Holding Up the Sky (40 page)

‘Will you go to Sydney now?' Mama asked.

‘Not yet. There are still some papers we need to get', I replied.

‘Really? Still more?' she said, eyebrows raised.

‘Many more. We still need to get her a passport and then a visa to go and stay in Australia.'

‘Will that take a long time?'

‘Still a few more weeks. Perhaps we will leave at the beginning of January', I said, glancing across at Teboho who was now chatting to Reggie. We really didn't know how long it would take. Our deadline was 20 February, so that we could be in Australia to register for our Masters degrees. We were confident it wouldn't take that long and I was holding out a secret hope that we could be there for New Year's Eve which was always a huge celebration on Sydney Harbour.

It was soon time to leave, if we didn't want to be driving in the dark. So we began to say our goodbyes. I was watching Mello out of the corner of my eye as I hugged and kissed each member of the family. Teboho was with her, encouraging her to do the same. She seemed to take the cue and ran towards the car. I held my breath. Would she realise that Tshidi was not coming with us and change her mind, asking to stay? I felt my stomach lurch at the thought of having to drag her away crying. Who would she understand me to be then?

As she reached the car door, she opened it and climbed up into her car seat. Then she turned and began waving goodbye to everyone. Without a word, I fastened her buckle and closed the door behind her. Still she did not protest, just continued to wave and smile. I sat in the front seat next to Teboho and closed the door, time seeming to drag as if attached to a ball and chain. As Teboho hit the horn in farewell, time snapped back into place and we were away. I looked behind me and Mello was her usual self, chatting about what she had done with Nthabiseng and young Teboho while we were inside. As I turned my head to the road Teboho caught my eye and smiled, as if to say that all would be well with the three of us.

Once we arrived back home, I lost no time in moving things forward. With Mello's papers in hand, I approached the Department of Homeland Affairs for a passport the following morning. To my horror, they informed me that she could not be issued with a South African passport as she was a citizen of Bophuthatswana.

‘But no one recognises Bophuthatswana as a sovereign state and she won't be able to travel internationally on papers from there', I replied, exasperated, to the clerk in the busy office.

‘I can't help you', he commented fatly.

‘My husband is a South African citizen. Can she be recognised through him, her adoptive father?' I already knew from the Australian embassy that Mello could be given permanent residency through her relationship with me.

He nodded. ‘You will have to register her in South Africa and then apply for the birth certificate before you can apply for the passport. Fill in this form and then queue over there', he said, pushing another pale green form in my direction and pointing to a queue that looked at least two hours long.

As I stood in the queue to register her, completed green form in my hand, my mind sifted through the new information. There was a strong possibility that we were not going to wade through this red tape in time to register for university–but I felt that if I allowed myself to give in to this conclusion, all our plans would fall apart. So I stood in the queue and sought to gather my will behind the belief that it could all be done in time.

While we waited once more, our life continued. There was plenty to do at SAAAD. The conference had been a success and we were now looking to implement some of the initiatives that had been discussed. I had also enrolled Mello in swimming lessons in the afternoons as I was keen to ensure she could swim before I took her to Australia–it is a dangerous place for a child who doesn't know how. Peter and Heidi had enrolled Ayanda in the same class. Peter and I looked a sight, our fair skin stark against our dark-skinned daughters' as we all floated around the pool, blowing bubbles and kicking our feet.

I spent a lot of time with Heidi in those weeks. She was looking to set up her own childcare centre in the New Year, now having three children of her own under five. She was a qualified teacher herself and somewhat frustrated with some of the practices she saw in the local preschools. She felt the children were under-stimulated, with teachers often acting more as babysitters than educators. Going to Peter and Heidi's house was like visiting a preschool, such was Heidi's creativity with her children's development. Our friendship with Brian and Anthea also continued to strengthen through the relationship between our two girls. Though I didn't realise it at the time, I was beginning to lose track of my single friends, as our social lives were often driven by finding a playmate for Mello.

About this time, I heard via the grapevine that Steve had finally reached an out of court settlement with the trustees in regard to Sizwe. As I let the news swim around in my head, I felt no great sense of relief or triumph. All that remained was sadness. I had lost my place in an organisation I was deeply committed to, one that now no longer existed. I had lost my friendship with Steve and his family whom I had loved, who had given me a home and a place in their lives. Even my innate belief in the goodness of people had been damaged and perhaps my faith as well. There was also a hole where intimacy used to be between Teboho and I and Jacques and Margie. Though we were still friends, we never spoke of the rift or the ruling by the trustees that vindicated the team. Time had simply passed and we all moved on.

Each afternoon after work, at the barking of the neighbourhood dogs, Mello and I went out to the letterbox to check for mail. For weeks, there was nothing. Though Mello seemed to enjoy our little ritual, my own anxiety increased with each empty letterbox. Finally, a letter arrived in the middle of December, informing us that Mello was now registered and we could apply for the birth certificate from the Department. That night, in a food of relief, we discussed how to proceed. We had just over eight weeks before we had to be in Sydney. We would now have to wait four weeks for the birth certificate, given the time lost over the Christmas break, then a further two weeks for the South African passport. The Australian embassy said it would take a week or two to process the visa once they had received our passports, the adoption papers and a copy of my birth certificate. So it was tight, but possible. Early the next morning I was back in the queue at the Department of Home Affairs, intent on making it work.

The family had decided that every second Christmas we should gather together all twelve brothers and sisters, along with their spouses and children, and celebrate the occasion as one large extended family. Everyone wanted the family to stay intact, to know where they had come from, to whom they belonged. This year, it was Philemon's turn to host the get-together. Phili was Ma Ellen's son with Phuti, Teboho's father, and he lived with his young family in a peri-urban township outside Rustenburg. Rustenburg was two hours north west of Johannesburg, quite close to the famous resort of Sun City. Phili had built a large house by township standards, boasting three large bedrooms and a row of outbuildings to the side. Ma Ellen lived with the family inside the house, with both Ephraim and Doki, two of Mama's sons, living in a room out the back. Ma Ellen's eldest daughter also lived nearby with her family, making Phili's house an ideal location to hold the family gathering.

A big family Christmas was perfect for us that year, allowing us to say goodbye without travelling all across the country to do so. Caleb and his family were coming up from Mohlakeng, Tshidi and Reggie from Itsoseng, and China and Silwane and their families would travel in from the neighbouring rural areas they called home. As we drove up to Rustenburg, planning to arrive on Christmas eve, I was plagued by the fear of a repeat of my experience in Itsoseng a few months before. Though Mello and I had continued to cement our relationship, I had no idea how she might react to seeing Tshidi again.

It was dark when we arrived, Mello already fast asleep in her car seat in the back. We bumped up the dusty road towards the house with the sounds of our straining engine echoing off the hill in the still night. The house gave off a warm glow as the paraffin lamps and candles lit the lounge room, calling us in. We parked between the outbuildings and the house in a half-hearted attempt to keep the car hidden from view overnight. On hearing the car pull up, Phuti, Phili's eldest son who was named after his grandfather, led a troupe of smiling children out to the car to greet us. No sooner was the engine off than there were hands at the car door, the girls fighting to be the one to take Mello out of her car seat and carry her inside. We followed with our overnight bags, stepping up onto the stoep and into the lounge that was now filled with family. Boisterous greetings were exchanged with those we had not seen all year. As Mama had decreed two years before, no one used my English name in greeting. ‘Malerato,
le kae
', how are you? each one said. I heard there was a two rand penalty for anyone who didn't comply.

As is tradition, we were immediately offered food and drink. Though we had eaten along the way and neither of us was hungry, we both accepted a large plate of rice, coleslaw and stew. As I sat picking at the food, Teboho filled the family in on all our recent developments. They were astonished at all the papers you needed in order to leave the country. As none of them had ever been on an aeroplane, let alone travelled overseas, they assumed that all you needed was a ticket, just as on the bus. Phili asked after our studies, clearly proud of his brother's achievements. We had just received notification that Teboho had passed and now had an honour's degree, the first in the family's history. But it was my results that Teboho wished to speak of.

‘I am a lucky man to have married such an intelligent wife. She received top marks again this year, all distinctions, and was offered a scholarship to do her Masters degree in Durban.'

Murmurs of approval passed around the room.

‘Imagine how many cows her father would have asked for now?' Teboho added cheekily, though it was common knowledge that I had not cost him a cent.

After I had finished a respectable amount of food, I put my plate down and went to find Mello. She was in one of the bedrooms surrounded by a circle of cousins whom she was entertaining with stories of living in the suburbs. I stood in the darkened doorway for a while to listen. She explained that water came out of taps inside the house whenever she wanted and that she was learning how to swim in a pool in a white person's backyard. As they sat back in silent wonder, I took the opportunity to announce that it was time for Mello to go to bed. I reached over and picked her up, returning with her to the lounge to confirm sleeping arrangements. As I entered the room, Teboho's sister China, seeing Mello on my hip, whispered to me, ‘Mello is too big to be carried now. You will spoil her if you continue to pick her up'.

I had noticed how quickly children move from babyhood to independence in African culture. I had seen babies nursed and carried on their mother's backs as if they were an extension of their own bodies. How secure it must feel to be an African baby–never without the touch of another's skin. But I had also seen mothers walking along the roadside with a child as young as two trailing a few metres behind. At some undiscernible moment, the toddler leaves infancy behind and becomes part of a peer group of children, mostly siblings and cousins, who take care of each other with seemingly minimal parental supervision. Perhaps China was right and I was spoiling Mello. The exemplary behaviour of so many African children suggested that their parents were doing something right. But I knew I wasn't ready to pass her into the hands of her cousins just yet.

Catching my eye and correctly reading my needs, Ma Ellen took us through to her room where we would be spending the night. I never knew whether to be honoured or embarrassed when people gave up their rooms for us. I knew that other family members would be sharing beds, even sleeping on the floor, but I also knew that it would be insulting if I turned down the offer of the room. I thanked Ma Ellen and dropped Mello on the bed.

‘
Mello, ke nako ho robala
', Mello, it's time for bed. She nodded dutifully. Just as I realised that our bags were still in the lounge, there was a knock at the door and a small voice saying, ‘
Ragadi
, your bags'. I recognised Phuti's voice and asked him to come in. He shyly dropped the bags inside the door and wished us both a good night's sleep before disappearing back into the dark corridor.

By the light of the paraffin lamp that Ma Ellen had left for us, I changed Mello into her summer pyjamas, aware that she would be the only child in the house in possession of such garments, and tucked her into bed. I lay next to her and sang as I was in the habit of doing, while she concentrated on the business of falling asleep. It wasn't long before I felt her little body go limp beside me. Once I was sure she was asleep, I went in search of water with which to wash my face and brush my teeth before slipping into bed beside my little daughter. I drifted off listening to the sounds of family devotions getting under way, knowing it could well be a few hours before they were done, despite the lateness of the hour.

The next morning, the overflowing household was up with the sun. Teboho had joined us some time during the night but I was too tired to have heard him. It was Christmas morning and, thanks to my previous experience of a township Christmas, I was under no illusions as to what the day might hold. The joy of Christmas was not in the presents under the tree, but rather in the whole family being together. As with many black families, a lot of the adults worked six days a week with only a few weeks off at Christmas, so it was no small thing to have all twelve siblings and all the grandchildren together in one place. It was certainly reason enough to celebrate. I also knew that Mello, like all the other children, would need to be dressed in her Christmas outfit which for most was the only Christmas present they received. Since Mello had been given toys and books a few months before, it was the only present she was to receive this Christmas too. However, in honour of our imminent departure for Australia, we had bought her a traditional African outfit that Teboho's sister China had sourced from the Ghanaian seamstress who sold them locally. China had also made me a traditional outfit, this time in a shirt and trousers, that I planned to wear. But it was just before six and I was keen to wash and eat before either of us got dressed up.