Holding up the sky, p.37
Holding Up the Sky, page 37
From that moment on, Mello glued herself to Tshidi’s side. The confidence I had slowly built up as Mello’s mother over the last few months was trampled underfoot. I felt a kind of rejection reach out and fill my lungs so I couldn’t breathe. I was suddenly invisible to Mello whereas the day before I had been the central figure in this little girl’s life. As I watched her I realised that she was now viewing her time with us as a holiday from which she had just returned home. I felt a rising panic that she would beg to stay with Tshidi and would refuse to return to ’Maritzburg.
Teboho must have seen the colour drain from my face, as he took me aside to find out what was wrong.
‘Have you seen Mello? She’s so happy to be back with Tshidi. She won’t want to come home with us’, I moaned.
‘Of course she’s happy to see Tshidi. She hasn’t been gone that long that she would forget her. What were you expecting, Moratua?’
‘I don’t know. I just didn’t expect to feel jealous.’
‘Just give her a chance. Mello loves you. When it’s time, she’ll come back with us. Don’t worry.’
I knew he was right. I should have expected it. And Mello needed the time to be with Tshidi again. But at that moment my feelings were more powerful than my rational mind–I felt I had such a lot to lose. So I struggled my way through lunch, the sandwiches sticking in the back of my throat.
Afterwards, Tshidi and Reggie also changed into their finery before the five of us, plus the baby, squeezed into the car and headed towards the magistrate’s office. The building was set in a dusty lot next to the police station and like government buildings everywhere, was pale and soulless. After reporting to reception, we were shown into a room that was empty save for the table and chairs. Our footsteps seemed amplifed on the linoleum floor as we walked across the room to take our seats and wait. There were two chairs to the left of the desk, two chairs to the right and one larger one behind. So Tshidi and Reggie sat to the left with Mello and Mojalefa and Teboho and I sat to the right, as though we were warring parties in a divorce settlement. Teboho tried to lighten the mood, making a few jokes about the family being in trouble with the law, but the look on Reggie’s face made it seem as though that might be true and no one laughed. Tshidi seemed a little more relaxed than her husband but was still visibly uncomfortable.
I kept my eyes to the front as I couldn’t look at the picture of the four of them together as a family. Part of me felt jealous and the other part of me guilty at the thought of splitting them up. So I sat staring straight ahead, trying not to lose my nerve, feeling withdrawn from the whole arrangement. I remembered the words Reggie had spoken when Teboho initially joked about them giving Mello to us: ‘Not Mello, she is my sunshine’. I remembered the way his normally emotionless face had suddenly contracted as he said it. Yet since our arrival, he had said nothing. I could only imagine that he thought he was giving Mello a better life. I knew this was what Tshidi wanted, as the lightness about her today suggested, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to cause something to break.
After about fifteen minutes, a black middle-aged woman entered the room and sat in the chair opposite. I was unsure if she was the magistrate, as a black woman magistrate would have been incredibly rare at that time, even in a homeland where all the officials were black. Yet she had an air of confidence about her that suggested she was comfortable with authority. Despite her powerful presence, she exuded a warmth that served to put us all a little more at ease. I also noticed when she walked in that she did not seem surprised by the colour of my skin although it was hardly what anyone would expect in a magistrate’s office in Itsoseng. Since I had taken Teboho’s name, I was aware that I looked black on paper and it had already caused many raised eyebrows when I was not who people expected. But perhaps this woman, like the matron at the hospital, also knew Mama and knew of a white daughter-in-law.
She introduced herself and let us know that she would be managing the adoption hearing today. We each in turn introduced ourselves and what our interests were in the matter. The conversation was held in Setswana, the offcial language of the homeland, with a little English thrown in for my benefit. As it was, the Sesotho I was learning was actually a hybrid between Sesotho and Setswana, as was spoken in Jo’burg. Moss and Khumo were Setswana speaking, so their vocabulary leant more towards Setswana, whereas in our family, the leaning was more towards Sesotho. As I sat listening to the conversation about the best interests of this child, I was able to follow the general direction of the discussion.
Once the proceedings began, they were brief and to the point, yet for me they seemed to stretch for hours as the now familiar fear crept out from its hiding place and took me hostage. I felt my heart begin to race and my breathing become a little shallow. Would this woman be the one to break my heart? There was considerable controversy about whether interracial adoptions were in the best interests of a child. Given we were in a remote rural area, opinions were generally less cosmopolitan than in the large cities. Not only could I not control the outcome, I realised I didn’t even know enough to guess what the outcome might reasonably be.
To my enormous and instant relief, the court had no objections to the adoption because it was a simple intra-family affair. Documents were sighted, papers were signed and stamped and hands were shaken to congratulate us as the new parents when we rose to leave. For the second time that day I felt a food of relief as another hurdle was overcome. But was it too soon to let myself believe that Mello could not be taken away? By now I had learnt that South African bureaucracy is a long and winding trail, so I continued to hold myself in reserve.
As we drove back to Mama’s, we agreed we would just stay for a cup of tea before heading back to Mohlakeng. I was keen to put this day behind me and get back to our lives in ’Maritzburg. If Tshidi was disappointed that we weren’t staying the night, she didn’t show it. Had I been more gracious that day, we could have allowed the family more time together. But I didn’t see it at the time as I was in pain and wanted it to end. I told myself that it would confuse Mello if we stayed longer, but I suspect the only confusion would have been mine.
Mama had come back from work early to try and catch us before we left. As we drove in, she was standing by the door watching for our arrival. Mama was always good medicine for me. She was calm and open hearted regardless of the situation and, as always, I found her state of mind contagious, calming me as well. We sat in the kitchen drinking tea while Teboho filled her in on how things had gone at the hearing. Mello, now changed out of her dress, was playing outside with her siblings who had just returned from school.
‘Will you go to Sydney now?’ Mama asked.
‘Not yet. There are still some papers we need to get’, I replied.
‘Really? Still more?’ she said, eyebrows raised.
‘Many more. We still need to get her a passport and then a visa to go and stay in Australia.’
‘Will that take a long time?’
‘Still a few more weeks. Perhaps we will leave at the beginning of January’, I said, glancing across at Teboho who was now chatting to Reggie. We really didn’t know how long it would take. Our deadline was 20 February, so that we could be in Australia to register for our Masters degrees. We were confident it wouldn’t take that long and I was holding out a secret hope that we could be there for New Year’s Eve which was always a huge celebration on Sydney Harbour.
It was soon time to leave, if we didn’t want to be driving in the dark. So we began to say our goodbyes. I was watching Mello out of the corner of my eye as I hugged and kissed each member of the family. Teboho was with her, encouraging her to do the same. She seemed to take the cue and ran towards the car. I held my breath. Would she realise that Tshidi was not coming with us and change her mind, asking to stay? I felt my stomach lurch at the thought of having to drag her away crying. Who would she understand me to be then?
As she reached the car door, she opened it and climbed up into her car seat. Then she turned and began waving goodbye to everyone. Without a word, I fastened her buckle and closed the door behind her. Still she did not protest, just continued to wave and smile. I sat in the front seat next to Teboho and closed the door, time seeming to drag as if attached to a ball and chain. As Teboho hit the horn in farewell, time snapped back into place and we were away. I looked behind me and Mello was her usual self, chatting about what she had done with Nthabiseng and young Teboho while we were inside. As I turned my head to the road Teboho caught my eye and smiled, as if to say that all would be well with the three of us.
Once we arrived back home, I lost no time in moving things forward. With Mello’s papers in hand, I approached the Department of Homeland Affairs for a passport the following morning. To my horror, they informed me that she could not be issued with a South African passport as she was a citizen of Bophuthatswana.
‘But no one recognises Bophuthatswana as a sovereign state and she won’t be able to travel internationally on papers from there’, I replied, exasperated, to the clerk in the busy office.
‘I can’t help you’, he commented fatly.
‘My husband is a South African citizen. Can she be recognised through him, her adoptive father?’ I already knew from the Australian embassy that Mello could be given permanent residency through her relationship with me.
He nodded. ‘You will have to register her in South Africa and then apply for the birth certificate before you can apply for the passport. Fill in this form and then queue over there’, he said, pushing another pale green form in my direction and pointing to a queue that looked at least two hours long.
As I stood in the queue to register her, completed green form in my hand, my mind sifted through the new information. There was a strong possibility that we were not going to wade through this red tape in time to register for university–but I felt that if I allowed myself to give in to this conclusion, all our plans would fall apart. So I stood in the queue and sought to gather my will behind the belief that it could all be done in time.
While we waited once more, our life continued. There was plenty to do at SAAAD. The conference had been a success and we were now looking to implement some of the initiatives that had been discussed. I had also enrolled Mello in swimming lessons in the afternoons as I was keen to ensure she could swim before I took her to Australia–it is a dangerous place for a child who doesn’t know how. Peter and Heidi had enrolled Ayanda in the same class. Peter and I looked a sight, our fair skin stark against our dark-skinned daughters’ as we all floated around the pool, blowing bubbles and kicking our feet.
I spent a lot of time with Heidi in those weeks. She was looking to set up her own childcare centre in the New Year, now having three children of her own under five. She was a qualified teacher herself and somewhat frustrated with some of the practices she saw in the local preschools. She felt the children were under-stimulated, with teachers often acting more as babysitters than educators. Going to Peter and Heidi’s house was like visiting a preschool, such was Heidi’s creativity with her children’s development. Our friendship with Brian and Anthea also continued to strengthen through the relationship between our two girls. Though I didn’t realise it at the time, I was beginning to lose track of my single friends, as our social lives were often driven by finding a playmate for Mello.
About this time, I heard via the grapevine that Steve had finally reached an out of court settlement with the trustees in regard to Sizwe. As I let the news swim around in my head, I felt no great sense of relief or triumph. All that remained was sadness. I had lost my place in an organisation I was deeply committed to, one that now no longer existed. I had lost my friendship with Steve and his family whom I had loved, who had given me a home and a place in their lives. Even my innate belief in the goodness of people had been damaged and perhaps my faith as well. There was also a hole where intimacy used to be between Teboho and I and Jacques and Margie. Though we were still friends, we never spoke of the rift or the ruling by the trustees that vindicated the team. Time had simply passed and we all moved on.
Each afternoon after work, at the barking of the neighbourhood dogs, Mello and I went out to the letterbox to check for mail. For weeks, there was nothing. Though Mello seemed to enjoy our little ritual, my own anxiety increased with each empty letterbox. Finally, a letter arrived in the middle of December, informing us that Mello was now registered and we could apply for the birth certificate from the Department. That night, in a food of relief, we discussed how to proceed. We had just over eight weeks before we had to be in Sydney. We would now have to wait four weeks for the birth certificate, given the time lost over the Christmas break, then a further two weeks for the South African passport. The Australian embassy said it would take a week or two to process the visa once they had received our passports, the adoption papers and a copy of my birth certificate. So it was tight, but possible. Early the next morning I was back in the queue at the Department of Home Affairs, intent on making it work.
The family had decided that every second Christmas we should gather together all twelve brothers and sisters, along with their spouses and children, and celebrate the occasion as one large extended family. Everyone wanted the family to stay intact, to know where they had come from, to whom they belonged. This year, it was Philemon’s turn to host the get-together. Phili was Ma Ellen’s son with Phuti, Teboho’s father, and he lived with his young family in a peri-urban township outside Rustenburg. Rustenburg was two hours north west of Johannesburg, quite close to the famous resort of Sun City. Phili had built a large house by township standards, boasting three large bedrooms and a row of outbuildings to the side. Ma Ellen lived with the family inside the house, with both Ephraim and Doki, two of Mama’s sons, living in a room out the back. Ma Ellen’s eldest daughter also lived nearby with her family, making Phili’s house an ideal location to hold the family gathering.
A big family Christmas was perfect for us that year, allowing us to say goodbye without travelling all across the country to do so. Caleb and his family were coming up from Mohlakeng, Tshidi and Reggie from Itsoseng, and China and Silwane and their families would travel in from the neighbouring rural areas they called home. As we drove up to Rustenburg, planning to arrive on Christmas eve, I was plagued by the fear of a repeat of my experience in Itsoseng a few months before. Though Mello and I had continued to cement our relationship, I had no idea how she might react to seeing Tshidi again.
It was dark when we arrived, Mello already fast asleep in her car seat in the back. We bumped up the dusty road towards the house with the sounds of our straining engine echoing off the hill in the still night. The house gave off a warm glow as the paraffin lamps and candles lit the lounge room, calling us in. We parked between the outbuildings and the house in a half-hearted attempt to keep the car hidden from view overnight. On hearing the car pull up, Phuti, Phili’s eldest son who was named after his grandfather, led a troupe of smiling children out to the car to greet us. No sooner was the engine off than there were hands at the car door, the girls fighting to be the one to take Mello out of her car seat and carry her inside. We followed with our overnight bags, stepping up onto the stoep and into the lounge that was now filled with family. Boisterous greetings were exchanged with those we had not seen all year. As Mama had decreed two years before, no one used my English name in greeting. ‘Malerato, le kae’, how are you? each one said. I heard there was a two rand penalty for anyone who didn’t comply.
As is tradition, we were immediately offered food and drink. Though we had eaten along the way and neither of us was hungry, we both accepted a large plate of rice, coleslaw and stew. As I sat picking at the food, Teboho filled the family in on all our recent developments. They were astonished at all the papers you needed in order to leave the country. As none of them had ever been on an aeroplane, let alone travelled overseas, they assumed that all you needed was a ticket, just as on the bus. Phili asked after our studies, clearly proud of his brother’s achievements. We had just received notification that Teboho had passed and now had an honour’s degree, the first in the family’s history. But it was my results that Teboho wished to speak of.
‘I am a lucky man to have married such an intelligent wife. She received top marks again this year, all distinctions, and was offered a scholarship to do her Masters degree in Durban.’
Murmurs of approval passed around the room.
‘Imagine how many cows her father would have asked for now?’ Teboho added cheekily, though it was common knowledge that I had not cost him a cent.
After I had finished a respectable amount of food, I put my plate down and went to find Mello. She was in one of the bedrooms surrounded by a circle of cousins whom she was entertaining with stories of living in the suburbs. I stood in the darkened doorway for a while to listen. She explained that water came out of taps inside the house whenever she wanted and that she was learning how to swim in a pool in a white person’s backyard. As they sat back in silent wonder, I took the opportunity to announce that it was time for Mello to go to bed. I reached over and picked her up, returning with her to the lounge to confirm sleeping arrangements. As I entered the room, Teboho’s sister China, seeing Mello on my hip, whispered to me, ‘Mello is too big to be carried now. You will spoil her if you continue to pick her up’.
I had noticed how quickly children move from babyhood to independence in African culture. I had seen babies nursed and carried on their mother’s backs as if they were an extension of their own bodies. How secure it must feel to be an African baby–never without the touch of another’s skin. But I had also seen mothers walking along the roadside with a child as young as two trailing a few metres behind. At some undiscernible moment, the toddler leaves infancy behind and becomes part of a peer group of children, mostly siblings and cousins, who take care of each other with seemingly minimal parental supervision. Perhaps China was right and I was spoiling Mello. The exemplary behaviour of so many African children suggested that their parents were doing something right. But I knew I wasn’t ready to pass her into the hands of her cousins just yet.
