Another Woman's Daughter (18 page)

The Transvaal Highveld receded behind us. As we crossed the willow-lined Vaal River and ventured into the Orange Free State
,
the landscape started to change, as if the artist had been left with just two colors on his palette—gold and copper. The road we took cut through fields of wheat and corn, then valleys bounded by sandstone cliffs, which rose up starkly to greet us. There were turmeric-tinted poplars, sunflowers, and the surprise of green at the foothills of the Maloti Mountains.

We crossed another immense waterway—the Orange River—to find ourselves in the Cape Province. As we left the lushness of the river in our wake, the fertility of the land gave way to more barren surrounds. The Great Karoo—“land of thirst”
—
stretched endlessly in front of us. Now and then boulders cluttered a corner of the vast opus and flat-nosed mountains disturbed the
emptiness, casting long shadows. Our small red car was dwarfed by the infinite space of this wider canvas, on which, toward the close of day, was painted a magnificent sunset.

Throughout the long journey, Africa wooed me, tantalizing my every sense. Its breath was sweet, its touch warm, its beauty astounding. Southern Africa wrapped itself around me and held me. And I surrendered to it, my heart soaring with this new love affair. I was home at last.

Thabo told me secrets guarded by the soil we were traveling over, and as we covered hundreds of miles, we traversed years of the black man's struggle for self-determination and freedom in his own country.

“We are traveling in the opposite direction to the Boer farmers when they set off on the Great Trek away from the Cape many years ago,” Thabo began. “A bit like you, they were on their own personal journey. As they crossed the Orange River with their ox wagons they were forming part of a deliberate movement to cast off British governance, as well as any notion of black equality. They were headed for the largely unexplored Western Transvaal, Orange Free State, as we now know it, and Natal, where they could establish an independent society founded on the notion of white supremacy.”

He took a long swig from the bottle of Coca-Cola we were sharing.

“You know, just as this journey will impact on your future, the Voortrekkers' expedition in the 1800s determined your past, for as the Boers pushed back the African tribes they met en route—an assegai no match for a gun—the native people, your
forefathers, soon found themselves tenants on what they'd always considered to be their land.”

I felt a deep sadness as I listened.

“The Voortrekkers' ideology of Afrikaner nationalism would, in time, be expanded into the doctrine of apartheid.”

The parched desert of the Karoo was disappearing as the geography made way for the Land of the Outeniqua.

“A Khoikhoi name,” Thabo explained, “meaning ‘man laden with honey.'”

It was breathtaking—the lush forests, sagging creepers, and staggering gorges.

And just when I thought this kaleidoscope of beauty would never end, we were there, at the tip of Africa, where land and sea vied.

We had just passed through a small seaside settlement, when a policeman waved us down. I could see my reflection in his sunglasses as he peered into our car.

“Dompas.”
His voice was rough and abrasive.

Thabo leaned forward, stuck his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out his worn green passbook. He put it into the policeman's hands.

“Far from home, hey.”

“I have permiss—”

“What is the nature of your business?”

I could see Thabo's teeth were clenched under the taut pull of his cheek. “I'm a journalist. I'm researching a story for
The Star
.”

“Communist trash!”

Another policeman made his way around to the rear of the car.
“Maak oop,”
he said, banging a fist on the boot. “Open up.”

I licked my lips. As Thabo ducked down to reach the boot lever in the footwell, he appeared to startle the policeman at his window.

“Get out! Get out! Put your hands on your head!” the man yelled, panic exciting his fury.

Blood was pounding in my head. A gun was at my temple, the cold ring of death pushing into me. Then we were both being forced up against opposite sides of the car, our hands behind our heads.

“Any firearms, weapons, hand grenades?”

The car's metal burned into my front, and I could feel the heat of the body behind me.

“No . . . noth-nothing,” I stuttered.

Something hard was pushing into the small of my back. At first I thought it was the policeman's R1, but it was throbbing. Then a hand was on my breast and fingers were squeezing my nipple. I felt the coolness of air on my legs as my skirt was lifted. A hand grabbed at my crotch and a knee forced my legs apart. I knew Thabo couldn't see what was happening from his position on the other side of the car.

“And where are
you
hiding your passbook?” the voice snorted.

Perhaps it was my pained expression or the leering tone of the policeman's words, but I saw Thabo's countenance change—a fury I'd not thought him capable of suffused his expression.

“Leave her!” he cried. “She's a British citizen. Her passport
is in the car. Touch her again and your face will be on every front page here and overseas!” Not once did his voice falter.

I closed my eyes and counted time in breaths. I'd already inhaled three times when, like magic, the roving hand stopped and my skirt hem swung back down.

“Keep your hair on, Kaffir boy. Just a standard road check.”

I couldn't believe it. A white man obeying a black man. The taut line of my fear slackened. But it was short-lived. How could I have been so stupid?

I watched the face of my molester as he circled the car—a scavenger eyeing its prey. His expression was that of a child chastised and humiliated in front of his peers. I felt an impending sense of doom. I looked into the darkness of Thabo's eyes.

Time slowed. I could smell the ocean. I could smell sweat. I saw the blunt bristles of the policeman's mustache and the ripple of leaves on a roadside tree. I saw the thousand tiny bumps on Thabo's skin acknowledge the breeze. I saw Zaziwe ruffle her feathers, puffing out her small body into a gray-brown ball. And I saw Thabo's big, strong hand caress her.

I saw the policeman take this all in.

“
Kyk die voel
. Look at the bird,” said the smarting policeman, taking a swipe at Zaziwe and missing. For a moment Thabo's dearest companion remained suspended in mid-air and then . . .

A deafening bang reverberated through the valley. Two meerkats scurried across the road, a pair of Egyptian geese took to the skies, and a rabbit darted into its warren.

“Nooo!” rang out in synchrony with the explosion, as feathers, blood, and spattered sparrow flesh splashed across the gun-blue sky.

—

We drove for twenty minutes, neither of us speaking. Zaziwe's bloodied head rested on Thabo's lap, her glassy eyes dulled by death and dust. Eventually Thabo slowed and we pulled up under a
keurboom
, next to a hillside of wild watsonia. He turned off the engine and just sat there, staring into the distance, his eyes navigating a different landscape.

I put my arm around his trembling body and fingered his wiry hair.

His tears were silent, unlike my hiccuping sobs.

Eventually our weeping gave way to calm as we were transported through the day on the conveyor belt of time. The shade from the tree was the only thing to move as the late-afternoon sun found its way patiently inside our car.

“Tell me about Zaziwe,” I said.

His words arrived with ease, as though they'd been ready for some time. “I was detained last year for four months. Kept in solitary confinement on suspicion of inciting subversive activities.” He swallowed. “It was a black hole in my life about which I choose to remember very little. I was a broken man, except for . . .” He glanced at his blood-drenched trousers and smiled.

“Each day Zaziwe would land on the ledge of my cell window. I started to leave bits of dry porridge for her, and soon we had a date every day. She never let me down. Every time I was taken from my cell to be tortured and interrogated, when I was thrown back, she was waiting. When I awoke in the black of night, petrified by dark dreams, she was there, silhouetted
against the moonlight. When I needed to talk, to keep my mind calm, she listened; and when I left that godforsaken place she came with me. I called her Zaziwe. It means ‘hope.'”

We buried Zaziwe on the hillside, the long stems of watsonia bowing to a breeze that muddled the whites, pinks, and purples into a mash of mauve. After Thabo had fashioned a small cross from some twigs, we stood at her grave while he said a prayer. Then the heavens roared and opened, and big, cool drops of water fell to the parched and thirsty earth.

Thabo turned to look at me. At first I looked away, unable to bear the strength of his stare. Then I looked back. Inside the loud thunder and lightning, our silence was intense and our anticipation tightly sprung. Like magnets, our bodies leaned toward each other, ignoring the invisible restraints of our cautious minds. When he touched my hand I gasped. Then he touched my face—tracing my features like a blind man. I closed my eyes. Electricity crackled across the sky. He pressed his lips to mine.

My nipples rose up through my sodden blouse. Thabo acknowledged them carefully. He undid my bra and my breasts swung free, settling full and round in front of him. He lingered there, touching and kissing, caressing and tweaking. His smell, mixed with the scent of rain, was intoxicating. I'd only ever had teasing hints of it before, but now, close up, I inhaled deeply, losing myself in his bare torso.

The storm raged around us. I licked away his salty tears and sucked at the sweet raindrops that gathered on his jawline. A sense of urgency overtook us, and Thabo lowered me onto the wet earth. He was leaning over me, strong and black, and I was
aching for him. As the sequence unfolded, he sought wordless permission at every step, yet there were no pauses in this dance. I took his hand and guided it, my arousal seeping onto his fingers. His head moved down my body and he played in my lap, driving me to the brink of ecstasy. Then it was I bent over him.

He entered my warmth and together we traveled beyond the confines of our lives.

It was Sunday when we drew into Knysna. We'd spent the previous night with a friend of Thabo's in a township on the periphery of the seaside town. It had been a subdued evening and Thabo had gone to bed early.

After a breakfast of tea and warm doughy bread smeared with peanut butter and apricot jam, we set off for the town center. A holiday atmosphere prevailed. People in summer prints and wide-brimmed hats meandered down the streets—black, white, and brown bodies blending with apparent ease. Shop windows boasted all the trappings of recreation and relaxation—hammocks, surfboards, arts and crafts. Restaurants spilled patrons onto umbrella-lined sidewalks, and flower sellers enticed with their beautiful blooms. It felt good to be in the middle of all this positive energy.

We bought pies from a local baker and sat on a whites-only bench to eat them. But after a few minutes I lost my nerve, so we found a spot in the shade of an old plane tree overlooking the ocean. They were the best pies I'd ever tasted, the pastry rich and crumbly, the curried-meat filling delicious.

I looked up into the branches. The leaves had just started to turn; summer's green was making way for the orange of autumn.

“Funny how something as superficial as color can be so important,” I mused. “Imagine if this poor plane tree was subject to apartheid. What a dilemma it would pose for the officials.
Well, tree, you can only reside in Knysna during the spring and summer months. In autumn you must move to the townships, and in winter—well, in winter you won't belong anywhere.
”

We fell back onto the spongy grass laughing. Thabo was so close, but we didn't touch. The previous day two damaged and lonely individuals had offered themselves to each other in consolation. Now guilt and the confusing complexity of real life intruded. Strangely, my mind wandered back to Rita. For the first time some of her actions seemed almost understandable.

“I feel so happy-sad,” I said.

“Yes, this
is
a land of paradoxes.” There was a small bare patch in front of Thabo where he had mindlessly picked away the grass. “South Africa has been the arena of my life,” he said. “It's where the best and the worst have happened to me. A place of great beauty and ugliness.”

We looked at each other.

“I feel so alive-dead,” he said after a while.

Still we didn't touch. We couldn't.

—

Later we went to a service station to get directions to the Eloffs' house, and within fifteen minutes found ourselves sitting in Sylvia Eloff's lounge awaiting the coffee she was preparing for us. One entire wall of the room was glass, confusing the boundary between inside and out—the rugged carpet of fynbos, the stretch of glittering sand, and the teal-green waters all invited into the room, itself a trove of maritime treasures and curios.

I counted seven shell ashtrays. A stuffed marlin drove out of the wall above the fireplace. A driftwood chandelier—its gnarled arms bearing six globes—hung suspended from the ceiling. There were bottles of sand art and balls of tumbleweed . . . A second wall told another tale. Devoted entirely to books, from floor to ceiling, it told many stories—
Travels to India
;
War and Peace
;
Cry, the Beloved Country
;
Driving Routes through the Lake District
;
Birds of the Cape
;
Fifty Ways to Cook Chicken
;
Healing Hands
; and
Lord of the Flies.
Nadine Gordimer, Alan Paton, and Saul Bellow rubbed spines with Chaucer and Shakespeare and Wilbur Smith.

On the coffee table stood a vase holding a solitary protea—South Africa's national flower. With its thick woody stem, tough gray leaves, and furry pink petals, it was clearly equipped to survive the harshness of this wild continent.

“Here we are.” The woman's voice was round and reassuring. She put down a wicker tray bearing a coffeepot, three mugs, and a plate of buttered date loaf.

She had a youthful appearance, light reflecting off her forehead to give her complexion a pearly translucency. Her eyes were
half-hidden beneath soft hoods of skin, and her hair, cropped short and cinnamon in color, was interrupted by bold streaks of gray. Her long fingers trailed after graceful sweeps of expression, and a skew smile worked to hide her slightly overlapping front teeth.

“What a thing! Celia's daughter—just incredible!” Like a chameleon, she had started to adopt Thabo's accent, as if to put us at ease. “How do you take your coffee, black or white?”

“Well, seeing we're in the suburbs it'll have to be white,” I jested, surprised at my brazen familiarity.

We all laughed.

“Celia and I still keep in touch,” she said.

I covered my mouth to catch the strangled sound of my surprise. My thoughts started to tear around inside my head like a child left unchecked at a birthday party. After waiting months to hear these words, my mind would not be still for long enough to fully appreciate them.

“Celia was my right-hand woman. In the latter years, especially after Jo died, she was an invaluable friend.” She swallowed a mouthful of cake. “We met under awful circumstances—she needed admission to hospital, and I—” She stopped, perhaps checking herself as she considered what details I could cope with.

I sat on the settee that afternoon at the tip of Africa, hearing about
my
mother. Sylvia Eloff paused every now and then to give me time to absorb what I'd heard, and throughout this uncharted journey of emotion, Thabo clasped my hand tightly.

“Did I miss her when she retired and went back home last April! No one can make shortbread like Celia. Most of all, though, she was an outstanding companion.”

She stood up to catch a praying mantis that was climbing up the vase. In cupped hands, she took it over to an open window and released it. “Celia used to travel home each year to Venda, her homeland, where she was rebuilding her house. It was a very slow process. A couple of years back I gave her something to help get the project completed. But then her heart started plaguing her, and I decided it was time for her to go back home for good and let her children look after her.”

Her children.
The words hit me in the stomach, winding me. I'd forgotten . . . had not considered . . . Of course! I had siblings! The news was overwhelming. I couldn't remember, or could I? Had I simply expunged this fact from my childhood mind?

“She had a heart attack last March. Her heart had been broken for some time; the attack was really just the physical manifestation of her inner pain.”

I sat still, not daring to interject with any one of the hundreds of questions jamming my head, just in case a crucial bit of information was lost. After years of living with an incomplete puzzle, I couldn't afford to lose a single piece.

“Celia was in hospital for almost two weeks, and after that, well, between us, we decided it was time to let her boys take care of her.”

Thabo squeezed my hand.

“Three boys. Lovely lads,” Sylvia Eloff continued, brushing the crumbs off her lap. “The eldest, Christian, was training to be a doctor when he became caught up in politics. He suffered terribly at the hands of the police; died in detention. His death changed Celia. She was never the same.”

I felt the loss and grief immediately. I had gained and lost a brother in seconds.

Sylvia Eloff continued. “Nelson, the middle boy, he's a builder in Pretoria. Then there's Alfred, the youngest and shortest,” she said with a chuckle. “He's a teacher in Dzanani. More coffee?”

“Thank you, no,” Thabo said, answering for both of us.

I could only shake my head. Brothers. Siblings. These were still just words—words to be kept at bay. They led to possibilities and places I wasn't yet ready to visit.

“And then there was Miriam.” Sylvia Eloff smiled fully, for the first time revealing her skewed front teeth. “Celia told me about the beautiful daughter she had lost. She never elaborated, though, and to be perfectly honest, I assumed she meant you had died. I'm sorry.”

We spoke of many things that afternoon, that perfect afternoon. But as light fell and nature started to fold away the glistening sheet that had been draped over the ocean all day, we took our cue and said good-bye.

Under my arm I held a bulky brown parcel secured with string.

“How can I ever thank you?”

Sylvia Eloff leaned in and held me in a gentle hug. Her fragrance of linen and lavender enveloped me and stayed with me for years to come, merging with the memory I would always guard of those flawless few hours.

“I am just so pleased for Celia,” she said, finally letting go. “She's in for one big surprise. Do be careful,” she cautioned. “With her weak heart. And don't forget to give her that.” She
tapped the parcel in my hand. It felt heavy. “I've had it in the back room for ages. I keep meaning to post it. It's just some things she left behind in the upheaval of the move. I found them when I got around to clearing out her room. I've let it to a student. Some company, you know, and a bit of rent.”

We drove through the night, stopping at about 2:00
A.M.
on the side of the road so Thabo could snatch a few hours' sleep. I fell asleep beside him, my arms wound tightly around the brown paper package marked
Celia Mphephu
in bold black ink. Below was an address—my mother's address.