Holding Up the Sky (38 page)

Joseph was Tshidi's eldest child, born when she was still a teenager on the mine in Krugersdorp. Teboho had helped him get a student loan to study in 'Maritzburg and he was back home for the holidays after his first term studying agriculture. It was easy to see how much his siblings looked up to Joseph, hanging on his every word, wanting to know what went on at university. In many ways, he had become the man of the house. Reggie's disability and his subsequent struggle to feed his family seemed to cause him to disappear into the background. Joseph, as the eldest son and now a university student, appeared to be stepping into the breach.

We spent the next few days sorting out payment for the house, doing the chores that required a car and taking the family to visit friends and family in some of the more far-flung parts of the area. Above all, we were enjoying being with family. Tshidi's children were a pleasure, all as sweet as honey. Though I generally found black children to be very well behaved, particularly the ones brought up outside the larger cities, Tshidi's children displayed a good-heartedness and gentleness that stood out. All except for Mello. Even at two, she was her own person, bold and brave and vocal about what was on her mind. While she continued to make regular reports on our movements, she had also warmed to the idea of me and began to follow me around, firing off questions as we went. I didn't understand much of what she asked, but was happy to let her investigate my toiletry bag, my clothes, the feel of my skin and hair. As I sat outside in the morning sun on our last day, helping with the washing of clothes, she kept us all entertained with her stories of the visit so far, recounting again and again her trips in the car.

On the morning of the fifth day, it was time to leave. As always, I had loved our stay with Mama and the family. But the highlight of this trip for me, beyond the look on Mama's face when we gave her the news about the house, was Mello. Teboho had seen this and was equally enchanted with his little niece. As we said our goodbyes, Joseph was struggling to extract Mello from the driver's seat. He eventually succeeded and brought her over to me for a kiss goodbye. As he did so, Teboho turned to Tshidi, and teasingly said, ‘Oh come on, Ousi Matshidiso, you have so many beautiful children, can't you spare us just one?
Just one
. Let Mello come home with us.'

Reggie, who had come across from his house to say goodbye, leapt in saying, ‘No, not Mello. She is my sunshine', clutching his chest as he did so.

We all laughed, but I was taken aback by Reggie's strength of feeling: this was the most I had heard him say.

‘Poor us', Teboho replied. ‘Let's only hope we have children as beautiful as yours. You will have to tell us how you did it, Ousi, what you ate, how 'Buti Reggie kissed you.' Mama, who was standing close by, let Teboho know he wasn't too old for her to swat him over the ears.

And with that, we were on our way back to 'Maritzburg for our last term before we both graduated.

LIFE
WAS BUSY ONCE WE WERE BACK. THE ANNUAL SAAAD CONFERENCE WAS ONLY A FEW MONTHS AWAY AND WE WERE HOSTING IT IN NATAL. FIONA AND I HAD ONLY WEEKS BEFORE THE CALL FOR PAPERS CLOSED AND WE WANTED TO MAKE SURE WE HAD THE HIGHEST CALIBRE WE COULD POSSIBLY GET. THEN THERE WERE ALL THE LOGISTICAL ARRANGEMENTS WHICH WERE LARGELY MY DOMAIN. I HAD ALSO BEEN WORKING ON A PAPER OF MY OWN FOR A MATERIALS DEVELOPMENT CONFERENCE IN SEPTEMBER.

As part of my graduate diploma, I was required to undertake a research project and, given the nature of my work on voter education, I had chosen visual literacy as my topic. This was a study of what people understood in the images they saw. Through the research I had learnt that some of the drawing conventions commonplace in the western world, such as shading and cross-hatching, made a person look ill through black eyes. Instead of concentrating on what the person was doing in the drawing, people were asking what had made the person sick, thinking that was the moral of the story. The results of my research, along with those of a woman by the name of Anne who worked at the Centre for Adult Education, had been accepted as a conference paper. It was a huge deal to me–the first time I had presented at a conference; and it made me feel I was becoming a professional in a field of study.

Teboho was also knee deep in assignments at the end of the first week back. The cafe had reopened and the removalist work had been busy right through the holidays. Despite being fat out during the week, we had plenty of time on weekends to catch up with friends and family: Willie, Justin, Peter and Heidi, Brian and Anthea, Robbie, Themba, Nonsi and Fred. Life was full and I loved it that way.

A few weeks into term, a letter arrived from Joseph in Itsoseng– he was yet to return to campus as he still had to complete a field research project. We rarely received letters from the family, who mostly preferred the phone to writing. Dropping our things, we sat on the couch and Teboho read it out loud, with me trying in vain to peer over his shoulder.

‘I still can't believe she was so close to giving birth and we didn't know. By the way, what does the name “Mojalefa” mean?'

‘It means Tshidi is done having babies.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘The name means “the one who inherits” which is always the last born. You know how Moss and Khumo now live with his father? Well, that's because, as the last born, Moss inherits the parents' house, but also the care of his parents, in their case, Papi.'

‘I see. So Mojalefa will be expected to do the same.'

‘Tshidi and Reggie will expect him to.'

‘Hmmm. Go on.'

Everyone sends their love, especially Mama who is still smiling about the house
.

‘It felt so great to be able to do that for her.'

I am writing to you to tell you that we had a family meeting after you left, to talk about your request
.

‘What are they talking about?'

‘I don't know.'

‘That was a joke, what you said when we were leaving. They knew it was a joke, didn't they?'

‘It seems like they took it seriously.'

Please consider it and let us know. Ousi Matshisidso knows that you will say yes, Auntie. She saw how much you loved Mello
.

‘What does he mean, “Tshidi knows we'll say yes”? What are they talking about? Why would Tshidi want to give away her own child?'

‘She's not giving her away. We're family. If we raised her, it's the same as if she and Reggie did.'

‘How can you be so calm about this? This is crazy.'

‘It happens all the time in African culture. It's not a big thing. The brother who is doing well is often asked to take a child from a sibling so they can send them to a good school. Or sometimes they give you a child to raise if you can't have children of your own.'

‘But we've only been married eighteen months. They can't be thinking that! I just can't believe it.'

‘
Moratua
, my love, it happens all the time in African culture. Try not to judge.'

‘Well, it doesn't happen all the time with me. How could Tshidi let her go? You saw how Reggie was. Why would he agree?'

‘Because he loves her and wants what's best for her.'

‘But it's not just about who has the most money to care for a child.'

‘You don't understand. With them or with us, it's the same. We are the same family. They would not give us Mojalefa, as the last born, and Teboho at six is too old, so Mello is a good choice. And they saw how much you love her.'

‘She's adorable, but that's not the issue.'

‘There is no issue for me, so why don't you take some time to think about it? Then decide and we will phone and tell them.'

I was in a state of shock. Despite Teboho's explanations, I couldn't understand why Tshidi would give Mello up. She was such a special little girl, such a standout, and clearly very attached to Tshidi. How could she even consider it? I could never give up a child. I knew that they didn't have much money, but how much was not enough before you made an offer like this?

I didn't sleep much that night, tossing and turning with indecision. Teboho, on the other hand, slept soundly. Despite my initial shock, I realised that if I said no I would still see her each holidays, knowing it was I who had sentenced her to a life of poverty in the dustbowl of Itsoseng. How I could look her in the eye as she grew up, knowing I could have changed that for her?

The next morning, despite mountains of conference work to do, Fiona and I spent time discussing what had happened. After a fitful night, I felt it might be too difficult to say no and was leaning towards taking her whereas Fiona, in her usual wisdom, was pushing me to consider the longer-term implications. One of our white colleagues at CUED was married to a black South African. They had two small boys of their own and had also, a few years before, taken on his niece so that she could go to high school in 'Maritzburg. In the rural area where her side of the family lived, there was no such option. Her friend had agreed and had struggled ever since with making it work. While I heard what Fiona was saying, I also knew that Teboho was nothing like this woman's husband, who left his wife to take care of everything while he went off with friends, doing as he pleased.

Without my knowing, Teboho spoke to Moss and Khumo, seeking wise council of his own. Khumo, just as when he had asked her opinion about a mixed marriage, was very against the idea of our taking Tshidi's child. She argued that it never worked well, with the child ultimately becoming a kind of Cinderella to the family, never able to feel truly part of it. For reasons of his own, Teboho never shared this conversation with me; Khumo told me about it many years later.

After days of wrestling with the idea on my own, I finally sat Teboho down and told him what my decision was. At the time, I was so consumed by the pressure of making a decision that I did not realise I was making it alone. Instead of working through it with me–as a couple–Teboho had left it to me to decide. He most likely felt he was doing the right thing by letting me have the final say but I felt pressured to do what was culturally acceptable. I felt alone in the decision and, much later, betrayed by his lack of protection from the weight of its impact. It was a decision to be made together, in the best interests of our marriage and Mello's wellbeing, both sides in balance. As it was, I felt cornered into saying yes although I could not admit that to myself for a long time. We sat down together and I told him I would agree to taking her, on one condition: I wanted us to adopt her legally. I knew of circumstances where children were sent to town to go to school, then sent back to their original family after a change in circumstances. I felt that if we took Mello, we took her for good. Though adoption was rare in the black community, Teboho agreed it would be a good idea. In the end, it was the guilt of knowing I would have denied her a better life that made me agree to the arrangement. But once I had agreed, a seed of delight germinated within me at the thought of raising that adorable little girl as my own.

Teboho phoned Tshidi and Mama the next night to tell them the news. Tshidi said she was never in any doubt that I would say yes. It was arranged that we would drive up to Mohlakeng in four weeks time and Tshidi would meet us there, bringing Mello with her. There was a lot to do in those four weeks: set up the small study as a bedroom, enrol her in preschool for the mornings when I would be at work, buy her new clothes and shoes. We would also have to delay our travel plans for Australia, allowing enough time to process the adoption and get a passport and visa for her. Then there was the most important thing on the list–telling my parents.

I recalled the phone conversation I had with my parents a few years before.

‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. Guess what? I'm getting married. Yes, you'll meet him when we come over for the wedding at Christmas.'

It was like deja vu.

‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. Guess what? You're going to be grandparents! Tshidi and Reggie have asked us to take their two-year-old daughter and raise her. So we'll be bringing her with us when we come over, though it will mean we won't be there for Christmas.'

My longsuffering parents who, many years ago, had learnt how to mask their surprise at the choices I made, congratulated us and wished us well. They listened intently as I described Mello and the chain of events that had led us here. I promised to phone them in a few weeks when Mello arrived.

Before I knew it, we were pulling up outside Caleb's house to meet Tshidi and Mello. Tshidi had told us on the phone that Mello was excited at the news she was going to live with us. In the kombi on the way to Jo'burg, she had told any fellow traveller who would listen that she was going to be driving in a car with her aunt and uncle. I wondered whether, without her keen interest in cars, she would have refused to come with us.

As we walked up the short path to the kitchen door, I stopped for a moment and took a breath, nervous as a teenager on a first date. The day before I had gone through all the clothes I'd bought for her, imagining her in each little outfit. I held up a pair of tiny bottle-green suede sandals and felt a rush of anticipation and longing. I was about to become a mother to a beautiful little girl. Now, standing outside the house, I wondered if it would be what I had fantasised about for the last few weeks. Did she really understand what was happening and would she agree if she did, bonded to Tshidi as she so clearly was? I heard the sounds of greetings–Teboho had gone ahead of me–and knew I could delay no longer.

I walked through the kitchen door to find Tshidi leaning against the sink chatting to Teboho. Ousi, Caleb's second wife, was sitting at the dining room table with a cup of tea in front of her.

‘
Dumelang
', Hello everyone. ‘
Le kae
?' How are you all? ‘
Ri teng
', We are well.

‘
O Tsamaya hantle?
' Did you travel well? Ousi asked. ‘
O lapile? O batla tea?
' Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?

With the greetings over, I asked the question I most wanted an answer to: ‘
Mello o kae?
' Where is Mello?

‘
Oa tsamaya le Katie
', Tshidi replied, tilting her head down the street in the direction of the small store that one of the neighbours ran from their garage. As it sold sweets and drinks and was closer than the main supermarket many blocks away, this was a convenient meeting point for all the kids in the street. Mello had gone off with her older cousin Katie, Ousi's last born. Katie was five years older than Mello and would no doubt have her well in hand.

We were all sitting around the table catching up on family news when the sound of two little voices wafted past the window.

‘
Mphe, Katie, ke batla sweetie
', came the smaller of the two voices, begging for a sweet.

‘
E e Mello, o tlo hlatsa
', replied the voice of wisdom, describing the unpleasant consequences too many sweets can have on a child.

‘
Mphe
', replied the defiant little voice of my daughter, confident she would not throw up.

They rounded the kitchen door locked in mortal combat over the bag of sweets, then stopped in their tracks, catching sight of the four grownups staring at them.

‘
Ke a ho bolelle Mello
', said Katie at last, sensing she had the moral high ground by the look in Tshidi's eye. I told you, Mello.

‘Mamello', Teboho cried, reaching her in two steps and lifting her into the air. She giggled uncontrollably as he tickled her with one hand and held her aloft with the other.

‘
Dumela
', Auntie, said Katie beaming, as she approached me for a cuddle. Of all of Caleb and Ousi's children, Katie and I were the closest. She was a beautiful, affectionate child who had never been reserved with me, allowing us to form a bond early on. I pulled her up onto my knee for a hug though she barely fitted anymore. As I did, Teboho brought Mello over, whispering something in her ear. She leant down towards me and said, ‘How are you?' in three careful words, as if they were drops of water from a leaky tap.

Everyone burst into laughter. Tshidi told us that Joseph had taught Mello to say this, her first English sentence, in preparation for this moment. Mello was beaming as Teboho congratulated her on her fine English. Delighted as I was by her efforts and the impish little smile that went with them, I glimpsed the enormity of what I was doing–she didn't speak any English and I had so little Sesotho. How would we communicate, how would we form a bond? But the moment passed quickly as Teboho placed Mello on my other knee and the three of us sat snuggled up together, Mello still wanting to discuss the future of the sweets.