Afrika (4 page)

At the break Kim gravitated toward the field where a few boys were kicking a soccer ball around. Soccer had been her favorite sport at home. She played on a girl's team that competed all over western Canada. With longing she watched Themba
pass the ball between himself and another black boy. A white boy stood farther down the field at the goal. She couldn't believe the black kids were still talking about the Truth Commission.

“It's rubbish,” said Themba to the other boy. As he spoke he kicked his toe into the dirt field. “Reconciliation means that killers can walk free.”

“President Mandela has shown forgiveness,” the other black boy argued. “Why can't you? You are what – better than Mandela?”

Themba kicked the ball hard. The white boy lunged for it, but the ball rebounded off a goalpost toward Kim. She blocked the ball with her body and kicked it straight back to Themba.

“Can I play too?” she asked.

“A girl play soccer?” laughed the shorter boy. “Are you mad?”

“Shut up, Sipho,” Themba said. He kicked the ball in Kim's direction. “Let her play,” he shouted.

Relieved and happy to be included, Kim ran up the field with the ball between her feet. Themba was a good sprinter, but she swirled to one side, took the ball, and lost him. Then she jerked left and right past Sipho and charged up to the goalpost.

Kim took her time setting up the shot. She was wide open, but she needed to kick the ball with force and control. She heard her Calgary coach yelling in her ear.
Slow down! Be precise!
She aimed for the far
corner of the goal and belted it. The white boy fell to his stomach but missed the ball. She scored!

“Hey,” said Themba coming up behind her. His dark eyes, set deep in his nut-brown face, were encouraging. But a mocking grin spread across his face. He picked up a twig from the ground and held it near her mouth as if the twig was a microphone. Then he changed his voice, making it deep and urgent, like a sportscaster. “Miss Kim, tell our viewers how it feels to play on a real soccer team.”

Kim took a step back. “How did you know that?”

He moved the imaginary microphone from her mouth to his. “Does the name Lettie Bandla ring a bell?” he asked, planting one hand on his hip.

“What about her?” Kim asked. He couldn't possibly know about Lettie or the blue and maroon soccer uniform she had brought with her to South Africa.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Surprise!” he said. “My ma and I live at the bottom of your garden.”

K
im couldn't wait for her first day at the new school to be over. Through the long afternoon she was conscious of Themba who sat silently in the desk across from her. She didn't know what to make of him. Themba had obviously enjoyed her shock over finding out that he was living in her garden. The whole situation was weird: this country this boy in a shack in her yard, this school. She decided to act as if none of these unusual things really affected her. She wasn't afraid of Themba. She would act as if he were any boy she knew back home. Her opportunity came a few moments later when Miss Phillips left the classroom to speak to someone in the hall. Almost at once the students began to talk amongst themselves. Kim turned to Themba, as casually as she could manage, and asked him why he spelled Africa with a
K.

“Oh that,” Themba responded giving Kim a look she couldn't figure out. “It's my poor Bantu education. I'm afraid we natives can't spell.”
For a moment there was silence as Kim wondered if he was angry.

“It's a joke, hey, Kim,” he finally said. Then his mouth spread into a wide grin – the first real smile Kim had seen from him.

She made a mental note to get back at him. Somehow.

“Don't you have jokes in Canada?” he added with a wink. When he winked he reminded Kim of Lettie. He had the same teasing eyes as his mother's, glossy as black river stones.

“No, we don't,” Kim fired back. “It's illegal. They put you in jail.”

Themba pointed at a framed poster that hung beside the blackboard. “Look at the first line of our new anthem.
Nkosi Sikele' iAfrika,”
he said, as he read the words out loud for her. “God bless Africa.”

Kim almost told Themba about the map she'd drawn on the plane, and how she had scribbled Afrika over and over not really knowing why. But she didn't trust him enough to tell him anything about herself. Instead she said, “How come I didn't see you yesterday or the day before?”

“On weekends I stay in the township outside Cape Town,” he answered.

“Alone?”

He smiled at her question.“I stay with my sister and grandfather.”

“Why don't you go to a school out there?”

Themba's smile disappeared and his color deepened. “Guys are knifed to death over bags of marbles. Girls are raped on the way to gym class. Township schools are shit.”

Kim stiffened. At that moment Miss Phillips returned and the classroom quieted down. Kim was greatly relieved, for she had no idea how to respond to Themba.

There was a great deal she did not understand about South Africa and the four days she had spent sick in bed had not made things any clearer. This world belonged to Themba and Lettie, to her mother and Oom Piet, but not to her. She had no business at all in Africa, and that morning, on the way to school, she had told Riana so. “Living here will make you appreciate Canada more,” her mother had said.

After school, Kim grabbed her jacket and bag and went quickly to the front gate to see if her mother had come. Riana was nowhere to be seen, and Kim decided that she would walk the short distance home. She had memorized the route between the cottage and the school. By foot it would take fifteen, twenty minutes at the most. She would stick to the busy street that went up the mountain. She could see the street from the school parking lot. She knew for sure that it eventually intersected her street.

Kim looked up at the mountain. Just as Oom Piet had promised, clouds were racing to form a tablecloth on its unusual flat top. It reassured her to see Table Mountain. Because of its constant presence above the city, she could not easily lose her way.

Yet, as she crossed the intersection, Kim hesitated. How many times had her mother warned her? “You are not in Canada.” “Don't leave the yard.” “If you are alone, the streets are out of bounds.” When-ever Riana ventured out, and with a meticulousness she never had back home, she checked the windows, and carefully locked the doors and security gates. Once in the car, Riana immediately rolled up each window and locked each door. Last night, when Kim had felt better, they went out after dark to rent a video. Kim was shocked to see that her mother slowed down at a red light, but after carefully checking from left to right, continued on before the light changed to green. Her mother would never go through a red light in Canada. Riana explained that gangs hijacked cars at red lights and it made no difference if windows were up or doors were locked.

Kim knew without a doubt that her mother would be angry if she left the school and walked home alone. But Riana was working late and would never know. Kim fingered the key in her pocket. It was a bright sunny afternoon. No big deal. She
would walk faster than usual and be home in twelve minutes. The light changed and Kim crossed the street.

On the pavement directly ahead of her was a group of street hawkers. Some sold vegetables; others stood by a trolley of old clothes and passed a bottle between them. The men chatted together in their language, but as she approached, they stopped talking and stared at her. One looked directly at her watch. Panic gripped her. She froze.

“Where are you going?” Themba yelled as he sprinted up to her side. He pointed across the street. “Ma is frantic.”

Kim turned and saw Lettie and another black woman near the school parking lot. Lettie was striding up the hill and she was obviously angry.

“What's the problem?” Kim asked.

Themba scrunched up his face. “My ma is mad at me that you ran off like that. She made me promise to protect you like a little rare bird in a cage.”

“That's ridiculous.”

At that moment Lettie, out of breath, reached them. “Kim, you can't walk home alone,” she told her between gulps of air. “You must wait for us.” As soon as she was able, she introduced Kim to the other woman. “Ntombi is my sister-in-law.”

Ntombi was slim and attractive and, unlike Lettie, she wore nothing on her head so her many
tight braids hung loose. She gave Kim the onceover, then turned to Lettie. “Hey, she's not so tall. She is not as tall as you make her out to be.”

“Why would I exaggerate?” Lettie and her sister-in-law broke into a nervous laugh and a look of relief passed between them. Kim felt badly that she had worried them.“Ntombi and I will walk you home,” Lettie said. “We will go first to the dry cleaners to fetch your mom's blazer.”

In her sick bed Kim had heard the story from Lettie of her young sister-in-law, Ntombi, who was twenty-five years younger than Lettie. Ntombi refused to spend the rest of her life in a township slum. Since apartheid had ended, and she could live anywhere she wanted, she was looking for a room somewhere in town. According to Lettie, she enjoyed clubbing and pubbing on the waterfront of Cape Town. “Not a day passes where I don't fear for her future,” Lettie had said more than once.

Themba shifted his weight from side to side. His face lit up. “Ma, go home and rest,” he said. “Let Ntombi come with us. We'll fetch the blazer and then take the bus straight back to Kim's house.”

Ntombi rubbed her fingertips through Themba's tight hair and smiled mischievously at Kim. “Quick, give me the laundry ticket,” she said. “I have to be somewhere else now-now.” Kim liked the warmth
in Ntombi's face and she could tell that Themba's young aunt would be less strict with them.

“Okay, off you go,” said Lettie nodding at Ntombi. She turned in the direction of the mountain and slowly walked away.

On the way to the dry cleaners, Kim, Themba, and Ntombi strolled through the Botanical Gardens. It was filled with exotic trees, impressive fountains, and large cages of birds. Themba wanted to show Kim the gray squirrels, which were supposed to have been brought from North America in the first place.

“How did you get to be such a world expert on squirrels?” Kim asked. She was used to boys being shorter than she was. Not Themba – he was tall.

“I read all about them,” he said.

An old bearded man on a bench waved. He was dressed in a worn sports jacket and trousers, but he had no shoelaces in his boots. He held his hat in his hands. “Excuse me, does you have two rands for a cup of coffee?”

“Sorry my chappie,” Themba answered as he fished out a coin and gave it to him.“I have only one coin.”

Ntombi clicked her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “No man, Themba,” she scowled as they walked away. “That
bergie
might have a knife.”

In silence they continued down a tree-lined lane. “Speaking of criminals,” Themba said, “I want to show Kim something.” He led them toward a large old-fashioned building in the center of the gardens. “The museum is free on Wednesdays.”

“Sies
, Themba,” Ntombi said, pulling a face as they mounted the stairs in front of the entrance. “I don't want to see stuffed animals.”

“You don't have to come in,” Themba replied. “Meet you in the museum shop. Check out the eau de cologne,” he teased her.“For you, madam, twenty rands.”

Ntombi smiled at him and waved them off.

“I want you to see this,” Themba said, as he led Kim into a large room with cases of stuffed animals. His jovial mood was gone. “I want you to see all the things the white settlers put in here,” he added. “Cheetahs. Hyenas. Wildebeest.” He stared back at her. “Aren't you going to ask me what tribe I come from?”

They were standing in front of a display of beaded headdresses and ornaments. He was testing her, she could tell, but she didn't want him to know she couldn't answer his question. “Tell me then,” Kim said, meeting his eyes, “since you're dying to.”

“I'm Xhosa,” Themba said. He made a clicking noise at the beginning of the word: “X!o-sa,” he repeated.

Kim tried to imitate the click with no success.

“Jab your tongue behind your teeth and try.”

She did as he said. The sound still came out like a hard
C
and not a click.

Themba shook his head. Now he was smiling, at least. She thought it was a genuine smile, but she was wary too. This friendship wasn't going to be easy. For one thing, she resented the notion that Themba was supposed to watch out for her.

“Look. This is what I wanted you to see,” he said.

He led Kim across the room. Kim started. A thin, almost naked person – shorter than Kim – stood behind a large glass case. His almond-shaped eyes looked right at her.

“He's a Bushman,” Themba said facing the glass. “A San.”

Kim swallowed, trying to recover her wits. For a moment no one spoke. The Bushman's skin was yellow and wrinkled and it looked very real.

“Do they live near Cape Town?” Kim asked.

“They're almost all dead now.”

Kim took a step back and realized that the room was filled with large glass display cases. Inside each case, in front of a desert-like background, San men and women were depicted hunting and cooking and going about their daily lives. It was Themba who broke the silence. “At least the Boer
didn't catch us, stuff us in a glass case, and put us in a museum devoted to animals. Your mom's a Boer, isn't she?”