Holding up the sky, p.36
Holding Up the Sky, page 36
It was sometimes hard to know how to interpret staring in these situations. When we were in Randfontein, the small town of which Mohlakeng is a satellite, it is safe to say that those who stared at us were disgusted at what they saw since the whole area is Afrikaans speaking and deeply conservative.
In situations like this one, it was impossible to guess what people were thinking: some may be despising what they saw, believing it heralded a future they could never accept, while others stared because it was different and they were curious. Feeling the burning stares of those around me this day, from people of all races, I reminded myself that I too stared when I saw a mixed couple or a black child with a white family, simply observing another version of my own choices. I tried to make a conscious effort to stop myself interpreting the actions of others as a judgment or a threat. But I could feel a different response welling up inside me now–not fear, not frustration, but a fierce protectiveness of Mello. I knew at that point that I would be a lioness when it came to defending this little girl, should it ever come to that. In contrast, I watched Teboho shrug it off. ‘Let them look’, he said loudly enough to snap the nearby starers out of their trance, as he continued playing with Mello, making her giggle so much she could hardly eat her food.
Soon we were back in the car and on our way once more. This was my favourite part of the trip. As we crossed the border between the two provinces and entered Natal the road arched around and dropped down off the escarpment into the green valley below. The sheer beauty of it made me smile. But as the scenery changed from the harsh, fat highveld of the Transvaal to the green forests of Natal, Mello’s mood also changed. A stream of words no longer fell out of her mouth; instead, she sat quietly looking out the window. After a time, I realised she was crying. A rapid volley of thoughts fired through my head–was she missing Tshidi? Had she realised she wasn’t going home? Was she sick of the car? Was she car sick? When the crying didn’t stop and she wasn’t answering Teboho’s gentle enquiries as to what was wrong, he pulled the car over onto the side of the road. I got out and rushed to take Mello out of her car seat. She climbed into my arms and continued to cry. I stood rocking her by the car for what seemed like hours, casting anxious looks at Teboho as she wept. Eventually he suggested that I put her back in the car and sit with her while he drove. We pulled back onto the road, with tears still streaming down her little heart-shaped face. I sat helplessly next to her, my own state of mind being slowly shredded. After a long time, she stopped crying and fell asleep, exhausted. Since the crying started she had not spoken a word; we never knew the exact cause of her tears, though she certainly had reason.
We pulled into the carport in front of the cottage around mid-afternoon, Mello still asleep in the back of the car. Teboho took our things inside while I gently woke her, telling her we had arrived: ‘Ri fihlilie Mello’. My Sesotho consisted of travelling phrases, of comings and goings: we’re here, hello, how are you, where is, we’re going, goodbye, thank you; as well as the basic needs of food and drink. Mello’s Sesotho vocabulary far outstripped my own and I once more wondered how we would learn to communicate. As she woke, her eyes sprang wide open and she looked around, but I could see that she was yet to take in her new surroundings; her wide-eyed look was simply surprise at having been asleep. I was to learn that she often woke this way and she took some time before she was fully alert. She is not much of a morning person, even to this day.
As I watched her that afternoon, she turned to face me, finally focusing on my enquiring smile and asking a question I couldn’t understand. I extracted her from the car seat and carried her inside as she continued to question me in Sesotho and I chatted to her in English, each of us ignorant of what the other had said. Once inside, I handed her over to Teboho in case one of those questions was ‘Where’s the toilet?’ or something equally pressing. He assured me she was just curious about where we were, but thought a toilet stop was a good idea. As I carried her through to the bathroom, I remembered the pit toilet she was used to. Caleb’s house had indoor plumbing, and Mello was fascinated to explore all the bathroom components: toilet, taps, basin, bath. As I listened to the tinkling into the toilet she gave me the first of many Sesotho lessons: ‘Ke a tshiba’, she explained. ‘Good girl’, I replied. I showed her how to wash her hands with soap and made a mental note to buy one of those little stands that allow children to step up and reach the taps. I also realised I needed four arms to hold her up, turn on the tap and soap her hands, all without dropping her.
Back in the kitchen, Teboho had been making some sandwiches for us. He gave her a peanut butter one on a plastic plate and took her to sit on the carpet and eat it. Once we were all fed, I took Mello through to her room and showed her the clothes we had bought for her, along with a few toys and books. Finding children’s books in African languages was almost impossible at that time, so these were in English. She began to ask questions again, ones that I didn’t understand, so I called for a translation. Teboho popped his head around the corner and, smiling down at his new daughter, said, ‘She wants to know if these things are hers to keep’. I nodded that they were, with Teboho assuring her in Sesotho that this was true and she beamed back at the both of us: ‘Ke a leboha, Rangwane’, thank you, Uncle.
We had spoken about what she might call us. Given that she, like all of Tshidi’s children, called her parents by their first names and her grandmother ‘Mama’, the names ‘Papa’ for Teboho and ‘Mummy’ for me were still available. Teboho explained to Mello what she might want to call us. As she tried ‘Mummy’ on for size in her squeaky little voice, I felt my chest tighten in response.
We were playing with the toys when I heard Tony’s diesel four wheel drive pull into the carport, noisy old beast that it was. Felicity and the two younger girls, Kate and Emma, popped in to meet the newest member of the family. Felicity and I watched the girls play with Mello outside on the grass as I recounted our journey. We stood and marvelled at how much had changed in her life this weekend, yet she appeared to be untouched. I was anticipating huge changes for all of us but as I watched her, my heart ached with delight. I also noticed for the first time, such was the studious nature of my mother’s gaze now, just how alike she and Teboho were. They shared similar eyes and identical eyebrows with a characteristic large gap in between them that centred both their faces on the bridge of the nose. There were no photos of Teboho as a child yet I felt I was now looking at a good likeness. After Felicity and the girls went home, it was time for supper. We popped Mello up on the counter and she watched with her usual curiosity as we chopped up all the ingredients for the stew. Mello carefully named each one she recognised, firing off questions about those she did not. Once the stew was on the stove, it was time for a bath.
‘U hlo hlapa, Mello’, Teboho explained.
‘Hlapa’, I mimicked clumsily, as the sound rolled around my mouth, similar to Zulu but not the same.
‘Hlapa–to wash’, Teboho explained.
Up until this point, Mello had only washed in a plastic basin, as I had been taught to do in my first year in South Africa. With a small child, it is easy for them to squat inside the basin while the parent or sibling soaps up the child and scrubs them clean. As I filled the bath, Mello ran in and out of the bathroom asking Teboho about what was going on. When the bottom of the bath was covered, I called Mello in and explained to her in English what I wanted her to do. Soon she was in the bath playing with the bath toys Felicity had given us, holding up each one, talking to it before letting it fall with a splash back into the water. I sat on the edge of the bath watching the pantomime unfold. Teboho would pop his head in from time to time, asking her if she was ready to get out. ‘O feditse?’ he would ask. ‘E e’, No she would reply each time.
After forty-five minutes–her skin was wrinkled like an old woman’s–I lifted her out of the bath, amid much protestation. But I soon had her wrapped in a towel and was rubbing her dry, giggles emerging from somewhere inside. I stood her in front of me, the towel around her shoulders, and gave her another rub, explaining this was how her Grandpa used to dry me off when I was her age and had just come out of the swimming pool. I remembered that it made me feel safe, wrapped up and warm in my father’s care.
Once she was clean and dry and in her pyjamas–the first she had ever owned–the three of us sat down in the lounge to eat. Teboho once more dished her food into a plastic bowl and put it on the carpet for her. This time he lay down a towel to protect the carpet from any spillages. As we neared the end of the fine stew, without a word, father and daughter both dropped their forks and picked up the bones that lay scattered about the dish. They began to chew the bones to get at the meat that had been impossible to remove with a fork. Teboho glanced at me and smiled: ‘See, she is from the tribe of lions, like me. She is the perfect daughter’. He returned to his eating, Mello now standing chewing at his knee as he pointed out a piece of meat she had missed.
After supper, I helped Mello brush her teeth, a job normally done by her sister Nthabiseng with a cup of water that she had collected from the tap outside. I had to show Mello that she could spit into the basin and I would rinse it away with water from the tap. Job complete, she went to say goodnight to ‘Papa’. ‘Robhala hanle’, Sleep well, Teboho told her as he wrapped her in his arms and planted a kiss on her round cheek.
I took her through to her room and tucked her into bed on the mattress we had bought for her. I gave her a kiss and whispered good night, then I sat next to her for a while, waiting for her to go to sleep. When I thought she had drifted off, I went back through to the kitchen where Teboho was clearing up. ‘Good as gold’, I replied to the lift in his eyebrows. A few minutes later, however, we heard the padding of little feet and Mello emerged squinting into the light. ‘Ha ke robali’, I can’t sleep, she told us. I took her back through to the bedroom but she was reluctant.
‘Do you think she wants to sleep with us?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that what she’s used to?’
‘I don’t want her to sleep in bed with us though.’
‘What about if I bring her mattress through onto the floor next to the bed?’
‘That’s fne’, he replied, soapy hands still in the sink.
So I brought the small mattress through and put it next to my side of the bed. Our room was not large, and Mello’s mattress fitted snugly against the wall. I put her into bed once more and lay on the edge of mine, letting my arm drape over the side to pat her body. After a time, she fell asleep but I stayed on in case she woke again. Eventually I fell asleep myself, my hand still on her shoulder.
24
SEPTEMBER 1993
RED TAPE
IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED, WE SETTLED INTO A NEW ROUTINE AS A FAMILY OF THREE. MY WORK ON THE VOTER EDUCATION MATERIALS WAS COMPLETE AND SOON TO BE PUBLISHED WHICH LEFT ME WITH THE AFTERNOONS FREE TO SPEND TIME WITH MELLO. MY FIRST PRIORITY WAS TO TEACH HER ENGLISH AND FOR ME TO IMPROVE MY SESOTHO. BOTH IMPROVED EXPONENTIALLY, ME OUT OF NECESSITY AND MELLO OUT OF CURIOSITY. SHE ABSORBED THE LANGUAGE LIKE A SPONGE, WANTING TO EXPLORE EVERYTHING IN THIS WONDERFUL NEW WORLD. AT THE END OF HER FIRST WEEK, WE PHONED MY PARENTS TO LET THEM HEAR HER VOICE. SHE MANAGED A VERY BEAUTIFUL ’HOW ARE YOU ?’ AND ’I’M FINE’, THOUGH I DON’T IMAGINE SHE KNEW WHO SHE WAS TALKING TO OR HOW IMPORTANT THESE TWO PEOPLE WOULD BECOME.
We had enrolled Mello in the same preschool as Peter and Heidi’s daughter, Ayanda, and they became fast friends. There was another little black girl, Ningi, at the preschool who was the foster child of the white mayor and his family. There were only a handful of black children at the creche, so the three of them often played together, though Ningi lacked the confidence of Mello and Ayanda and was often left behind. With the scrapping of the Group Areas Act that had previously made it illegal for black people to live in the
white suburbs, the schools in town were gradually becoming more integrated–but it was a slow process.
Mello also become best mates with Brian and Anthea’s daughter Gemma, who was a year older than her. We spent many a lazy Sunday afternoon at their house around the corner from my old home in Oxford Street, watching the girls play together in the garden.
I was surprised at how quickly my depth of feeling for Mello developed. I was loving being a mother. For me, motherhood was a powerful, palpable state, as though it were an entity with a life of its own. Mello too seemed to form a deep attachment, though whether it was out of need or simply the joy of undivided attention, I do not know. Teboho, though sensing the closeness, did not allow it to exclude him and he was a doting and playful father.
With my ever-increasing love for Mello came a growing concern that I wasn’t doing the best job I could as a parent. I often turned to Fiona, my mentor, for advice. Despite her initial words of caution, once the decision was made she was generous with her time and wisdom as always. Fiona saw that my feelings towards Mello could easily become a need to compensate for the hardships she had endured in her short life, combined with the massive change of coming to live with us. She advised a firmer hand than I was currently providing, lest Mello become spoilt and precocious. As always, Fiona’s advice was insightful; she was able to express the hard, but necessary, truth.
Gradually I found my way into parenthood, one step at a time. I had to learn to balance my work, marriage and studies with taking care of Mello, easing her transition into her new life yet maintaining a life of my own.
At the end of November, we were due to go back to Itsoseng to the local magistrate’s office for the adoption hearing. As the date approached, I became increasingly nervous. I felt that Mello had now settled in and we had formed a family life together. I was afraid that problems with the adoption might derail this and began having nightmares that the magistrate had ruled against the adoption and sent Mello back to live with Tshidi.
In the two weeks before we left, the rush of final exams for both Teboho and I kept my mind busy, distracting me from what was to come. Our plan was to make a quick trip in and out rather than the usual family visit, so as to cause as little disruption as possible to Mello’s routine. Before I knew it, the time for the hearing was upon us.
We stopped overnight with Moss and Khumo in Mohlakeng on our way through to Itsoseng. First thing the following morning we were at the hospital to collect documentary evidence confirming that Mello had been born there. Without it, the adoption could not proceed.
We were shown into the matron’s office, a large, airy room with windows on both sides that let in the morning light. The office contained a single desk, three chairs, two fling cabinets and a side table that hosted a kettle and a tea cup. The walls were bare save for a few posters of black mothers and babies that promoted breast feeding and immunisation. We sat and waited for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes. All the while, I clutched Mello on my lap for safe keeping.
The matron, when she arrived, was a warm and outgoing woman who was happy to chat with us. In order to provide the necessary documentation, she needed to be clear about the details of Mello’s situation. Coming from Itsoseng herself, she knew Mama and had heard that Teboho was married to a white woman, but the grapevine hadn’t yielded the current developments with Mello. The matron listened intently as Teboho explained that Mello had come to live with us, and that we planned to travel to Australia to study. He also explained that we needed to adopt her and get her a passport so that she would be able to travel with us.
I felt the sweat prickling between my breasts and at my temples. There seemed to be so many hurdles to jump before I could be sure Mello would be able to stay with us. Only a few months before, I had everything I wanted in the world and was happy. But since the day we collected Mello from Tshidi in Mohlakeng, there was something I wanted more than anything, something that a woman like the one sitting in front of us could withhold, sending my dream crashing down. And yet there was nothing I could do to infuence the decision. I knew if I tried to pressure the outcome, a bureaucrat could simply do the opposite of what I wanted. It was so hard not to use the skills that had always got me where I wanted to be, so hard to simply let events run their course in their own time. The process was taking all the restraint I had. Teboho, more accustomed to being at the mercy of a bureaucratic machine, seemed calm and patient by comparison.
I suddenly realised I had been holding my breath as Teboho spoke, so afraid was I of the matron raising an unforeseen objection. She asked a few more questions that in my panicked state I could not decipher. Then she stood and walked across to the fling cabinets and began to rife through their contents until she found the file containing a record of Mello’s birth. It took only a few minutes for her to sign the documents the courts required and provide us with a copy. As we left her office, my legs seemed barely able to carry me, such was my relief. We were one step closer to Mello being ours.
The appointment with the magistrate was set for two o’clock, so we drove to Mama’s house for lunch. I felt conspicuous as I stepped out of the car in Mama’s yard. I was wearing the only suit I owned, a dark purple skirt and jacket that I had bought when I was in London with Jon. The high-heeled shoes I had on seemed to sink into the dirt as if it were quicksand. Teboho was also dressed for court and looking smart though, as always, he refused to go as far as a tie. We had also decked Mello out in her Sunday best, though as I lifted her out of the car seat, I thought I should change her in case her dress got dirty before we left for court.
At that moment, Tshidi emerged from the house with a baby strapped to her back. Instantly, Mello wriggled free and rushed over, burying her face in Tshidi’s skirt. And I realised there was one scenario that was yet to enter my nightmares: the possibility that Mello would not agree to leave Tshidi again. I had been so busy worrying about the layers of red tape we would need to break through to take Mello to Australia that I had forgotten the emotional ties she had with Tshidi.
