Afrika (7 page)

Lettie tucked the dishcloth under her arm. “In Xhosa the word
uxolelwano
means ‘to forgive.’ It is something Sandile, my husband, believed in.”
Kim was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Instead she jumped off the bed and faced Lettie squarely.

“Maybe you are right,” Kim said. “Maybe Themba should go to the hearing. He is stubborn not to go. I know nothing about my father. He is a big mystery to me, and if I thought I could find out one scrap of information, I would go to ten hearings if necessary.”

Lettie stared into the garden as if she didn't want to look at Kim. Somewhere in a nearby yard, one angry bark set off a dog alarm that rebounded through the entire neighborhood.

“When it comes to a father,” said Lettie as Kim got ready to leave, “it is worth knowing the truth.”

R
iana pulled the car onto the dusty shoulder to let a noisy van full of people pass.

“It's not much farther,” said Themba. He sat beside Kim in the backseat, but he had been directing the car since they left Cape Town.

“I hope this is a good idea,” Riana said, as she steered the car back onto the road.

“Coming to the township is the best idea I've had all week,” said Andries. Andries sat beside Riana in the front squinting into the noon-day sun as his tanned arm dangled out of the window. Between his fingertips he squeezed a cigarette that trailed smoke.

Could Kim be flipping out, or was Riana actually smiling across at Andries? “Andries, it wasn't your idea,” said Riana kindly. “It was Themba's.”

“Oh ja,” Andries agreed with a shrug.

Andries had insisted on coming along, not only to help with the story, but for protection. He was one of Riana's colleagues. Kim's least favorite of her mother's colleagues. Problem number one: He had rambled nonstop for the twenty minutes since
they'd left Cape Town. When he wasn't blabbing about one big happening story or another, he was chain-smoking. When he wasn't smoking, he gobbled potato chips, which he referred to as crisps, pausing every so often to chew the salt out from under his fingernails. On one occasion he passed the all-but-empty chip bag back to Kim and Themba.

From the backseat Kim studied her mother. For three days Riana had appeared almost normal. Except for the smoking. Riana, a health nut, had turned to late-night – and secret – smoking! Kim decided, for the moment, to turn a blind eye.

There were still two months remaining until they returned to Canada. Surely that was long enough to find her father. Kim hoped that Themba would find out something new on this trip.

“What if we're intruding?” muttered Riana, her eyes on the road. “Themba, you'll let us know if we're intruding.”

“Yes, Mrs. van der Merwe,” Themba said. To Kim it appeared as if Themba was shrinking deeper into himself. The closer they got to the township, the quieter he became. They were going to the house where Themba lived with his sister and grandfather, to the home where Lettie returned each weekend. Riana and Andries planned to interview Lettie's neighbor, Mrs. Bansi. She had been home the night Themba's father was taken away by
the police. The realization of this interview was obviously upsetting Themba.

Riana must have been thinking the same thing. She glanced at the rearview mirror. “Themba, do you remember much about the night your father disappeared?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“I was six,” said Themba looking out the window. “Mrs. Bansi came afterwards to get me and my sister and took us to her house.”

“I see,” said Riana. Her eyes flicked back to the road.

Kim began to dread this trip. She knew that Lettie had not been home at the time of the abduction because she had been working at Oom Piet's cottage. Kim wondered whether, if Lettie had been there, things might have worked out differently.

The car turned onto a bumpy road. “Look at this mess,” Riana said as she helped herself to the broken remains at the bottom of Andries' chip bag. On the outskirts of the township was a wide-open field where people had used bits of cardboard, plastic, metal odds and ends, whatever they could find, to make a patchwork of shelters.

The road into the township didn't look any better. Kim had never been inside a township: she was shocked to see shacks and small cement houses built almost on top of each other. Newspapers and rusted cans rolled down the street or into a ditch
filled with stagnant water. Nearby, three boys whirled an old car tire between them, chasing it with a stick. Riana kept slowing down so as not to cover the boys with dust.

Riana wiped broken chips from the front of her sweater. “I never thought I'd set foot in a location,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Township,” Andries corrected her, as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Riana, we call them townships now.” Kim couldn't stand this guy. When he smoked his eyes narrowed into slits.

Kim flinched as the smoke drifted back. She tried to catch Themba's eye, but he was still staring out the window. She followed his gaze and looked at his Afrika, the place where he'd grown up and still lived.

“Is this a school?” Riana asked as they passed a long low building. There were children, some no taller than Kim's waist, playing everywhere in the street. Riana slowed to a crawl to avoid hitting anyone.

“It was my primary school,” said Themba.

Kim studied the red brick building. There was rusted chain-link fencing around the school and almost all of the square windows were shattered. She couldn't imagine going to a school like this. She knew that when Riana was a student, she was with white children only, in a school with a library
swimming pool, and good teachers. Mixed race and Indian kids went to separate, second-rate schools. Black kids, like Themba, went to the worst schools, where there were few books and pencils and no notebooks or desks. She herself had gone to a sparkling new school in north Calgary and had never thought much about it. Surrounded by the ugly cement houses and poor children pushing up close to the car, Kim felt more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

“Molo,”
said Themba. “Welcome to Langa! It's the house at the end of the street.”

Riana stopped in front of a small cement dwelling with a tin roof. “Don't leave the street,” she told Kim. “I want to be able to see you from this house at all times.”

“Okay,” said Kim and Themba as they got out of the car. Riana and Andries opened their notebooks and leaned in together. They were going over what they were going to ask Mrs. Bansi about the night Sandile was taken.

Kim and Themba had not gone two steps before a swarm of boys charged up to them. She felt the full force of their eyes on her. Her heart began to pound.

Themba stood close to her.“Themba Bandla is here,” he shouted. “Where's the ball? Let's play.”

Soccer! It was exactly what Kim needed. Teams
were formed quickly. Yet when Kim tried to join in, the township boys stared her down.

Themba put himself between Kim and the youths. “Let her play,” he ordered. Makeshift goalposts were two large tin garbage cans at one end, old tires at the other. It was the middle of the day and the sun was very hot.

The ball was thrown in and the boys went after it. Kim wanted to immerse herself in the game and forget her mounting fear. She had heard stories of township gangs that killed Whites. As long as she was with Themba, she was safe – wasn't she?

She kept her speed down and tried to get the feel of the dusty ground. “Mine,” boasted one boy as he sprinted after the ball.“Zola, over here,” bellowed his teammate. They were all speaking English – maybe to include her.

The ball was kicked in her direction. Kim kept her eyes on it and her mind on scoring. Guarding the ball between her feet, she weaved through three boys and ran hard. She belted the ball with her foot.
Whack!
She adored the smack of the ball on the side of her shoe. Usually it meant success. Today was no exception. She scored! There were cheers, and Themba's voice was the loudest.

A car passed and interrupted the game for a moment. Kim stood back from the others and panted.

“Is this Kim?” a tall girl in an orange dress suddenly appeared behind Themba. She was slim, long-limbed, and pretty. Her lips were the color of plums.

Themba nodded. “Kim,” he said, “this is my sister, Sophie.”

“Mmm, hello,” Sophie murmured shyly. Little kids crowded in beside her.

“Kim is from Canada,” Themba told everyone.

Thank you for not telling them my surname
, Kim thought. Tension melted from her body as she retied her hair back from her face. To these African kids she was the Canadian girl with the strange accent who played soccer. None of them knew that her relatives were Afrikaners, the very people who had set up the system that for many years controlled their lives. She hoped she could trust Themba to keep her secret.

The ball bounced down the street and everyone ran after it. Kim ran the hardest and the fastest. Her lungs were sore and the midday sun was hot.

“Give,” mumbled a tall boy who jerked in front of her. He snuck the ball away and ran with it. When Kim swivelled to follow him, her ankle gave way. She tripped and stumbled chin-first onto the sandy ground. Her elbow landed in mud – or was it dog dirt? Clumsy clout!

Themba pushed through the crowd and helped Kim to her feet.

“I'm okay,” she said, standing up to show everyone that her ankle was fine. The truth was, her ankle was throbbing, and she had to grab onto Themba's arm for support.

“Take a moment. Can you stand on it?” Themba asked.

“It's okay,” Kim insisted, even though she winced with pain.

“Kim, come on,” he said. “Let's take a break. Go inside. Sophie will help you. I'll go next door and get you some ice. It will give me a chance to talk to your ma.”

Every bone in Kim's body wanted to continue playing soccer, but unless she hobbled around using Sophie as a crutch, it was impossible. Sophie stepped forward to help. She had an easy, loose walk and probably would have been great at soccer if only she had been asked to play.

“Themba, tell my mom where I am,” Kim yelled across the small yard. Behind her she heard Themba's musical voice in the street, calling, “Bye Johnny. Bye Thami. Bye Zola.”

“Don't mention my ankle,” she added with a shout.

The front door of Themba's home had been left open. The house was small and perfectly square. The main room was overcrowded with furniture. Along one side was a low book case, and there
were some photos on the wall. Sophie led her to the sofa.

“Thanks,” said Kim, wincing.

An African man entered the room carrying a couple of Cokes. He had short gray tufts of hair and bright eyes. He was dressed formally, like a minister or schoolteacher. “Welcome,” he said staring at Kim. Sophie spoke to him in the clicking language before she waved good-bye to Kim and left. “Sophie has gone down the street to the shops,” he said. “You must be Kim. I'm Themba's grandfather. Grandpa Khan-yi-sa.”

“Khan-yi-sa,” repeated Kim.

“With African names you pronounce all the letters,” he said handing her a Coke. He looked down at her sneakers admiring them. “Heavens. I've never seen
tackies
like that before. And now the township dust has soiled them.”

“That's okay,” Kim said.

She took a drink of Coke and looked around her. Before they moved to the bungalow, she and Riana had lived in a cramped apartment, but there were only two of them. Themba's house was even smaller, and he lived with Sophie, his grandfather, and Lettie on weekends.

Kim glanced up at a large framed poster on the wall. “That's the Freedom Charter,” explained Themba's grandfather. “The charter was created in
1955 and it declares that South Africa belongs to all who live in it.”

“Black
and
white?” Kim asked. She remembered the fear she experienced earlier on the township street.

He returned her gaze. “Yes,” he said.

She sipped her Coke.

Grandpa Khanyisa cleared his throat and spoke, “Themba was eight when he memorized all those words. Themba Bandla was an eager student back then. He even tried to write a composition about the Freedom Charter in Standard One. The composition ended with the cry for freedom:
Amandla!
My daughter, Lettie, and I ordered that he burn the composition.”

“Why?” she asked.

But it wasn't Grandpa Khanyisa who answered. Themba spoke loudly as he entered the room.
“Amandla
means ‘power,’” he said. “They were scared of the white inspector who supervised our township school.” Themba was holding a small bucket of ice and he had a deep frown on his face. “After what happened to Pa, they were scared.”

Grandpa Khanyisa was startled by Themba's voice. “Why don't you announce yourself instead of listening at the door,” he said sharply.

Themba's eyes narrowed. “Kim needs to hear this,” he said. “Many of our parents and grandparents
were scared of the former government and the police. But not my father.”

Kim watched Themba's grandfather take a matchstick from his mouth in disgust. Grandpa Khanyisa spoke first: “We wanted change, but disapproved of some of the young people's tactics.” He turned to Kim and clicked his tongue on the side of his cheek. “We saw little girls scar their hands and faces for good, trying to set fire to buses. We saw their brothers blinded by stones that were thrown in the wrong direction. In my day, young people were taught to pay attention to their elders.”