Holding Up the Sky (37 page)

As we sat cuddled on the couch after supper, we imagined how it would be to live back in Mohlakeng. Teboho still yearned for the house his brother had given him but since it currently belonged to someone else we resolved to build on the other side of the township where Caleb now lived. I was looking forward to the end of our gypsy lifestyle and the opportunity to throw down some roots in the community.

Although I loved 'Maritzburg and would have happily stayed on there, Teboho didn't feel as much at home as I did. The only place Sesotho was spoken was on campus, by students from the north. I was surprised that even with the little Sesotho I spoke, I could impress all my friends in Edendale; so insulated were the Zulu-speaking communities of Natal that they could do no more than greet in other African languages. Outside of the Cape, where people spoke mainly Xhosa (a language similar to Zulu but littered with the clicking noises made famous through the movie,
The Gods Must be Crazy
), and Natal itself, my black friends routinely spoke five to ten different languages, sometimes in the same sentence. They would speak their mother tongue plus English, Afrikaans and three or four of the other African languages of the region.

For Teboho, English was the fifth language he learnt as he was growing up. While I was fast becoming multilingual myself, I was amazed at this latent talent my African friends took for granted. It also spoke to me of a far more diverse and cosmopolitan way of life in Johannesburg and Pretoria than I was yet to experience in 'Maritzburg. Despite loving my adopted home of the last four years, Jo'burg felt like an adventure. Teboho and I had also agreed that because I was already away from family, being back in Mohlakeng would at least allow one side of the family to be close by. It all seemed reasonable and sensible.

As we sat curled up on the couch like two contented cats, we spoke about getting some land in amongst the gums trees that bordered Caleb's house and provided a deep screen to the open veld and the busy road that lay beyond. We imagined building a little house there and starting a family–Mama was already quietly pressing for an heir. We imagined more of the happiness we were now at leisure to feel.

While we were always happy to visit Mama during the holidays, this trip we were also on a mission. Compared to the year before, we now had numerous sources of income, more than we needed to feed and house ourselves in 'Maritzburg. We had been talking for some time about the need for Mama to retire as her long days and irregular time off as a domestic worker were straining her health and energy. While she preferred keeping busy to sitting idly at home, it was the need to meet monthly home mortgage payments that kept her at work. We had found out through Tshidi that there were only a few thousand rand left to pay–the humble tin dwelling had not been expensive in the first place–but the debt meant that Mama would need to keep working for years yet as she only earned a few hundred rand a month and had Tshidi's kids to feed. Teboho and I agreed that with the money we had saved in the last six months, we would pay off the house for Mama and suggest she retire. This was our mission when we made the eight-hour drive to Itsoseng in the July holidays.

We arrived on a crisp winter's day and drove into the empty yard, wondering where the family was. Just then, a little face peered around the corner of the house and began shouting,
‘Lekgoa, Lekgoa'
, white person. She took a few cautious paces forward, but scuttled out of sight once we opened the car doors. It was a long time since we had seen Mello, Tshidi's youngest, and she seemed to have found both her legs and her voice in the past eight months. She was now two and I was curious to see how her personality had developed.

As we approached the house Tshidi and Silwane appeared from around the same corner, wiping their wet hands and forearms on their skirts. Mello walked in Tshidi's shadow, one hand clutching her mother's skirt and the other waving wildly in the air as she commented on our every move. She only stopped talking when we hugged and greeted each other, her mouth slightly agape as she finally saw me from close up. As I scanned her little face, I suspected her experience of the white phone technicians and electricians who drove through Itsoseng from time to time did not include watching them hug and kiss her mother.

We all went inside the house and, though my Sesotho was still rudimentary, I heard Mello telling her mother, ‘Look, Tshidi, they are coming inside'. As it turned out, she gave up-to-date coverage for Tshidi on our every waking hour for the next few days, quickly earning the nickname of CNN.

Teboho and I took our overnight bags through to Mama's room and I quickly closed the door behind me.

‘Why did no one tell me Tshidi was pregnant?' I hissed. Tshidi looked as if she was about to give birth and when we hugged in greeting, I tried not to let my astonishment show.

‘Because I didn't know until just now', Teboho replied calmly.

Amazed, I asked, ‘Why would no one tell us?'

‘Oh, we don't talk about it until the baby is born, just in case you bring bad luck to the baby.'

I pulled a face at him as he tried to push past me and open the door.

‘You know I don't believe in such things', he said, correctly interpreting my expression, ‘but the family does, so I go with the flow.' And with that he rejoined his sisters in the kitchen, asking them for news that didn't relate to babies.

After we'd had something to eat and drink, we decided to drive to the other side of Itsoseng where Mama worked and bring her home, saving her the long walk back. Mello was desperately curious about the car so Teboho asked if she'd like to come for a drive. Being an Australian brought up on seatbelts and age appropriate child constraints, I hesitated. I realised my fetish for road safety was a frequent cause of mirth among my black friends, so I held my tongue as she joyously climbed in the back, her initial wariness of me momentarily put aside. During the short drive, she and Teboho chatted merrily, uncle to niece, with Teboho asking her about her favourite food, the names of her friends and the activities of her day. When we arrived at Mama's work, Mello appeared to be in no rush to leave the car but began crawling between the two front seats with her eye on the steering wheel. We left her there and went to knock on the kitchen door. As Mama opened the door, her curiosity turned to delight. Teboho swept her into his arms and swung her round with a kiss on the cheek before setting her down next to me. Mama, being only slightly shorter than my own mother, also fitted neatly into my shoulder for a hug.

‘
Malerato
! When did you arrive? Did you travel well?'

I assured her we had arrived only recently and safely. While this was a common question to ask a guest, for us there was an element of serious enquiry. To get to Itsoseng, we were forced to travel through some of the most conservative parts of the country, including Ventersdorp, home to Eugene Terreblanche, the AWB leader. The month before, he and his followers had stormed the World Trade Centre in Johannesburg in an effort to stop the multiparty negotiations under way there. The following year, they would invade the homeland where Mama lived, Bophuthatswana, in an effort to uphold the reign of its allegedly corrupt homeland leader, Lucas Mangope. Images of his men being killed by the army in a stakeout at Mafikeng airport would be broadcast all over the world. Most chillingly, he would soon be sentenced to six years in prison for the assault of a black petrol station attendant, as well as the attempted murder of his own black farm worker. While the first of these men recovered, the second was left severely brain damaged from head injuries he sustained after being dragged behind a bakkie. There was every reason to be nervous as we passed through Ventersdorp, where Terreblanche was a hero. I thought it best to recline my seat and lie back out of sight, hoping we would not have to stop at a traffic light. I did not know what the AWB would do to a mixed couple in Ventersdorp and I had no desire to find out. Mama's question was not to find out whether we had enjoyed the scenery during our long drive north but rather, whether we had encountered any problems along the way. Thankfully, we had not.

Mama's employer assured her she was happy to cook dinner for her family this night, allowing Mama to go home early and be there with us for our family dinner. We stopped off at one of the supermarkets in Itsoseng, though the prices were hugely inflated compared to those in town. Silwane was also visiting which meant there were three extra adults to feed, and we didn't want to place a burden on Mama during our stay. We also made sure the family ate well, stocking up on meat and fresh vegetables to complement the mealie meal, rice and beans that were the local staple. Both Mama and Tshidi kept a vegetable garden alive in the harsh, dry climate but neither garden yielded enough to feed the family, the soil being so poor.

As we sat around the kitchen table that night, warmed by many bodies cramped into the small space, I felt very much at home. Though a great deal of the conversation floated past me, in this cosy room lit by paraffin lamps and candles I felt safe and protected against the cold night. As the younger children were put to bed by their older siblings, the room gradually dimmed: one by one, the candles were moved away to serve as night lights for the children who slept two or three to a single bed. Mama had given us her room and she planned to put a few of the older children on the floor when she was ready to sleep. Tshidi and her husband would sleep with Mello next door, though I knew Mello was soon to be replaced by the new baby and would then move into a corner of a bed at Mama's house.

We waited until everyone else had gone to bed before telling Mama about our plans to pay off the house. She was overcome, hugging and kissing us both in gratitude, her relief palpable. We agreed we would go to the council offices in the morning and sort out the paperwork, transferring the house into her name. After this, I excused myself, knowing that she and Teboho would wish to talk late into the night as was their habit, catching up on all the details of their months apart. Teboho was the first in his family to go to university, and would be the first to graduate. His life was so foreign to Mama's and she sought to understand how he now lived, often shaking her head in amazement about how things had changed from when she was a child. Teboho was also hungry for family news, feeling a little disconnected living so far away. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear the soft murmur of their voices in the room next door, soothing as a lullaby.

We all woke with the dawn, the house being small and the walls offering no soundproofing. I heard Tshidi's eldest daughter, Nthabiseng, go out and collect water from the tap before putting it on the small paraffin stove to boil. I had no desire to get out of bed, as the tin walls seemed to be radiating the chill of the early morning air. So I snuggled back under the covers and spooned Teboho for some extra warmth. I had not heard him come to bed but suspected he had not slept more than a few hours. He has that rare gift of getting by without much sleep and I knew he would soon bound out of bed appearing refreshed.

As I lay behind him, my arm slung over his thigh, I listened to the sounds inside and outside the house. Living next to campus in 'Maritzburg was in many ways akin to living in a suburb anywhere. Yet when we were here, I felt myself to be in the middle of Africa. Without me in the room, there was no English spoken, only Sesotho and Setswana. The familiar smell of paraffin and porridge filled the air. Few cars passed on the dusty road outside but I could hear the footsteps of our neighbours, their early morning conversations, a greeting called out to a neighbour as they threw a basinful of water onto the ground outside the kitchen door. There was no morning peak hour traffic, no rush to an all-important, all-consuming corporate job. Instead, the bird sounds reminded me of my first morning in Africa, the doves cooing as if to greet the morning sun.

Once more I felt the privilege of my life with Teboho. Marrying him had opened a door that allowed me to be part of African family life, not simply to observe it from the outside. In return for the family's open-heartedness, I sought to embrace the culture as fully as I could. I had taken the family name despite never wanting to relinquish my own; I did not want the family to feel hurt or to think that I was ashamed of having an African surname. I was busy learning a second African language, Sesotho, though it was completely different to the Zulu that now rolled fluently off my tongue. I tried to ft in and do what was expected of any family member, at least as much as the family would let me. I did not want to be thought of as a typical white woman, someone who was generally described as ‘having no hands'–afraid of hard work or afraid of embracing an African way of life. I was also happy to help the family financially, as we were about to do today; sharing what little we had seemed the only fair thing to do when confronted with the poverty of their lives. The family never asked for or expected our help even though, as a white person, I was likely to have more than they did. We were just doing what every African family did: those who had work supported those who did not, as best they could.

With these thoughts in my mind, I reluctantly pulled the blankets back and eased my toes to the floor. The cold took my breath away and I quickly threw on more layers of clothing before brushing my hair and venturing into the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind me. Five eager faces turned towards me. During our shopping expedition the day before we had bought breakfast cereal as a special treat for Tshidi's kids but she had declared the cereal could only be dished by me, to make sure no one took too much. After polite greetings and enquiries as to how I had slept, I went to the small wooden cupboard and produced the much awaited box of cereal. Six bowls were already waiting on the table next to a carton of long-life milk. I would have far preferred normal milk but without a fridge it would soon sour, even in the dead of winter. I poured a bowl of cereal for each child and one for me before we all huddled around the coal stove that Nthabiseng had long since lit to warm the kitchen. Each one sat in silence for the first minute as they tasted the cereal, weighing up the favours and textures, then they all spoke at once like chattering parrots as they explained what they each liked about the cereal and how it compared to porridge. Mama and her daughters laughed and, despite encouragement from the children, said they preferred porridge on a cold morning. I knew they would not dream of robbing the children of the pleasure of cereal for the next few days and so contented themselves with porridge as always.