Page 16 - The Mending Season

My mother, Mmamane Malebone, who was always trying to be the voice of reason, asked Malesedi all the right ques­ tions. “How was your trip? How is the weather in town? Have you been here long? Have you eaten?”Mmamane Malesedi hurled the answers at her and asked nothing about us except to say, “Why did you relax the child’s hair?”, to which Mmamane Mabatho replied from the dining room, “She likes it! We like it! Its a style. What kind of a question is that?!”No argument could last ten minutes without me coming into it.Mmamane Malesedi yelled back, “She is not a White per­ son, this child! Do you want her to grow up thinking she is a White person?”Mmamane Mabatho leaned her body towards the door, her buttocks an inch offthe sofa, balanced on her toes as if about to stand up, and answered, “You left your job again, didn’t you?” She wiggled her finger accusingly, but only because they were in separate rooms and her older sister could not see this. “Thats why you’re starting with this language about White people, akereTMmamane Malesedi appeared at the door of the dining room and narrowed her eyes at Mmamane Mabatho, “Who says I left myjob ... hmm? Who?”She was speaking in a much calmer voice. We all looked at one another as she turned around and went back to bed. “La ntella\ You disrespect me! I’m older than you, don’t you forget it ... and don’t wake me again, it’s been a long journey!” She slammed the door and did not emerge from the room again that night.The three of us sat in the dining room waiting and hoping for a breeze that would bring some relieffrom the heat. I pre­ tended to be listening to the TV while the aunts wondered out loud what was going on in Mmamane Malesedi’s head. They explored some possibilities. The first one was that maybe she16