform long, swaggering strides say much about the common purpose that binds the group together, cements the members into one cohesive whole. By the time it reaches its destination, St Mary Magdalene, corner of NY 2 and NY 3, the group has split into two enormous branches.

  Your daughter is in the University cafeteria. She is surrounded by friends. Many friends. Among these friends are three young African women, girls from the townships.

  ‘I guess this is the last time we see you?’ one of her black friends asks. Smiling eyes dim as a pang of sadness stabs her heart. Such a kind heart, this friend from overseas. Has she not promised to look into the possibility of scholarships for them? Might be going to the US of A, next year . . . if all goes well. A good person. She deserves better than tears. Far better. The very next moment, the girl’s demeanour brightens. This is her friend’s last day with them. It must not be sad . . . she must send her away with good memories: laughter, not tears.

  But, ‘So, this is goodbye!’ says yet another of the girls. The hearts of the young women, your daughter included, are heavy. They’re all loath to say goodbye. Your daughter has been a very good friend, full of enthusiasm and eager to learn: the Xhosa language, the African dances, and the ways of the people here. She learnt to appreciate the foods the country boasts . . . everything. Not a trace of arrogance in her . . . so full of childlike zest. A good person, her friends will say of her, later.

  Your daughter knows the problems her friends from the townships face. Also, she would like to extend this moment of saying goodbye to them a little longer. Where they stay, there are no phones and when she says goodbye to them now, it will be for good. Letter writing is so tedious. Moreover, with postal delivery such an iffy affair in the accursed townships, who knows whether they’d ever get any letters were she to write them? The scholarships will have to be arranged through UWC . . . only way to keep in touch with the townships gang. She hears herself blurt:

  ‘I’ll take you home.’ She cannot believe she has said that.

  ‘You will?’ asks one of her friends, in disbelief.

  ‘Sure!’ answers your daughter, convinced now this is something she should do. ‘But I can’t stay. I’ll just drop you guys off.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Lumka, another of the Guguletu trio. ‘You said you have lots to do still.’

  ‘But taking you to Gugs will only take a few minutes, it’s just a detour.’

  ‘No! No! we can take a taxi,’ Lumka is adamant. She is uneasy about your daughter, a white person after all, going to the townships at this time of day — late afternoon, when people return from work and wherever else their day had taken them. Earlier, perhaps. But not this late. No, not this late.

  ‘I insist! You cannot refuse me this last wish,’ your daughter jokes.

  ‘Okay, then,’ Lumka acquiesces. She doesn’t want to be a spoilsport. Since the other two girls from Guguletu do not help her in declining the offer, she understands that they want to be driven home. They want to be with this friend, who is leaving them, just a little longer.

  Your daughter’s generosity has endeared her to many. She knows she should not be doing this . . . not with all the packing she still has to do. Packing. And all the innumerable last-minute things she has to see to: call and confirm her flight and transport arrangements to the airport; call the friends she has not been able to see for the last time; disconnect the telephone; pay bills; buy the few outstanding presents (she had no idea how many people back home she counted as friends who should get and were probably expecting her to bring them something from South Africa). Briefly, she wonders what some would say were she to tell them of the less romantic and downright hard, hard life of many of the people about to get the vote in this country? Worse than anything they could possibly imagine . . . far worse than she had imagined before coming here. She shakes her head, blocking off that trend of thought. Strides were being made. There was hope. Universal franchise was all but guaranteed.

  ‘Let’s go, now!’ she says, taking a peek at her inner left-hand wrist.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ the three girls say in unison.

  A flurry of hugs follows, for most of the people around the table will not be seeing your daughter again. She leaves with the three Guguletu women and another friend, a young man who stays not far from where your daughter stays. He’ll ride out of the township with her . . . the two will ride back to Mowbray together.

  ‘No, my friends,’ Reverend Mananga said to the group of students. ‘I’m afraid today, the Young Women’s Manyano is meeting there this afternoon. Always does, Wednesdays.’

  ‘There’, was the hall at St Mary Magdalene, the Anglican Church in Guguletu.

  ‘Every Wednesday,’ he reiterated.

  The minister’s refusal put the group in a quandary. They’d already been refused the use of the halls in the three local high schools. Even had they forced their way in (something they have successfully done before) this time, they’d have failed. In each school, a police blockade barred them entry to the grounds.

  They knew the minister was telling the truth. Most of their mothers belonged to the Women’s Manyano, which met Thursdays. A few had sisters who belonged to the organization the minister alluded to. But still they tried to reason with him.

  No, the minister said. He could not change the meeting place of the Young Women’s Manyano. Nor could he change the day or hour of their meeting. It was not up to him to change church programmes and procedures. No, it would not do to let them use the hall for even the half hour there was before the girls’ meeting. These boys could be unruly and it took time to arrange the seats and put everything in order once turned upside down.

  ‘Reactionary!’ — someone lost in the crowd, hollered. At which the man of God hastily whispered something to Mxolisi’s ear, before he beat a retreat.

  ‘We can meet here, tomorrow morning!’ Mxolisi told the group, even as the minister disappeared into the rectory.

  There were some half-hearted grumbles, nothing serious. Taking the time of day into account, many agreed that meeting early the next day might be more pro
fitable, in any event.

  ‘Nine o’clock, then?’

  ‘Nine!’

  ‘Nine!’ the chime rang.

  Thereafter, the crowd broke into song: Siyanqoba! We overcome! Doing the toyi-toyi, they half-marched, half-danced away from the premises.

  A little while later, the song changed to a call and response chant:

  Ngubani lo? NguMandela!

  Uyintoni? Yinkokheli!

  The cry and counter-cry was repeated and the sound swelled and boomed over the low, lichenous roofs of the squatting houses of Guguletu. The amorphous group split into two. To facilitate mobility the amoeba divided itself. Over and over again, it splintered, broke off, as little groups reached their part of the road and branched off, heading in different directions, some going home.

  Mxolisi’s group toyi-toyied its way along NY 3, towards NY 1. As the vanguard neared NY 1, all at once, it came to an abrupt halt; hit by familiar cacophony: the crackling of hungry tongues of fire, busy devouring a house or a vehicle. The accompanying hoarse-voiced cheering of spectators. The loud thud-thudding of running feet.

  Galvanized by the commotion, the group stopped singing. It stopped toyi-toying. And ran, surged forward as though pulled by a gigantic powerful magnet. The forest of stamping feet and air-sawing arms hurtled along NY 3 till it came to an abrupt halt; stopped by the all-too-familiar but highly thrilling spectacle.

  At the corner of NY 1 and NY 3, a big van was doing a slow-motion dance to the shimmering rhythms of orange and red flames caressing it. On closer look, though, the van was still. The movement, mirage, an optical illusion. Only the eager orange tongues frolicked all around it, licking it, consuming it, making it look as though it were shaking and shivering. Even as the spectators held their breath, eyes popping, the van appeared to sway, teeter and falter drunkenly. Then, trembling still, with a deep crackling sigh, down it went, slowly lowered itself till it fell on its knees as though in prayer. By this time, the front wheels were completely gone while those at the back remained intact. However, a moment later, they too caught flame.

  & SONS.

  Now and then, swathes of blue and white letters peeped and winked from between the busy, eager tongues of flames. A long silent scream issued from the gaping, savaged doors - two in number; the erstwhile doors someone had wrenched open and through which now thick black smoke belched and intimate tongues caressed, darted and leapt, searching the most hidden corners and crevices of the fallen vehicle; lashing, licking. From the debris all around the furnace, it was obvious that whatever the van had carried had long ago been looted.

  ‘What d’you think this van was delivering?’ asked Sazi, a lieutenant in the group.

  ‘Ask the driver,’ retorted Lwazi, one of Mxolisi’s staunch followers.

  Those who heard this laughed. The driver of a delivery van was the first target in these cases of looting and burning. Drivers either fled or stood in grave danger of being fried alive inside their vehicles. The driver of this van, it was clear, had chosen the first option, discretion.

  ‘Probably making a delivery to the TB clinic here,’ said another member of the group, flicking his head toward the white building standing not far from the scene. This was the Guguletu Anti-Tuberculosis Clinic.

  ‘They’re good about giving us medicine to fight TB,’ said Lwazi. ‘But not books or good teachers.’

  ‘TB is catching, don’t you know that?’ asked Sazi. ‘The boers are scared we’ll give it to them. Since our mothers work in their houses, if we all get TB, then they will get it too.’

  Just then, police sirens sounded.

  Mxolisi’s group needed no further warning. The police would shoot first and ask questions later - that is, if they asked any questions at all. To the police, whoever was within sneezing distance of the burning van would be suspect number one.

  Fast, the group made itself scarce, leaving behind the crackling of burning metal as the van seemed to melt and all colour disappear. There it stood, a blank-faced shimmering hulk painted gun-metal grey, streaked black by the eager licks of the fiercely intimate flames. ‘& SONS’ too was gone. Had totally disappeared. Vanished from its charred flanks. On closer look, though, it could be seen, blanched like the picture on a photographer’s negative.

  The two groups had earlier arranged that those still walking south reconnoitre at the NY 7 Sports Field. That is where what remained of Mxolisi’s group headed. As did the remnants of the other group, whose members had fared much better. As it happened, they had also come across a vehicle that had been hijacked. But, in their case, they were able to scavenge from the victim, a meat delivery van.

  The groups then held a brief, informal meeting and shared what intelligence they had gathered on their way to this rendezvous. Several members of the second group also shared the prized spoils. Thereafter, the whole once more split, this time, according to which way the members’ homes lay.

  Some walked south, others pointed their noses eastward. As these splinters went along, they divided and subdivided even further as here and there a few broke away to channel themselves through the by-ways and other insubstantial side streets of Guguletu.

  Mxolisi’s group, much diminished now, continued southward. Suddenly energized, they went back to the earlier toyi-toyi:

  Ngubani lo? NguMandela!

  Ngubani lo? NguSobukhwe!

  Baziintoni? Ziinkokheli!

  Singing and half-marching, half-dancing, they wended their way down in the direction of the Police Station, always an exciting, tantalizing occurrence. Who knew what mood the pigs might be in? There was always the possibility of sporting with them.

  Your daughter and her four friends reach the car. She opens her door, sidles sideways in, reaches over and opens the passenger doors.

  ‘All aboard?’

  The car glides out of the parking space. She manoeuvres it out, turns, levels off and slowly pushes forward.

  As she drives out of the campus, a sudden hush falls in the car. This is unrehearsed leave-taking. It was not planned. But each of the five young people in the yellow Mazda silently gazes at the passing scene; taking stock and measure of what it is the eye records; deliberately holding the image, letting it linger long in the mind’s eye, tucking it safely away, storing it. For always.

  They reach the highway. A silent letting off, an easing of shoulders, a private, inaudible sigh. For each. Another day is done. Only, for all, this is a marked day. A day with a singular reason. A day that spells closure. Heavy as a prison door.

  Mxolisi’s group rounds a bend in the road. A sprawling greyish-white building hits the eye.

  ‘Yekelela! Yekelela, Mjita! Ease off, brother, ease off!’ Lumko, a lanky, solemn-looking young man of Mxolisi’s age and one of his mates in the bush, the year just past, cautions.

  At once, the fervour of the dance step dies down. So does pitch of song. The warning has dredged rumours of horrific deeds in that building. Unconscious memory takes reign. In the middle of the night, blood-curdling screams have been heard coming from it. Awful things were said to happen to those dragged there by the police. Terrible, terrible things, some, worse than death. Of course, death too happened there. Of course.

  There is a slight pause at the lights, a few metres past the Police Station. The group is splitting for the night. The Langa crowd discusses, bus or train? The rest have but their feet to see them home. From this point on, no one lives more than fifteen minutes away, at the very outside.

  Of the Langa group, a significant number is left at this corner. They have opted for the bus. Those who are taking the train continue walking with the Guguletu Section 3 crowd, down NY 1 and towards Netreg, the nearest train station at this juncture. The two groups will split at the next corner.

  The yellow Mazda enters Guguletu, over the south bridge near the coloured township of Montana. As the moment of separation approaches, conversation falters. To ward off the awkwardness and threatening tears, the girls break out into song, the mood of the moment gi
ving license:

  We have overcome! We have overcome!

  We have overcome, today-a-a-aay!

  For deep, in our hearts, We did believe

  We would overcome, one day!

  After two or three rounds, however, the song peters out and the group is silent once more, each person mulling over private thoughts.

  Mxolisi’s group has reached the point of final separation. One block north of the approaching car, at the corner of NY 1 and NY 109, most of the young people break off and make a left turn. The station lies that way. However, they have hardly walked ten steps when a cry yanks them back to NY 1.

  Back they run, the magnet too powerful for their stomachs, hungry for excitement.

  They reach the corner they’d but so lately left. Down NY 1, to the left, a swarm is abuzz. In its midst, right in the middle of the road, they see what looks like a car. Difficult to tell, the way it is completely surrounded; the swarm growing even as they run towards it. In the tumult, patches of yellow peep and wink; appear, disappear and reappear. Only to blink away again.

  The car is small.

  The crowd totally eclipsing it is wild and thunderous, chanting and screaming, fists stabbing air. Fists raised towards the blue, unsmiling heavens.

  3

  5.15 pm – Wednesday 25 August 1993