Holding Up the Sky (43 page)

A few hours later, as darkness fell, the meat was finally ready. I had been in the kitchen helping to prepare vegetables, pap, sauce and coleslaw. There were also a number of chickens that had their necks wrung and their feathers plucked before being dropped into a large pot. Sadly, the turkey escaped playing a role in tonight's feast, much to my disappointment.

The process for the meal was to take a plate, go to the pit, have some meat cut from the carcass and then return to the dining room table to add all the other items to your plate. The extended family and neighbours moved through in a snaking line some forty or fifty people long. After the main meal was consumed, tinned fruit and custard were placed on the table in large plastic bowls and the queuing process was repeated once more. According to the cousins, our dessert was a real treat as custard was reserved for special events, making an appearance only once or twice a year.

After we had all eaten and some of the neighbours had drifted away, prayers and singing were held in the lounge room to close the festivities. In other families that were less devoutly Christian, the evening would have continued with some music, singing and dancing. This would also have been accompanied by copious amounts of beer and the resultant drunken men declaring love for me and any other woman in proximity. While I missed the music, and the prayers would no doubt be long, there was certainly something to be said for the religious sobriety demonstrated by families such as ours.

The head of the household gave thanks for our visit and prayed for success in all our ventures in Australia. He prayed that we would make the family proud and inspire others to follow in our footstepsto improve themselves. At this point, everyone in the room broke into simultaneous personal petition, some in Setswana and others seemingly speaking in tongues. This cacophony of voices, with its meaning lost to all bar the petitioner, took some getting used to but by now I had seen it often enough not to be surprised. This night, I estimated that it went on for some thirty minutes or so, thinking it rude to check my watch midstream. Initially, I prayed about the things that were on my mind–Mello's papers and making it to Australia in time to register–then for each member of the family, and for a safe journey home in the morning. I went on to thank God for everything I had experienced in recent weeks.

After fifteen minutes or so, I ran out of things to say. Assuming that others would likewise dry up shortly, I sat and waited. I remember asking Khumo about the purpose of praying in this way, given that no one else could hear what you were praying for and pray with you. She said it was more to get lost in the moment of thanksgiving to God, letting it all pour out. I realised that growing up white and Anglican, I was not given to letting it all out and began to respect those who could. From the look of it, it seemed to do them a lot of good. So I waited for the family to let it all out, knowing there are precious few moments for this in most people's lives and plenty of hardships to bring to God's attention.

At the end of prayers, Teboho was asked to give a sermon. This was unsurprising, as his degree was in theology and sociology. With Willie sitting next to me translating where necessary, I listened to Teboho talk of God's love for us that is expressed through the love and hospitality of family, through His presence in suffering and in delivering us from evil. I felt he would have added ‘of the apartheid system', had the audience not been so very apolitical. This part of the family, like many black South Africans, survived the cruelties of apartheid only through focusing on the glories of heaven to come. They purposefully avoided political involvement and put their faith in God to reward their long suffering in the next life. Mama was a little like this herself, not in that she believed political involvement was unchristian, just that she felt so disempowered to change things that she simply persevered while harbouring no bitterness, hoping heaven would be a kinder place.

It was almost midnight when the post-sermon singing finally died down. As they made their way to their beds, the older members of the family all agreed that it had been an excellent celebration. No doubt the stories of the day would benefit from retelling over the weeks and months to come. I was also looking for my bed by now and went over to the couch where Mello lay sleeping. She woke briefly as I lifted her onto my shoulder and carried her through to our room. As I walked down the dark corridor, I could hear the echo of Teboho's laughter outside. I wouldn't expect him any time soon.

I woke in the morning with Mello's hand tucked under my arm and Teboho fast asleep beside me. This time I was happy to stay put and enjoy the quiet. I lay listening to the rhythms of the local language and the birds, contemplating the extraordinary privileges presented to me through the choices I had made in my life, choices that at times also caused me a great deal of pain. However, in the balance of things, the opportunity to experience a life so apart from the one I had lived in Australia gave my days and nights a richness that more than compensated for all the things I had given up to be here.

I looked at the face of my husband, lying contentedly on the pillow next to mine. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he stirred. He rolled over to face me, asking if I'd had enough sleep. I rolled my eyes in Mello's direction and laughed. But I had not come for the sleep and told him so.

‘Did you enjoy the visit? I know it was a bit strange this time', I murmured.

‘I'm just happy to watch you getting so involved. I know we didn't spend much time together, but I had my eye on you most of the time', he replied with a smile.

‘Did you now?' I said, eyebrows raised.

‘That's my job as your husband, I believe.'

‘That's true. And my job as a wife?' I asked.

‘ To stay with me, wherever I go. Even to the far corners of the country', he said grandly. ‘Do you know, a few of the family told me how much it meant to them, to see you wanting to learn the culture and the language. I probably don't tell you often enough, but it means a lot to me too.'

‘Thank you', I said with a kiss. ‘But I'm not sure I deserve any praise on the food front. My family aren't very ambitious in the culinary stakes.'

‘Only God is perfect,
Moratua
.'

We lay in bed for a time talking about the various members of the family I had met this trip and where they fitted into stories that I had already heard. We laughed about my visit to the witch. Teboho did not put much store in the power of witchcraft over him as he did not fear it. However, he didn't underestimate the impact it had on members of the family, nor did he scorn their beliefs. I respected his efforts to embody both the traditional and modern African cultures, embracing the value in both.

We knew it was time to get up when we heard Mama's voice in the kitchen. We had agreed to head back to Itsoseng straight after breakfast so we could avoid travelling in the heat of the day. After a meal of porridge, jam and bread, we packed and went to say our farewells. We stood around our car, embracing all the cousins and wishing them a wonderful year.

As we pulled away from the house, I saw the turkey scratching in the dirt, king of all he surveyed. In truth, I'm not sure who scared me more, the turkey or the witch. And as we drove off up the road I wondered if, in fact, the witch used neither zombies nor pumpkins for her night time escapades, as many of the family believed, but rather a certain evil bird that was readily to hand in the yard outside.

AFTER
ANOTHER TWO WEEKS OF ANXIOUS WAITING, MELLO'S AND MY DAILY TRIP TO THE LETTERBOX FINALLY YIELDED THE LETTER WE WERE WAITING FOR. HER SOUTH AFRICAN BIRTH CERTIFICATE WAS READY AND WE COULD APPLY FOR A PASSPORT FOR HER.

We rushed to the offices as soon as they opened the next morning, stopping off in one of the mobile photo booths that surrounded the office like flies on a carcass. Once we had the photos and the birth certificate, we went straight to the queue for a passport application.

‘Two to four weeks', replied the clerk coolly, after Teboho and I had explained our need for urgency. I nodded, knowing that this was the standard time taken to process a passport and that our plea had not moved him. I sighed and turned away from the counter.

‘We've got five weeks at the most', I said, my earlier excitement at our progress having dissipated.

‘Don't worry. There's still enough time', Teboho replied, ever the optimist.

‘But we have to get the Aussie visa as well.'

‘I know. We'll make it', he said with a kiss.

While we were both still working, we spent the following weeks sorting out our few possessions so that we would be ready to leave at the drop of a hat. Willie was going to look after most of our things, a windfall for him as he had just moved into a group house with other students from campus. Oxford Street had been sold just before Christmas, as Justin was also moving on.

One other important matter to take care of was Mello's third birthday party. Though she was born on 11 February, we thought our friends would forgive us if we celebrated a little early. It was to be the first birthday party she had ever had. Felicity and Tony offered their home for the party, which was also doubling up as a farewell. There were presents, speeches and tears, and a huge cake in the shape of a ‘3' that I had made with Felicity's girls. Teboho spoke on behalf of our family, thanking each person for coming, describing what their friendship had meant to us over the highs and lows of the last four years. He then led a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday' for Mello, in English and Sesotho, as she stood beaming in front of the cake, ready to blow out the candles at a nod from me.

Three weeks later, we had Mello's passport in hand and were headed up to Pretoria to lodge her visa application. We had just two weeks before the registration for our Masters degrees closed. Standing in the embassy queue, I felt on the verge of tears. We were now so close and it had been so hard to get to this point, like wading through a river of mud with only desire to keep us moving forward. This was the final hurdle.

‘G'day. How you going?' said the Australian official at the counter. I had to hold back a sob at the familiar accent.

I tried to keep my voice steady as I explained our situation: my husband already had permanent residence, both of us were accepted into Macquarie University and now all we needed was a visa for the little girl in my arms. She smiled and said, ‘Let's see what we can do'.

Twelve days later, we were on the plane to Sydney. We had cut it fine, but we would make it. After months of paperwork, queues and waiting, it would come down to a matter of hours. Mum and Dad were going to meet us at the airport in Sydney at 2 pm and we would drive straight to Macquarie University where registration for the academic year closed at 4 pm. Mum had let the university know about our last-minute dash, but their response was: ‘Just make sure you're here before 4.00'.

After a stopover in Perth, we reboarded the plane for the final leg across the country. I sat reminiscing about our Jo'burg farewell. Just as with the send-off for our wedding, family and friends had been at the airport to wish us well: Mama and Ma Ellen, Caleb and the family as well as Moss and Khumo. My mind was focused on our return to Australia yet, as I looked at this group, my heart ached for what we were leaving behind. We planned to be gone for two or three years and though life would move on, I knew this large extended family would be waiting for us when we returned.

After almost seventeen hours travelling we were circling Sydney harbour, preparing to land. Keeping Mello entertained during the fight had taken the lion's share of our time, leaving little opportunity for Teboho and I to discuss how we felt about the next phase of our lives together. I hoped, now that we were about to arrive, he was as excited as I was. We had sat Mello next to the window so that she could see the city as we landed. As usual, she was full of commentary about all the wonders she saw. Peering over her head, I felt the tears prickle as I caught a glimpse of the familiar icons that exemplify home to all Australians who live abroad.

We struggled off the plane and through customs, with me carrying Mello and Teboho lugging our carry-on bags. At the carousel, both Mello and I grew impatient–Mum always jokes that I have a gift for being the last to come through the gates, and it was looking like my gift had not failed me. Finally, we loaded the trolley with our bags, perched Mello on top and emerged from around the barrier to a sea of searching faces. As soon as I spotted Mum, I grabbed Mello and ran forward to greet her. Mum's face was a blur through my tears–I was so happy to see her, so excited that she would finally meet Mello. After squashing her inside our mother-daughter embrace, I transferred Mello into her grandmother's waiting arms.

‘Hello, Grandma', she squeaked, seemingly undaunted by all the commotion.

‘Hello, sweetheart', Mum replied, shooting a look at Dad who was peering in over her shoulder to get a better look at his first grandchild.

‘Hi, Dad. How are you?'

‘We're doing alright now', he replied without taking his eyes off Mello.

‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad', said Teboho, as he finally caught up with us, almost invisible behind a mountain of bags.

‘We'd better get going', Dad urged. ‘We're cutting it a bit fine.'

I shot a look at Teboho that said ‘story of our lives' before turning to follow Dad as he headed towards the glass doors.

After a tense drive through traffic that was beginning to build for the early Friday peak hour, we pulled up in the parking lot on campus. Ever organised, Mum had collected a map of the university and had marked out where we needed to go. I took the map, having done work experience at Macquarie when I was fifteen, and sought to orientate ourselves. After agreeing to leave Mello with Mum and Dad, Teboho and I took off at a run, papers in hand, to the registration office.

We returned to the car thirty minutes later, a huge weight lifted from our shoulders. I finally felt the excitement of the two years that lay before us. Up until that moment, all the possible barriers had taken away the excitement of coming back–all I had felt was stress and fear. But now, with all the obstacles removed, I felt a rush of pleasure at the thought of living back in Sydney. Mum and Dad had offered to have us live with them in the two-storey, four-bedroom house that I grew up in, which was now a little big for my parents alone. They were also keen to do as much babysitting as possible while we were here, and living with them would give them all the access they wanted. In addition, Macquarie University was only a short bus ride away, making it an ideal option for all of us.

Once at the car, I looked around for Mum and Dad and Mello but they were nowhere to be seen. Then I heard a little voice from around the corner of the adjacent building saying, ‘You a funny girl, Grandma'. At that moment, Mum and Dad came into view, having taken Mello for a walk to pass the time. She walked in between the two of them, swinging her arms and forcing them to do the same. Then she took a step back before leaping into the air, sending them all lurching forward as she giggled and my parents braced themselves to hold her up.

‘I hope you're up for this', I called out.

‘We've still got a bit of kick left in us, don't you worry', Dad replied, smiling from ear to ear. As I stood watching them, I suddenly felt jetlag grab hold of me and realised how very tired I was. It was time to head home.

Classes started almost immediately, as did our job hunting. I landed the second job I applied for, working in the state coordinating body for early childhood education three days a week. My classes were mostly in the evenings, leaving me almost two full days to do research and get assignments done. Teboho was not so fortunate. He ultimately applied for over thirty jobs, receiving rejection letter after rejection letter, never even making it to the interview stage. After a time, he shifted from applying for jobs that would suit his training in sociology and community work to applying for anything. After many months and much heartbreak, he found a job as a cleaner.

More than anything, I was embarrassed that my country could think so little of his skills and experience, or perhaps his heritage, that there was no other job employers thought he was ft for than one he would have been similarly assigned to in the past in South Africa. In selling the idea of us coming to Australia, I had said it would be a good break from the pressures of South Africa, where he was constantly judged by the colour of his skin. I felt now that he was still being judged–for being a foreigner, for being African–making it hard for him to find meaningful work. I began to think privately, as I suspect he did, that perhaps it wasn't such a great idea to have come. However, I wasn't in a place where I wanted to express such doubts and neither, it seemed, was he.

Mello was enrolled in the university's childcare centre four days a week and between the four of us, we saw that she got there and was picked up on time. Sometimes Mum would take her in the car but it was the bus trip she particularly liked. She felt it important to chat with the driver in her still broken English as we boarded the bus, and then to greet passengers as we made our way to her favourite seat in the back. She loved sitting high up in the clean, comfortable bus, commenting on the world passing by. Since living in Sydney, her daily exposure to English had risen dramatically, with only Teboho speaking to her in Sesotho. I overheard her one day, after a few months in the country, asking Teboho to stop speaking to her in Sesotho. ‘I'm English now', she said with an exasperated sigh.

We had also noticed that Mello took a long time to warm to Dad. She had taken to Mum immediately but despite Dad's best efforts, turned to him only when there was no other option. On Fridays, when Mello was not at preschool, Dad began taking Mello up to the shops for lunch. He said it was ‘their time' and the rest of us rarely received an invitation to join them. Initially, Mello was very reluctant to go with him but Dad persevered. He told the story of having to drag Mello across the street at the top end of the shops at Chatswood to get to the cafe with her shouting, ‘I'm not your friend', thinking that at any moment someone would do a citizen's arrest on him for child abuse or kidnapping. Mello was not shy to voice her objections at being made to go to the cafe of Dad's choice, not hers. Mello also had a special look that she reserved for him at moments like that, a look that bore an unsettling resemblance to Dad's own ‘evil eye'. On seeing it, Mum and I began to wonder if they were not somehow related after all.

But Dad persevered until those Friday lunches became hallowed ground. Basil, the cafe owner, held their special table for them near the kitchen where he and his wife could chat with Mello while they prepared lunch for the other customers. They both ordered the same meal each week, with a chocolate milkshake for Mello and a long black coffee for Dad. I think we all heaved a sigh of relief when the battle between them finally ended. Ironically though, Dad cherished a photo that Teboho took of Mello giving the evil eye in the early months of our stay. He had it by his bedside until he died.

On the morning of 27 April 1994, Teboho was up early. Hearing him get out of bed, I joined him and we washed and dressed with hardly a word between us. After breakfast, we left Mello with Mum and Dad and made our way up to the South African consular offices which, thankfully, were in Chatswood near where we lived. The streets were relatively quiet as the rush of the day was yet to begin in earnest. Teboho and I walked hand in hand as we came down the street towards the office. As we approached, we saw a camera crew on the steps. It seemed someone else had also worked out the significance of the moment. It was possible that Teboho could be the first black South African to cast a vote in a democratic election in the country's history. Today was the day we had all been waiting for and with the time zone differences between South Africa and the eastern seaboard of Australia, Teboho would be one of the first to vote.

We had a brief chat with the camera crew on our way in as they arranged an interview with him once he had voted. Unlike his countrymen and women who would be seen around the world queuing for hours in long snaking lines, patiently celebrating the moment for which they had waited a lifetime, Teboho went into the office alone. He cast his vote in private but there was no question, being an ANC member, as to whom he would be voting for. When the votes were finally tallied, over twelve million people did likewise. In the days that followed, almost sixteen million South Africans would also vote for the first time.

When he was done, I watched him stand over the simple box into which his vote had disappeared a moment before. He turned and lifted his clenched fist up to his chest and whispered, ‘
Amandla awethu
', Power is ours, the catchcry of millions as they protested against the cruelty of apartheid, a system which was now at an end.

Once he had voted and we were outside again, the quiet mist that had surrounded him like a shroud lifted and he was his flamboyant self once more. I hadn't wanted to pry into his thoughts that morning. One of the downsides of our leaving when we did was that he would miss this moment. I hoped it would still be a significant one and, given the smile across his face as I watched him being interviewed, his ANC T-shirt in full view, I had no doubt that he was still able to be taken up by the history of the moment.