﻿<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="no"?><Search><pages Count="127"><page Index="1" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[OXTORD literature for southern africavwlT l r .]]></page><page Index="2" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Kagiso Lesego MolopeTHEMENdiNgSEASONOXPORDUNIVERSITY PRESSSOUTHERN AFRICA]]></page><page Index="3" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[0^ 0^UNIVERSITY PRESSSouthern AfricaOxford University Press Southern Africa (Pty) LtdVasco Boulevard, Goodwood, Cape Town, Republic of South Africa PO Box 12119, N1 City, 7463, Cape Town, Republic of South AfricaOxford University Press Southern Africa (Pty) Ltd is a subsidiary of Oxford University Press, Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP.The Press, a department of the University of Oxford, furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education in publishing worldwide inOxford NewYorkAuckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei TorontoWith offices inArgentinia Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Turkey Ukraine VietnamOxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countriesPublished in South Africaby Oxford University Press Southern Africa (Pty) Ltd, Cape TownThe Mending SeasonISBN 978 0 19 576173 3© Kagiso Lesego Molope 2005The moral rights of the author have been assertedDatabase right Oxford University Press Southern Africa (pty) Ltd (maker)First published 2005 Seventh impression 2012All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press Southern Africa (Pty) Ltd, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate designated reprographics rights organisation. Equiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press Southern Africa (Pty) Ltd, at the address above.You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer.Commisioning Editor: Megan hall Editor: Robert Berold Proofreader: Tessa Kennedy Design: Oswald Kurten Cover: Cathy WattsSet in 11.5 pt on 13.8 pt Adobe Caslon by Richards DTP Imagesetting by Castle GraphicsPrinted and bound by ABC Press, Cape Town118163Please note: in this novel, Gauteng refers to the city of Johannesburg, as it would have done during the early 1990s,]]></page><page Index="4" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[For my niece, DITSHWANELO,the girl who knows everythingAcknowledgementsFllalwaysbe gratefultomysisterTumelo,whotookthebook out of my hands and helped me get a good night’s sleep; everyone at OUP for their time and support; my friends Jen Chang and Darryl Leroux who made time to read it when they had so many other things to take care of in their lives; and my most righteous partner, Jen, whose support is immeasurable.Thanks also to the women who raised me and saw me through our mending season, Mama, Mama Lali, Mama Meisie ... my sisters Choarelo, Tumelo and Lopang ... and Tshiamo, the fifth sister. And of course all the mothers and grandmothers on our street, who watched me play and said, “Kagiso, Dumedisa!”until I got it right.]]></page><page Index="5" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Tumane took her last breath in the room that would later become centraltohersisters lives. ShewastheeldestofthefourMasemola sisters.No one knew what took her life after two months ofincessant headaches,so everyone settled on witchcraft. Her sisters said she had been bewitched,\ and their neighbours agreed —they thought it must be apunishmentfor her many transgressions. They said that someone somewhere must have eventually decided to get even with her. Because they had known her temper and her madnessfor so manyyears, theyfound this easy to imagine."That's a mans kind o frage,"they would whisper to each other; as Tumane,barely clothed and armed with a knife,chased someone out o fthe house and into the street.They said, "Awoman knows better. What is she so angry about? She doesn't even have children. A woman only gets like that i fshe hastoprotectherchildren. Somedaythisragewillkillher—justyou watch!"Asnewsofherdeathpassedfrom oneneighbourtoanother;they said, 'Didn't I tellyou*? See what bitterness can do to a woman's heart?"Snickering and whispering, people walked on the other side o f the street when passing the Masemola house. The house itselfstood behind a large lemon tree, rising above the weeds and shrubs sur­ rounding it, barely visible to the outsider. Except to leavefo r work, the Masemolas hardly ever went outside, and never bothered with the yard chores like everyone else. Once in a while, they wouldplay their music at deafening volume, as ifto announce to the neigh­ bourhood that they were still there. It was banned music, the kindpeople could be arrestedfor. But because everyone said they were witches —and because the suggestion o fwitchcraft has suchpower — nopoliceman had ever walked through theirgate to confront them.Having lost their parents at a young age, the four sisters, Tumane, Malesedi, Malebone and Mabatho, had decided on their own rules. The neighbours disagreed with them on almost every­]]></page><page Index="6" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[thing, especially on the topics o fmen, money and rage. The sisters cursed, spat, and sat with their legs apart instead o fcrossed. They wentfor months without speaking to anyone but each other. They were the only people on their street who had a high wall built between themselves and their back neighbours.After Tumanes death, and with the news ofMalebones child on its way, the sisters opened their curtains, cut the weeds and shrubs, and mowed the lawn. Malesedifound work awayfrom home and once in a while the two younger sisters greeted their elders in the street. The look andfeel oftheir home was morefavourable to the outsider.They say a persons greatness can be measured by the number o f people at his or herfuneral; everyone speculated that it was the number ofpeople at their sistersfuneral thatprompted the threesisters to open up a little more o ftheir world and let their neigh­ bours in.]]></page><page Index="7" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[oneNumber 4 Mabele Street stood veiled by a large lemon tree at the corner of the only street with a name in Bofelong, our township. The tree gave us a scrap of privacy, something we needed desperately since our shame seemed to hang like the bright lemons at the treetop. Everyone knew things about my family that I wished would be forgotten - stories of what neighbours called my aunts’ madness were spread all over our street. Stories of how they came to fear and disapprove of us. We walked around fully exposed, while our neighbours worked hard to keep their secret pleasures and their woes as safely concealed as money in a womans bra.Being young, curious and bored, I had learnt to look at the neighbours closely, and I knew a lot more about them - these people who never came near our house - than they knew about us. In the middle ofthe day, I would climb the lemon tree and watch them walk around holding their heads up and exchanging morning greetings and afternoon news as if all was right in their world. While watching them, I tried remembering each ones private story. It was my secret game - secret because only I knew about it and because it was about other people s secrets. I listened when neighbours talked at the shop, at the rent offices, at the market or while standing on opposite sides ofthe fence, chatting in between cleaning, cooking and doing the washing.I knew that Mma Motsei s husband our next-door neigh­ bour - had died of a heart attack, but everyone knew that. What they did not know was that he had died at another womans house, and not at work. I was not yet sure what was7]]></page><page Index="8" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[so shameful about that, but I knew that it was scandalous enough for her to make up a different story.I knew that Ngemti, the township madman, had not been bewitched as everyone believed; he had lost his mind after an accident at a chemicals factory in Gauteng. Most people had never heard that. And I knew that the woman whose house he sometimes went to was not his sister but his former wife. You had to listen and watch very closely to know that. I was helped by the fact that most ofthe time no one took any notice ofme. I knew everything.Then there was Tihelo Masimo, a very light-skinned woman who lived on the same street, and whom I liked very much because I thought - from the top ofthe tree - that her skin seemed to glow from the sun. I envied the large curl in her hair - she was lucky, she never had to relax it like the rest ofus. She always waved, asked how I was, and, unlike the oth­ ers, did not cross to the other side of the street. I knew Tihelo had a White mother who lived in another country. Everyone knew that, although they pretended not to, but I also knew that she sent letters to her White mother every week on Fridays because that was when the mail went out from the post office. And she received letters from her White mother at the post office too so that the mother she lived with would not find out. (And also because the postman in the township had erratic hours. He only came about once a month.)So: this is me, Tshidiso. I am an only child, born ten months after my eldest aunt poisoned herself. (At least this is what I heard a bitter neighbour say as she chose a good cab­ bage at the market). My aunts say my eldest aunt was poisoned but no one ever talks about her any more. Only the oldest people on our street remember a child living in this house before me, and that was when my aunts were my age.I live with my three aunts, Mmamane Malesedi, Mmamane Malebone (actually my mother) and Mmamane Mabatho.8]]></page><page Index="9" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Since my mother gave birth to me so soon after my eldest aunt s death, I was named Tshidiso, meaning one who brings solace to mourners. From childhood, I made no distinction between my birth mother and my aunts. I was raised equally by all three of them and always felt like I had three mothers. I called them all Mmamane, the term for a younger aunt on the mothers side. Mmamane Mabatho said that originally I called them all Mama and then one day I just started saying Mmamane and never went back.Our neighbours called our house ko haloing, “home of the witches”. I heard them talk about Mmamane Malesedi run­ ning around naked on hot Sunday afternoons, chasing men out of our house and onto the street. People still claim to remember the colour of her panties - beige ones that I have never seen - and her untidy mop of hair standing up straight as she ran out with a knife in her hand. I heard men and women whisper,“Her breasts were as firm as a young girls.” “She would threaten murder.”“She wore nothing.”“She only wore those panties.”“I think that pair is the only one she has.”But I had no idea what they were talking about. Sure, Mmamane Malesedi was often angry and strict with me, but of all the aunts I had never seen her undressed.Yes, I had seen all three ofthem furious, but this was mostly when a teachers beating left bruises on my body. I once came home with my backside covered in blue and purple stripes from being thrashed with a cane. I couldn’t sit down without wincing from the pain, which sent all three aunts marching to school and demanding that the teacher be dismissed.“Outlaw the beatings!” they insisted to a stunned Principal Chauke. They wanted him to make caning illegal in his school. They always wanted the rules changed. No wonder9]]></page><page Index="10" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[there was always a Masemola sister story going around the neighbourhood. Everyone feared them.The gossip included the naked Sunday chases as well as what went on inside our house, despite the fact that most peo­ ple had never even been near our gate. They said, “They brew things in there, things to use on men.”“No woman should have that kind ofrage.”“The eldest one killed herselfwith her own poison.”And this, which I only heard once, “That child has no chanceof a normal life, just like those girls (my aunts) never did.”At first, I thought that other children did not like me, but when I grew older I realised that I lived in the kind ofhouse­ hold mothers warn their children to keep away from. Once I was playing with a neighbour’s little girl when suddenly her mother pulled her by the ear, yelling that there had been mad­ ness in my family for many generations, and no child of hers would go anywhere near me. No one was allowed to play alonewith me, and no child invited me to her home.People liked me only when I kept my distance. I overheard Mma Motsei, our next-door neighbour, whispering to a friend over a cup oftea once, “You never know when they could sendher with something.”I was always trying to imagine what I could be sent with tothe neighbours’ houses. The only thing I knew for sure was that none of the aunts had ever married - something that all the neighbours frowned upon. I once heard someone say that it was a sign ofa shameful home that I called them all Mmamane.For their parts, the aunts returned the neighbours’ scorn. But even so, it was clear that they wanted their past to be for­ gotten. As we say in Setswana, Se se safeleng, se a tlhola - what doesn’t end is a bad omen. As the August dust must finally set­ tle, the feuds that had trailed on from one generation to the next needed to be put to rest. The country was mending many years ofbroken fences. And in our own way, so was my family.10]]></page><page Index="11" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Millicent Masemola, the mother ofthe aunts, raised her girls to reject restraint and embrace their rage. She was in her late thirties when the township Lady Selbourne, like Sophiatown and many others, was bulldozed along with everything she knew and loved. She had been a dancer who travelled and was knownfo r her looks and talent. Her husband, Sam, was the love o fher life. M illicent’sfamily was among thefirst to be moved to the township. The White government called it Springsville but the Black people called it Bofelong, because: a) there were no springs; b) the land was so bar­ ren they thought they had reached the Kalahari and therefore the edge ofthe continent, and c) it was sofarfrom everything, itfelt like the end o fthe world. Mabele Street was thefirst and only street to be given a name. Someone must have run out ofsteam orchanged their mind along the way.Rumour and scornfollowed the Masemolasfrom theirfirst dayin the township. While Sam Masemola drank himselfto death everyone asked about his wife, “What’s she giving him?”because she kept her home lookingperfect and stayed lookinggorgeous. But the real explanation was that he withered away because - like a lot ofmen ofhis time - hefelt helpless, unable to save hisfamilyfrom being banished to the end o f the world, the township Bofelong, meaning “At the end”.Sams death took away Millicent's lively spirit and left the girls with a mother who wanted nothing to do with the world. She closed hergate and never let them go outside toplay any more. The little girls stayed inside and watched their mother dress up and dance all day to tunes she could have been arrestedfor playing. Their windows and doors stayed shut. At school, they spoke only to each other and after school they rushed home to their mother.Tumane always said, “No one knows the details. It’s the details they have to know to understand us.”She was the one with the most vivid memories o fLady Selbourne and the one who knew the11]]></page><page Index="12" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[difference between thefather they had in the township and the father they had had in Lady Selbourne. She would huddle up to Malesedi and tell her about the parents she missed. Their little sisters - Malebone and Mabatho - loved the dancing and the music and knew Lady Selbourne as aplace in town called PretoriaNorth, where Whitepeople lived.12]]></page><page Index="13" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[twoAlthough the aunts said I already looked like I was holding fifteen by its heels, I was just about to turn thirteen the year my eldest aunt, Mmamane Malesedi, returned home with a plan to give me a new life and change peoples ideas about us. It was the end of 1989 and I had all the signs of what Mmamane Malebone called a blossoming woman: breasts, bigger buttocks, plus hair and sweat in all the places no one talks about. Miriam Makeba, fresh from exile, was belting out revolutionary tunes on the radio, sounding so subversive she made me nervous. I kept turning her down and putting my ear close to the speaker. I could hear what all the fuss was about: she was magic! I pushed out my chest and shook my upper body to “Pata-pata”, a dance move I was especially enjoying at that time. I watched my breasts shake slightly, utterly fas­ cinated by my suddenly voluptuous body moving to the beat ofthe once-banned music.I hadn’t seen Mmamane Malesedi for some time because she lived where she worked. But there she was suddenly, standing in the doorway ofthe kitchen, her shoulders sagging, hands hanging at her sides, as if her body was a burden she was ready to lose. Her pale blue dress with white flowers looked like it was meant for someone with a bigger waist and broader shoulders. I stood staring at her, then I looked at her feet and noticed the worn-out leather on her shoes and the heels that could not stand another journey. The dust of the township dirt roads covered her feet, almost reaching all the way up to taint the white on her blue-and-white dress. When13]]></page><page Index="14" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[she saw me, her forehead wrinkled both out of irritation and exhaustion. I never could stir up a warm reaction from her.Her first question was the one I hated most from adults, “Is anyone home?”I mean, I was almost thirteen! But it was as if nothing but my ears were standing in front of her! A look from her at my hands on my hips and I quickly let them drop and stood up straight.I finally realised that I had not just imagined her always looking displeased with the world. All those times I remem­ bered her coming home bitter after having left a job were as real as the stench from the rubbish heap at the corner of our street, which even now came seeping through the windows. She dragged her body past mine, showing affection with only one quick, smooth stroke of my newly relaxed hair.“What did they do to your hair?”she muttered, and moved on without waiting for an answer.I stood in the middle ofthe kitchen stroking my hair back into place. It was my first relaxer and I was proud ofit. “When the other two come,” I thought, “111 never sleep.”By the time Mmamane Malebone and Mmamane Mabatho arrived home from work, I had tired of watching people from the lemon tree and was sitting on the living room sofa trying to decide which song I should ask for when I called the TV show Sidlalela Intsha (We Play for the Young). When I saw the aunts, I spoke like a comrade announcing that the police were coming. “Shes back!” I half whispered, half yelled. Mmamane Malebones eyes widened and I saw her swallow hard.“//<??!” she said. Mmamane Mabatho marched past me towards my bedroom, knocking and opening the door at the same time. “Hao\ Malesedi, what brings you back?”Mmamane Malesedi had started a new job only six months before and the aunts had spent the past two months marvel­14]]></page><page Index="15" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[ling that it looked like she had finally learned to keep a job. It was the longest time she had worked in one place. Usually when she returned to our house, she stayed inside for days, complaining about how much she hated working for White women and how every Black woman should have her own business. Within weeks, the other two aunts would find her work somewhere else. They would speak to a friend working in a shop or the White peoples kitchens and Mmamane Malesedi would be gone for about three months. Then she’d be back again. Every time she came home there would be argu­ ments - she would try to convince the aunts that she had been unfairly dismissed. The aunts would tell her that pronounce­ ments like “I’m not your slave” and “Your mother should have taught you better”were not the sort ofthings people liked to hear, especially not those who pay your wages.I sat on the edge ofthe sofa trying to look like I was absorbed in the music video I was watching on TV - Bobby Browns “Don’t be Cruel”. If they thought I was listening to their con­ versation, they would close the door. I pushed my left ear towards the hallway and turned down the TV a bit. There were two bedrooms in the house but the aunts only met in the one whose window faced the back yard. I called it the Meeting Room. I heard Mmamane Malesedi say, “You don’t even say hello ... you don’t even ask how I am ... ebile, I’m sleeping, you woke me. I’m sleeping, can’t you see, na?”Mmamane Mabatho whispered something and then clicked her tongue. Within a few seconds, I felt a finger poke my left shoulder.“Close your ears!” she said to me, as she came in to sit on the two-person sofa near the window. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head, her lips turned up and forehead wrinkled - more with worry than anger, I thought. “I don’t know any more now,” she said and I turned up the TV. “I don’t know any more.”15]]></page><page Index="16" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[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]]></page><page Index="17" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[had pretended to be sick - but that would probably have led to her losing her job. Mmamane Mabatho said, “White people dont like to hear that Black women can be sick, sad or have problems at home.”The second possibility was that maybe, just maybe, it really was possible, they’d heard ofit once or twice - although very rarely - she had been given her holiday time and she would go back.While most women left their mothers’homes to get married and createfamilies, the Masemola sisters stayed together in the house they hadgrown up in, dreamed about having a big business some­ day, and never envisaged a life without each other. They kept their mothers gramophone and all her records, dancing to her memory longaftershehaddied. \Justabrokenheart,”Millicenthadtoldher girls the day she stopped dancing. “That’s all. Nothing else hurts. ” Herfuneral had been small and the neighbours had said their “I toldyou so’s”.Thefour women met every evening in the bedroom where both theirparents had died and listened to stories that Tumanepassed down about theirparents. The seventies had been brutal, killingpeople’s children and their souls. At that time, the Masemola sisters had clung to the thread o fanecdotes as w ell as the memory o ftheir mother because their lives depended on it. They had never learnt to play or have conversations with people outside their home, so they stayed and laughed, loathed, played and dreamt together. Itfelt normal to them but unnatural and dubious to their neighbours.The morning heat found me cleaning the kitchen - always the last room to clean - and looking forward to sitting on the stoep, watching people pass by and listening to the gospel music of our next-door neighbour, Mma Motsei. She was a Christian who went to church on Saturdays - mzalwane, a born-again.17]]></page><page Index="18" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[When she was not in church, she played her church music from speakers on the stoep, to give us all an opportunity to be saved. No one went into her house but they welcomed her in theirs as long as she did not try to tell them about Jesus. Once while buy­ ing bread at the shop, I stood behind two other neighbours who said she was “tiresome but sad” and that was why they let her come into their homes. I remember wishing that someone would call me sad in that same tone so that they would allow me to play with their children.When I finished in the kitchen, the aunts were sitting in the other bedroom - the meeting room - where they had been since I woke up, whispering through their conversation. I took my bread and tea and went to sit on the stoep. Normally peo­ ple do not eat where neighbours can see them because it is offensive, but the aunts let me do it.“Let them see we have food in the house,” they always said. “Eat at the gate if that suits you.” I compromised and ate with my back to the street, turning around only when I had taken the last bite.“Nanai” Mmamane Malebone’s voice startled me. She was the only one who still called me “baby”. “Come, we have something to tell you,” she said. I turned away from the door, disappointed that I was about to miss Ngemti, the madman, whose screams I could hear as he entered our street from the eastern corner.In the meeting room, the aunts were sitting on the beds, grins stretched across their faces.“School opens on January eighth for you this year,” Mmamane Malebone said, so excited that she stood up as she said this.“No, the following week,” I said, confused.“No, not this school. You’re going to a new school.” She paused, and looked into my eyes. I searched the room for answers. This was exciting. I liked going to new places and a18]]></page><page Index="19" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[different school would have to be further away from home since there was only one high school near our house. I had always wished I could go to another part of the township where people had never heard ofus.“Which one?”I looked at Mmamane Malebone.“Its called Ascension Convent,” Mmamane Malesedi answered. My jaw dropped and I almost fell to the floor. That was an English name. I was going to a school with an English name? In town? I would go to school in town?! I leapt onto the bed next to Mmamane Malesedi, who glared at me. “Sit still,” she warned.“They take Black people there?” I asked Mmamane Malebone. Ithuteng, my school, was in the township and therefore a Black school. One or two White private schools had opened their doors to people ofdifferent colours, but only very wealthy Black people went there since they were so expensive.How could the aunts possibly afford to send me there? We had never had a lot of money. I knew they were constantly wondering if they had enough to pay our bills (I could hear them when I listened just outside the window of the meeting room, though they never complained in front ofme). But I also knew that I could never ask about money. Money, men and sex were the three forbidden topics. Adults could bring them up but for a child to mention them would have been too rude.“They just started a little while ago,” Mmamane Malesedi explained. “And you’ll be part of only a small group of Black people to go there ... sit still.”I was ecstatic, out of control. I jumped up and down on the bed. The younger aunts laughed and clapped while Mmamane Malesedi insisted I either sit still or we forget the whole thing.“This isn’t how people behave in those schools,” she said, giving me a sharp warning look. I ignored her. Mmamane19]]></page><page Index="20" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Malebone held my hand and gently pulled me down so that I sat next to her. She put her arm around me and I laid my head against her breast, finally sitting still.They started telling me the details. From what they had been reading in the newspapers, it seemed wise to send me to a White school. Historically, White universities were the best and they mostly took students from White schools, not the Black schools. I would go to school in a taxi with Mmamane Malesedi every morning because she worked near the con­ vent. I would have to take a taxi home with other girls after school. They laid down the rules, “Do your homework, do exceptionally well in school, no boys, no fighting, and don’t act like Black people do when they have nice things. Dont ruin it.”And then I got the warnings, “Ifyou misbehave, you’ll be expelled. Nuns dont take nonsense and neither do we. This is a girls’ school but you’ll see boys at the brother-schools. Ifyou play around with boys, you’ll get in trouble and you’ll be in trouble with us. If you don’t do well, you’ll never go to uni­ versity and you’ll never have anything ofyour own.”Then the final, most startling instruction, if it can be called an instruction, “We’re Catholic.”“You were born Catholic and you were raised Catholic,” Mmamane Malebone said.Mmamane Malesedi countered, “No, she doesn’t have to have been born Catholic: we converted.”They went back and forth and Mmamane Malesedi came up with the answers like a queen on her throne.“Yes, we converted.”“From what?”“Why?”“From being Lutheran, because we believe in the teachingsofthe Catholic Church.” “Why?”“Will they really ask her this?”20]]></page><page Index="21" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Yes, they could. Because we believe in their teachings. That’ll be good enough for them.”“Is she baptised?”“Yes, of course! She’s baptised, cleansed of sin, the sin you have from birth.”She said this with disdain and sucked her teeth for a good three seconds.I didn’t know if I would remember all of this but I had to focus. I would never have thought that I’d be one of the few Black girls going to those schools. Those were expensive schools. Only children whose parents were professionals or rich business people went there.“Do we go to church?” asked Mmamane Malebone.“Yes, Christ the King, it’s three streets away right here in the township. But we’re devoted. We’d take a taxi every Sunday if the church was too far to walk.” Mmamane Malesedi snorted.“Won’t they ask the priest there to vouch for us?” “HaoyJesus,” Mmamane Mabatho said. “It’s too much.” “Don’t say ‘Jesus’ unless it’s followed by ‘Christ’ and notunless you’re in the middle of prayer, and no, the priest doesn’t have to vouch for us. I took care ofthat.”They all turned and looked at me. “Did you hear that?” Mmamane Malebone asked me with concern.“Yes, we converted to Catholicism from being Lutheran,”I raised a finger for every detail I repeated.“We belong to Christ the King, I was baptised at birth ...”“No, no!” Mmamane Malebone looked panicked. “You were baptised ... when?”- she looked to her older sister for an answer.“I don’t think she has to know when. Good enough that she was baptised.”“And I was baptised, and ... we live close to the church but I would take a taxi if it was far.”21]]></page><page Index="22" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[aYou dont have to actually say that”Mmamane Malesedi was annoyed.I stood up, took a deep breath and contemplated what was to come. For days after that, I would find myselfgrinning and practising my “hello”and “how are you”in front ofthe mirror. “Im fine, thank you, and how are you?”I would say to the mir­ ror when no one was looking. “My name is Tshidiso Masemola. What is your name?”Had they been better connected with the world\ perhaps the Masemola sisters would have known that there were waysfor them tofollow thepaths they had wishedfor - nursing school\per­ haps, or teachers’college. Still\ they wouldprobably have chosen to find a way to stay together after high school. Foryears they dreamt ofeverythingfrom opening a tuck shop to becoming seamstresses. But they didn’t like the idea o fpeople coming into their home every day. Still\ they held onto their dream ofhaving a business, even though it was a bit hazy.Meanwhile, each woman went to town and became a cleaning womanfor a company or afamily, determined to save enough moneyfor their dream business. At the end ofevery month, they would come together in their meeting room and decide how much was to be saved and how much was to be spent. It was allgoing well until men started coming into their lives and disrupting the smooth workings o ftheir world.Theproblem was that the men always wanted to stay or take one o f the sisters home. The sisters took this as a great insult. Inevitably, it led to noisy battles, after which the men ran out, never to return. The neighbours gasped and whispered insults,“They’re lucky to have these men.”“What woman would chase a manfrom her house when all he wants is to marry her?”22]]></page><page Index="23" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“This is not normal. ”No man stayed overnight and none lasted longer than twomonths, until Malebone decided she wanted a baby.23]]></page><page Index="24" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[threeChristmas holidays could not end soon enough. The day we were going to buy my new uniform, morning dew glistened on the leaves ofour lemon tree, the suns rays turning it into crys­ tal beads. I woke up earlier than everyone else in order to clean the house and hasten our departure. Mma Motseis house was quiet, as she had gone to work. The other children were busy with their street games and for the first time since I could remember, I didnt care about whether they needed an extra member on one team to make them even. I just wished I had a friend with whom I could share my good news.My two younger aunts had taken the day offwork so that we could all go. I could not remember the last time all four of us had left the house together. I wore my white dress with blue chiffon at the hem and blue flowers everywhere, the one which Mmamane Mabatho had bought for my birthday. I had on my only pair of shoes with a heel, the ones that made me look a little bit taller. I had slept in large, prickly blue rollers so that my hair would look perfect. I combed the curls lightly now, still marvelling at how straight and long my hair was - it touched the nape of my neck. Mmamane Malebone had relaxed it herself, not allowing me to go to a hair salon because it was too expensive. I had doubted that she could make me look like Robin Williams, the Coloured girl who had almost won Miss South Africa but didnt because, as Mmamane Mabatho explained it, South Africa was not ready for a Black Miss South Africa. (Mmamane Mabatho called Coloured people “Black” and said “Coloured” was offensive.) I now24]]></page><page Index="25" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[thought that except for my dark skin and my wider nose, I came quite close to looking like Robin Williams myself.“Brush your shoes,”Mmamane Malesedi said, but the other aunts said I looked elegant. I was ecstatic and could not wait to go outside and be seen. We treaded lightly but proudly, heads up, down the dusty road. I was anxious to reach the tarred main road because I did not want to reach town looking shabby, like we had just been shooting the dust with our feet.In spite of myself, I looked sideways to see who was noti­ cing us. People stared. I knew that they were speculating among themselves about where we were going. When we reached Tihelo s house, I shot my arm up in the air and waved proudly for longer than necessary. Tihelo was sitting and talk­ ing to her mother on their stoep. Mmamane Malebone said Tihelo’s mother liked to show her offbecause she was a journ­ alist and not a lot ofpeople around here were professionals. I thought that maybe Tihelo didnt mind me because she had gone to university. Mmamane Malesedi said they taught peo­ ple all kinds of things there - like witchcraft doesn’t make sense or doesn’t even exist. I was sure that Tihelo did not believe that we were witches.At the roadside, we waited about twenty minutes for the right taxi, which had to be an E20 because those took fewer passengers and were cleaner and usually the drivers played soul or R&B instead ofbubblegum or church music. I noticed that people were staring at us. I assumed that they were prob­ ably looking at the striking resemblance between the three aunts - even I could not help but stare sometimes. With their big eyes, high cheekbones and tall, slim figures, the Masemola sisters were easy to pick out of a crowd. Sometimes people said that the aunts looked like identical triplets, especially since they were so close in age.In the taxi, we all sat in the back seat - the four-seater - and talked excitedly to each other. People we knew sat uncom­25]]></page><page Index="26" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[fortably, silently, in the seats ahead of us. I never did under­ stand what they thought we would do to them. If we were going to poison them with witchcraft, it wouldn’t be in a taxi, would it? It was funny to see them trying not to touch our money as they passed it forward to the driver. I could imagine them washing the paranoia off their hands with soap when they got home.At a store I had never been to before, I tried on my new school uniform - a blue dress with a white collar and white trim at the hem of the short sleeves. There were other girls there, White girls, trying on the same uniform. The women who worked at the shop chatted with my aunts about when I would be starting at the White school. One of them had worked with Mmamane Malebone at a shoe store before and was asking her how her job compared to the one they used to have - they had lost their jobs after the shoe store had moved to a different town. Mmamane Malesedi told the saleswomen that I was going to be part of the second year of Black girls ever to be in “the multiracial”.“Shes very excited,” I heard Mmamane Malesedi say from the fitting room. “When we told her, she started jumping up and down on the bed.”“It’s a Catholic school, isn’t it?” the saleswoman asked the aunts.“Yes, we’re Catholic,” said Mmamane Malebone.“Hmmm, aowayI heard on the radio that Maroma are the first ones to open their doors to Blacks,”the saleswoman said. “The Romans are good people,”Mmamane Malebone said. I walked out just in time to see Mmamane Malesedi shoot hera look that said, “You don’t have to go that far.”Another woman who worked in the store came over. All of them pulled at my hem, had me try on different belts andbrought me shoes to try, all the while talking to each other about how I would probably not be speaking Setswana any26]]></page><page Index="27" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[more after my first year there, and how I should always remember to make them proud. I quietly marvelled at my new self, my head filled with pictures ofwhat it would be like to walk side by side with White, Indian and Coloured girls. As they fussed over my uniform, I was constantly fixing my hair, my body in flames of excitement.We passed shops that had replaced “Whites Only” with “Right of Admission Reserved”, and went to a cafe for fish and chips. We sat and ate them outside near the taxi rank. Mmamane Mabatho said, “Maybe if they re taking children in the White schools we’ll get places to sit and eat in town soon.” While Mmamane Malebone nodded in agreement, Mmamane Malesedi said she wouldn’t put her money on it, but that it had to happen before the end ofthe nineties.Ofallfour women,Malebone was always the one who wanted alittle more contact with the rest ofthe world. When she was younger she would stand at the gate and watch the street, longing to bepart o fthe groups o fchildren skipping, running andfighting out there. She was always the one to calm her sisters down. She would braid their hair or cookfor them when they werefeeling uneasy about something. She would sit quietly and read when Tumane chased a man out o fthe house, but Malesedi and Mabathowould run outside to watch.In her late night talks with Mabatho, she always expressed herneed to have children. “Life would not be complete without them,” she told her sister. This need intensified with the years andfinally, after Tumane's death, she decided it was timefo r her to raise a child.21]]></page><page Index="28" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[fourOn Monday, 8January 1990,1woke up before dawnjust like the women and men who worked in town. I bathed and was about to take out my curlers and put on my uniform when Mmamane Malebone told me there were still three more hours before the cock crowed. I had woken up Mmamane Malesedi too. In the dark, she said slowly, “There are no taxis or trains at 3 a.m.” So I sat up in bed willing the moon to make room for the sun sooner than it was supposed to, while Mmamane Malebone fell back to sleep in the next bed.I must have fallen back to sleep myself because all three aunts woke me and hurriedly helped me put on my uniform, saying that it was a good thing I had already taken a bath. Now all I had to do was brush my teeth, quickly wash my face, run a face cloth through my armpits and vagina, and get ready for school.The most disappointing part of that morning was that none of the other children from my street were awake to see me in my new uniform. But Tihelo was hurrying off to work and she greeted us, smiling. Mma Motsei’s jaw almost fell to the ground when she saw us. She was probably wondering why a Christian school would take someone like me. I grinned at her and heard her suck her teeth.In the taxi, I asked Mmamane Malesedi if I could use the name Sophia at school, a name that was on my birth certific­ ate, instead ofTshidiso. She told me not to be silly. “No one in our family has ever used an English name, you know that,” she said. Sophia was a name Mmamane Malebone had put on28]]></page><page Index="29" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[my birth certificate because it was the aunts’ grandmothers name - my great-grandmother’s. No one had ever liked her.People in the taxi watched me curiously but only one bald older man who came in two stops after us asked, “Hee? Are you going to school in town?”I nodded furiously and grinned at him. “Eeng,”I said.“Heeee\ Bana ba rona\ Our children. These are changing times, Mma,” he said to Mmamane Malesedi. “This is the beginning ofthe best years for this country.”“Eeng,”Mmamane Malesedi said. “She’s living in different times.”“You’ll be sitting side by side with White children. This is no small thing, my child. This is no small thing.”“Wait until Mandela comes out,” a young man who was probably only about two years out ofhigh school, spoke from the back. “I won’t be working at this job for long.”“Heyil Change takes time, Mfana,”the older man told him. “IfMandela really does come out, it will take a long time.”“I’m a PAC woman,” a woman from the passenger seat turned around and spoke to the rest ofus. “And I think Nelson Mandela will bring only a small amount ofchange. He works with the Whites. He is negotiating in prison with the Whites. They’re probably telling him what to do and what not to do if they do release him. Do you think he will bring Black peoplejobs? No! If they release him, it will be on condition that he lets the Whites keep everything they have.”“Heee wenal Mandela is for everyone. We’ve all fought for his release, we expect him to fight for all ofus,”the bald man told the woman. She flicked her hand rudely at him.“You don’t know, wena“Heei Woman?”The two passengers looked about the same age. “Do you know how long I’ve been with the ANC?”“Ai, ai, ail” A woman’s voice came from the back of the kombi. “Let’s not start another fight about ANC, PAC. The29]]></page><page Index="30" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[fact is our children are living in different times. Times when things will be better for them. Much, much better. They wont know any more stay-aways. They can go to school. Iyo, Modimo\ Oh, my Lord! Our children can go to school, finally. Look, look outside when you re home during the day. You see our children walking up and down, up and down the street. Aimless. Bored. Gape, our children have given up on school, waitseT“Eeng\ Eeng\ Ke nnete, its true,” everyone agreed. “Apartheid destroyed our childrens futures.”“//<?-<?!”The driver spoke. “How long are we going to blame apartheid? Some of these children just dont want to go to school.”“These children want school,” Mmamane Malesedi spoke. “How can they survive schools where the teachers are either absent or beating them? Some of these children marched for years against apartheid. They re tired. Their teachers are tired.”“Hmmm. Le gale, anyway, we join you in giving thanks, my child. These are hopeful times,” the old man told me, and many ofthe passengers said the same thing.“We join you in giving thanks. Its true. The fact is these are hopeful times.”Amid the morning flood of workers pouring out of cars, trains, taxis and buses, we walked the twenty minutes from the taxi to school. In my excitement, I felt I was leaping my way to my new life, charging onto greener pastures. But even as I marched along with the crowd, I was still not walking as quickly as Mmamane Malesedi. By the time we reached the iron gates with the words ASCENSION CONVENT SCHOOL on them, I was out ofbreath and hoping the wind had not done too much damage to my hair.In the schools driveway, students were climbing out oftheir parents’ fancy cars and rushing to hug each other. There were also three kombis - one with only Black girls, another with Indian girls and another with Coloured girls. I saw girls run30]]></page><page Index="31" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[towards each other and excitedly exchange titbits about their Christmas holidays. I felt lost but curious and exhilarated.The four girls dropped offby the Black kombi looked me up and down. I heard them speaking in exactly the same English accent as the White girls. They all ran and hugged other White, Indian and Coloured girls - which made me stare in amazement. All were so at ease with a language that I felt would take me a long time to say anything in.“Oh my GOSH! She, like, STARES!”said one ofthe Black girls who had just gotten off the kombi. She only glanced at me once before saying this, but everyone around her turned to take a look in my direction. Most ofthem giggled. My eyes dropped to the ground. I had been staring.This girls hair, straightened like that of every Black girl I had seen so far, was much longer than mine. It went down to her shoulders and was held back in a tight ponytail. She threw her head from side to side when she walked so that it bounced all the time. I thought to myself, she did not use Black Like Me relaxer, but probably one of those that say “professional use only”. She probably went to a hair salon every month too. I silently resented my mother for relaxing my hair at home. I had been pleased with it until now.“Shes new, hey?” another girl said - a White girl, who had given the one with a tight ponytail a lingering hug and still had her arm around her shoulders.“Duh! Marianne, you haven’t seen her here before, have you?” said the long-haired one, who spoke very loudly, I guessed for my benefit. I later learnt her name was Veronica, but everyone called her Vies. I also came to find out that most of the Black girls had English names although they were not the ones they used in the township.Marianne said - playfully hitting Veronics’s arm - “I was just asking. GOSH! Sue me, why don’t you?!”And with that,they disappeared into the crowd.31]]></page><page Index="32" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Mmamane Malesedi told me to go ahead, that the bell was about to ring. She fixed my collar and said, “0 itshware pila, behave yourself”, the words they had been repeating from the moment they told me about the school. Then she turned around and walked towards the gate, greeting the Black women and men who cleaned the convent.For people who did not care much what the neighbours thought ofthem, the aunts were very concerned about how I would act at the new school. They did not need to remind me so many times to hold myself together, it wasn’t like I had misbehaved at my other schools. In fact I always faded into the background. No teacher had ever complained about my behaviour.I walked alone behind the crowd, listening to the excited exchanges of stories and greetings among the girls. One had taken guitar lessons and one had gone to Cape Town with her family and had to be around her parents “the whole damn time”. One had broken up with her boyfriend but had already started going on dates with a different boy. One girl had bro­ ken her leg and a few friends gathered around her to write little messages on her cast. I heard three Black girls speak a township mixture of almost every South African language as they discussed someone’s wedding. Someone behind me asked her friends to come out for ice cream after school that day.I could understand spoken English very well because I had been learning it since Grade Two. I thought I would have no problem speaking it, until now, when I realised almost no one spoke with my township accent. I thought they would laugh out loud when they heard me speak.We gathered in the court, the centre of the school, sur­ rounded by big buildings, including a large chapel and the school hall. The principal, Mrs Allison, was a tall, very slim White woman with short grey hair. She walked slowly and gracefully. She wore a black skirt that reached below her knees32]]></page><page Index="33" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[and a white blouse. A pair ofglasses hung around her neck on a black string. Something told me that it was no accident that everything matched.When she arrived, all the learners, who had filed into rows, fell silent. I had guessed which one was the Standard Six line by joining the row of girls who looked about my age, and I hadbeen right. There, I thought, I look like I know what I’m doing. Nuns in habits - navy blue dresses with white collars and blue veils with white trim - were standing in front ofus on a raised stoep. When Mrs Allison reached her place at the cen­ tre, a nun started singing a hymn and the whole school joined her. I considered moving my lips and pretending to know the song but thankfully I let go ofthat idea. At Ithuteng, my pre­ vious school, there was a teacher - Teacher Moima - who never knew the words to any ofthe songs but sang along any­way. This was no time to look like Teacher Moima.After the song came a prayer, Our Father, which I knew from Ithuteng. I moved my lips without sounding out thewords, concealing my Setswana accent.“Good morning, girls,” Mrs Allison said. “Welcome backand a special welcome to the new girls this year. I know we have quite a few. I hope you enjoy your time at Ascension.”“Good morning, Mrs Allison,” said everyone in unison.“Happy New Year. I hope you all had a good rest and are ready to work hard this year. I hope you can also handle the heat - especially when you’re out on the playground or playing sports. Drink lots ofwater and take good care ofyourselves. Say “hi”to the new girls and make them feel comfortable and welcome. Good luck. We have a few things to say before you go to your classes, and some announcements, so Til step aside. I think Sister Cecilia wanted to say something.”At that, a medium-height, slightly chubby nun walked to the centre ofthe podium. Her veil was pushed back a little so that her hairline was showing. I wondered if that was the33]]></page><page Index="34" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[equivalent ofbeing halfnaked. I had heard once that nuns are very strict about being fully covered.Sister Cecilias voice was a lot deeper than Mrs Allisons. She was so stern and intimidating - her shoulders pushed back and her chin slightly raised - you would have thought she was speaking to soldiers.“Thank you, Mrs Allison. Good morning, girls,” she started. “Now, this year I hope you will all be well behaved. Be respectful of school rules. They are there for a reason. Last year, a few ofyou were caught on the street in your school jer­ seys. None of that this year, I hope.” She lowered her chin, furrowed her eyebrows and wiggled her finger at us.“You will always wear your blazers, no takkies, only proper school shoes and socks.” She paused and took a deep breath before sighing hopelessly. “Now,please girls. The schools repu­ tation depends on you. I want people to say the girls from Ascension Convent are smart and they always look smart. Please,” she pleaded again, and then nodded at Mrs Allison before walking away. Then she paused as if she had just remem­ bered something, and walked back to the centre. “Happy New Year,” she said. I was relieved to see her grin briefly.Mrs Allison resumed leadership. “Ok girls, you heard Sister Cecilia. Please don’t disappoint us. Now, for those ofyou who are new, I’d like to introduce you to our new head girl, Anita Masilo.” A tall Coloured girl came onto the podium, stood with her shoulders so high that she looked awkward, and pushed her chest out. Mrs Allison held up a newspaper clip­ ping with Anitas picture on it. “Were the first school to have a Black head girl, and we’ve been heralded as rebels and trend­ setters in the media.”At this, Mrs Allison chuckled, showing a smile for the first time since assembly began.I thought, “She’s Black?” She had a Black surname but she didn’t look Black to me. It made me think that there were more new things to learn than I had anticipated.34]]></page><page Index="35" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[One of the nuns said something I did not hear and Mrs Allison said, “That’s right”, and laughed even harder, showing us the roof of her mouth. Then she stopped, put her hand to her mouth, patted her hair as if composing herself, and turned to Anita, who was lookng so nervous I felt sorry for her. “Anita, congratulations and we look forward to having you as our new head girl.”Everyone clapped and we were told to walk straight to class. “Single file, please!” Sister Cecilia shouted at us. I knew from the moment I saw her that she would be perpetually frustrated with us. She yelled and became flustered at the drop of a hat.When I passed her I looked curiously at her face and heard her yell at me, “Good morning, Sister! Thats what you say when you pass a teacher. You don’t stare with your mouth open.”Hoping no one else had seen me stare at her, I decided to avoid her at all times. “You never stare. Greet or curtsey. Staring is rude.”School would be out at 12:00 noon since it was the first day. This was excellent news for me, since it meant that children on my street would be outside when I arrived home and they would have a good look at my new uniform.“This way,” a girl called Patricia - whom they all called Trish - said to me in Sesotho. I tried not to look too pleased or surprised as all the Black girls followed Patricia and me up the stairs to class. Now they all spoke very loudly in Sesotho. “Tjo\ Anita! She’s not even Black,” they groaned. “She’s Coloured.”“Hao\ She hasn’t even been in the school since Grade One. All head girls have to have been in the school since Grade One. That’s what they always tell us.”“Akere, I don’t think they were taking Coloured people when she was in Grade One.”“It’s just for the media,” said someone behind me. “They just want to be on the front page ofthe Pretoria N ews”35]]></page><page Index="36" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“They just want people to think they re not racist.”When we reached the top of the stairs another teacher, who looked quite a lot older than most teachers, stood at the door of one of the classes looking in our direction. “Hurry up, Patricia, Veronica, Innocentia, Tumisang! Are you still on holiday?”They all switched to English, “No, Miss.” “Hi, Miss.”“Did you have a good holiday, Miss?” “Did you go away, Miss?”Mrs Myburgh, I learnt, was to be my English teacher. As soon as we sat down, she went round the class asking us to say our names. It seemed at first glance that the class was divided according to colour. But there was one row where a Black girl I hadn’t seen before sat between a White girl and an Indian girl. She was reading a book when we walked in and, without looking up, put it in her desk. She never came over to say “hi” to the rest of the Black girls and did not seem all that inter­ ested in what was going on around her. Her face and body looked relaxed and calm and instantly I wanted to know more about her. Later I found out that her name was Kebone, but she preferred to be called KB. I learnt that her father was a businessman. Their family owned a grocery store, a dry-clean­ ing business and a liquor store in the townships. They lived in the suburbs.We only had four classes that first morning, and all ofthem were taken up with teachers introducing themselves to us and us to them. Most of the girls chatted with the teachers as if speaking with a friendly relative who was not much older than they were. I watched silently, uncomfortable, fascinated. No one at Ithuteng would have spoken to a teacher this way. It would have been considered disrespectful.“Miss, did you get married, Miss?”they asked. “How was the honeymoon, Miss?”36]]></page><page Index="37" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Did he kiss you at the altar, Miss?” (This one, for me, was the most curious.)The teacher being asked, Mrs Aleixo, had apparently left the year before as Miss Da Silva.At Ithuteng, the line dividing teachers and students was clear and everyone stayed on the right side of it. Crossing it could have meant being caned or hit with a belt. Knowing that this kind ofpunishment was against the rules in White schools brought me immeasurable relief.Veronica spoke more than anyone else. Her voice was the loudest and commanded attention. No one rolled her eyes or snickered the way people would have done with someone that loud at Ithuteng. Veronica knew and spoke to everyone - even raising her voice to yell out comments across the room - some­ thing the teacher disapproved of. She had been the first Black person in the school so everyone knew her. She sat behind me and told me everything that was going on, explaining what we had to do next and what was expected of us. As the day went on, I thought ofall the things I would tell the aunts.The regular teachers and the nuns seemed to live in differ­ ent worlds. The nuns spoke only of school and religion. The other teachers spoke of their vacations and were excited to hear what we had done in our time off. The girls seemed hun­ gry for details of the teachers’ lives, their voices competing to get their questions answered. Everyone seemed to get along well, even though everyone sat next to people of their own colour. They laughed together and asked each other questions from across the room. The whole morning all I hoped was that no one would ask me any questions about myself and, luckily, they were all too busy finding out details of each other s Christmas holidays. Most of them lived far apart - in different parts of the city and in townships all over - not like Ithuteng where everyone was from the same township and saw each other during the holidays. I had never seen so many37]]></page><page Index="38" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[people in one place so happy to see each other. I was content just to stand at a distance and learn what I could about the new people around me. I took in several conversations at once.“Oh my God! Shes got hickeys!” I heard a voice say. “Ooooooh! You’re back together?”“What’s his name?”“My parents are mad!”“His sister walked in right in the middle of it!”“Oh my God!”They giggled, gasped and laughed from the pit of theirstomachs. They mourned the end of relationships and unre­ quited crushes. Some showed offtheir new hairstyles - short cuts, longer hair, perms and relaxers. The Black girls were not allowed to put braid extensions in their hair.By the time I went home, I knew that Jacqueline Townsend was the most popular girl in Standard Six. She was beautiful, could sing and was always playing the pretty girl in school plays. I found out that the identical twins - Iris and Eileen - had a Chinese mother and a Coloured father and everyone was always trying to decide what they were. Their uniforms were longer than most people’s because their mother made them that way. I had learnt that there were Black girls from various classes who were friends because their parents were all lawyers who worked together - they liked to ask people what their parents did and that determined who they let into their circle. Finally, by the end of that first day, I knew the names ofthe “cutest”and most “gorgeous”boys at our brother school and who were the most “immature” and “annoying”.In the evenings, after long days cleaning office buildings, Mabatho would lookforward to coming home to the newborn. Malesedi watched the baby with curiosity, not sure how to hold or soothe her38]]></page><page Index="39" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[when she cried. Mabatho and Malebone cradled her andfed her; nursing her to good health. Secretly, Malesedi grew to adore her; waking up in the middle o fthe night to watch her sleep when she thought her sisters were not looking. Allthe while, the sisters longedfor Tumane and wondered how their lives would unfold now without the love and guidance o ftheir older sibling.39]]></page><page Index="40" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[fiveThat night I did not watch TV. Instead I sat on our sofa in the living room and answered all the questions the aunts put to me about my day. How were the other students? Were they welcoming? How did the teachers seem? What was the school like? How were the White students? How did they treat me? Did I speak to them?It was exciting, overwhelming and bizarre. It was the first time the aunts had ever asked how other people treated me. I had always been trained to expect to be excluded and, when I was, not to come home and talk about it. Now here they were, sitting on the opposite sofa, hungry for information, acting like it would be cruel for me to leave out any details of my day. They had not even given me a chance to change out of my uniform. Mmamane Malesedi was the only one telling me to go and wash my socks and polish my shoes before going to bed. She had no questions for me except, “Did you behave?” and “Take a brush with you tomorrow for that hair.”“Many girls come from such rich families,”I told them.“Hmmm. Do you have just as many regular teachers as the nuns?” Mmamane Malebone asked, ignoring what I hadjust said.“There are more regular teachers than nuns. And manypeople come in expensive cars! A lot of the Black girls come from rich families. Theres this girl ...”“How are the Black girls? Do they only speak English?” Mmamane Mabatho asked. “I see some of them in town40]]></page><page Index="41" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[sometimes - and their English! - you would think they were White ifyou didnt turn around to see who was talking.”“They speak really well,”I agreed, “and there was this Black girl who came in a large Mercedes Benz.”“Tshidiso,” Mmamane Mabatho burst out, “when did you start talking about what other people have? Where are you getting these manners? Dont bother with what other people have. You’re in the same school, aren’t you? You pay the same school fees.”“Ok now, you should get out of that uniform. Go, go!” Mmamane Malebone told me.“A lot ofparents drive ...”I started again.“Tshi-di-so!” Mmamane Malebone raised her eyebrows. I had gone too far. “Go\ Hao!”“Go change, hao\ What culture is that from? Are you in school to learn or to look at how much money people have?” Mmamane Mabatho said, shooing me with one hand.On the second day of school, I felt even more lost. Mrs Allison arrived at the same time as me. I walked behind her, intrigued by her quick, short steps and how she held her head up in the air. Her shoulders were up and her back straight. Everything about how she dressed and carried herselfseemed so perfect that I wondered if she had ever been a model. She did not seem to notice the people around her. She said “Good morning” to two nuns whom I had not seen the day before, who were walking back from the swimming pool with large towels in their hands. As the two sisters passed me, I imagined them swimming in large, polka-dot swimsuits - the type that you see in 1950s films, the ones that look like skirts. I won­ dered ifthey had swim veils instead ofswim caps. They smiled at me and I said, “Good morning.”In class, the Black girls were sitting at the back, admiring Trish’s nails. They all looked up at me and said hello. I looked at my own hands and quickly held them in fists, resolving to41]]></page><page Index="42" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[manicure my nails that evening. “My mom did mine for me,” Trish said. Her mother was a manicurist and a hairdresser, which I thought explained her impeccable hair.“I’m not playing netball this year,”Trish announced.“Do you play?” Veronica looked at me. I shrugged. I had played netball at Ithuteng but didnt want to admit that I played well, in fact very well. Besides, these girls played on clay and I had played on gravel. I assumed they would prob­ ably be much better than I was.“My dad would never let me stop playing,”Tamz told us. “He wants me playing as much sport as I can because he always wanted to play soccer.”As they chatted, my attention drifted across the room. I noticed KB talking to Dirusha, the Indian girl who sat behind her. KB seemed more animated than she had been the previ­ ous day and Dirusha was laughing a lot.“Dirusha sucks up to her, she likes that,” Veronica whis­ pered in my ear. I was embarrassed to be caught staring.“You have to suck up to her to be her friend. Ag! Shes so fake,”Trish, who had been listening, told me.“She’s not Dirusha’s friend either. She dumps her, like, once a week,” said Tamz.The bell rang and we ran downstairs for assembly. All the way down, I stared at KB’s hair and marvelled at the fact that it was long enough to hold a ponytail.As we walked back up the stairs, the matric prefects were standing in a single file, shoulders up, blazers on, faces stern as the nuns’. The matric uniform was different from everyone else’s. They wore skirts, stockings and white shirts, with high heels. Every year they got to choose what kind of uniform they wanted and then surprised everyone on the first day of school.Anita, the head girl, stood at the top of the stairs yelling, “Single file, Standard Sixes!”to the girls in my class. I noticed42]]></page><page Index="43" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[that everyone was holding up their hands to the prefects. A girl was cutting her nails as she was descending the stairs.“Laeticia, please cut them near a rubbish bin. Quiet, please!” commanded another prefect, an Indian girl with a lot of curly hair, the only prefect besides Anita who was not White.Oh, I thought, they re inspecting our nails. They looked at me as ifI had “new”written in red ink across my forehead. All the prefects smiled politely, the way White people smiled at you when you met at the robot or standing in line to buy something: the not-meant-for-anyone-in-particular kind of smile.I held up my fingers, and one ofthe prefects looked at them intently, but with deliberate distance between us. I thought she would touch my hands and hold them closer to her face to make the task easier, but she only smiled politely and ges­ tured to me to keep walking.“Your nails should not be longer than your fingertips,” she said to the students walking up the stairs. “I shouldn’t see them from where I am standing. And your dresses should not be more than an inch above your knees.”Up the stairs ahead of me, Anita was measuring girls’ dresses with a ruler. I looked down at my dress, the hem cov­ ering my knees, and wished it was an inch or two shorter. Mmamane Malesedi had insisted that we buy a dress that long because the nuns preferred it that way. I thought it just highlighted the fact that I was new. M y uniform was crisp and did not look worn like everyone else’s.I walked to the bathroom, noting that there was no stench that turned me back on my heels like at Ithuteng. Inside the stall, I used the belt to pull up the dress so that my knees showed. Then I pulled down the bulging waistline so that it covered the belt and looked like I was wearing a shirt on top of a skirt. I hoped it looked decent enough. The mirror said it was fine. The large curls in my hair were still more or less in place43]]></page><page Index="44" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[and my hair still shone from the oil spray I had used that morn­ ing. I patted my head, willing the hair to go through a sudden, wild growth spurt that would allow it to hold a ponytail.As I stood in front ofthe mirror and the row ofbasins, KB and Dirusha walked in, laughing.“Oh, I just cant stand it when my dad does that!” KB exclaimed, stressing the word “stand”and dragging out the “s” so that her sentence hung on it for a few seconds.“He doesn’t mind spending, I guess,” Dirusha said as they both went into stalls and I could hear them peeing as they spoke.“Im, like, ‘Dad, I only said I was thinking of playing the guitar. Im not a musician. You cant just go and buy it for me just because I was thinking about it’,” said KB.“He spoils you,”Dirusha replied. They flushed and came out ofthe stalls. Realising that I had been there for an embarrass­ ingly long period, I pretended to be removing a stain from my dress by wetting my fingers and rubbing the water on my hem.KB stood next to me and pulled out the rubber band in her ponytail to let her long hair fall on her shoulders. She brushed it out with her fingers so that I could see just how long and straight it was. I tried not to stare and strained my eye as I looked from its corner. Dirusha gave me a polite “hi” and KB ignored me.“Are you going to play it?” Dirusha asked.“I’ll probably take lessons, now that hes bought it. Urgh! I nee-eed to relax my hair again this weekend. OK Mom, you’re paying for another salon visit.”“Oh! I forgot. It’s the big weekend.”KB dropped her arms and smiled at Dirusha, taking her eyes away from the mirror for the first time. She sighed. “Ah ... he’s soooo cute! He’s such a babe!”Dirusha screeched. “Aaaah! I can’t believe you’ll be with a guy when I’ll be sitting at home babysitting my stupid uncle’s44]]></page><page Index="45" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[stupid brats! I want to hear details when you come back. You have to call me.”“My dad wants to meet him. I’m, like, ‘Dad, I already told you: his dad is a doctor, his mom drives a C Class. They live in Sandton. What more do you want to know?’ You know?” She was saying all this without once turning to look at Dirusha.I stood there imagining a Black family who lived in the most affluent suburb I had ever heard of. I had never been there and could not even picture the house.“I think were going to his house after. Maybe we’ll play tennis, swim ... then ...” KB said with a grin, still playing with her hair.“Mmmm ... you’re thirteen, girl. How can your parents allow you to do that?”“I’ll be fourteen next month!”“Still ...”I heard a hint ofenvy in Dirusha’s voice.KB put her hair in a ponytail and started for the door andDirusha trailed behind her.As they walked out, they carried on chatting in the passage.I thought of a Black person calling her parents “Mom” and “Dad”, and even though I knew that they lived in the suburbs I could only imagine that they lived in one ofthose houses on the hill in the township, with gates that opened and closed with a remote control. I thought of my father, who lived and worked in the mines and whom I called Bra Pat. He would laugh out loud if he came to visit one day and I started calling him Dad. I wondered if KB would think it was strange that my father called me once a month and visited once a year.My father and I were no closer than other girls were with their uncles. The aunts liked him just enough to let him visit as much as he wished, but not enough to think or say that Mmamane Malebone should marry or live with him. Mmamane Malesedi called him indecisive, which I interpreted45]]></page><page Index="46" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[as “not aggressive enough” because he said yes to everything they asked him and never claimed me as his own. I liked him a lot and wished I could spend more time with him, but he worked all year except (some years) at Christmas, and every time he asked me to visit him in Gauteng the aunts said that he should come to our house instead. Whenever the aunts were angry with me - or with him about me - he and I would make fun ofthem on the phone. He called them “your moth­ ers”. Once I called them “your wives” and he gently told me I shouldn’t say that. Occasionally I called him papa just to see what the aunts would do and they would always look at me as if I had suddenly gone mad.When I arrived in class, everyone was talking. The teacher walked in after me, a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman with short brown hair pulled forward in large arching bangs. She stood at the front ofthe class, slammed her books on the teacher’s desk and turned to my side ofthe room. My timetable told me she was the Geography teacher.“Black girls,” she started, “making noise as usual!”“Ah, miss!”Trish said. “Its not us!”“Hao, Miss! Its everyone, not just the Black girls,”Tamzprotested. Several Black girls were offended but everyone else kept quiet.“Miss, you always think its us,”Veronica said without look­ ing directly at the teacher and looking at the other girls for support. “But everyone makes noise.”“Excuse me! You’re so rude! I wont tolerate rudeness in my class. Now, I don’t know how you speak to each other where you live, but this is not how we do things around here.”The class fell silent. The girls started whispering something in Sesotho, and the teacher retorted, “And you know you’re not allowed to speak your language in here! This is an English Medium school!” She emphasized “English” and “Medium”. “One more time and you’ll have to LEAVE the room. And then46]]></page><page Index="47" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[miss MORE school, which we BOTH know you DESPER­ ATELY need.”She paused and gave everyone a chance to absorb what she had just said. “Now, Standard Sixes, I hope you’ve had a good rest and you’re ready for work. We have a lot to go through this year. A lot of learning to do,” she dusted the chalkboard as she spoke. “And in my opinion many of you can do a lot better than you did last year.” She turned around to face us as she licked chalk dust offher palm.“She always eats chalk,” Veronica whispered behind me.“Miss, why do you always eat chalk?” Veronica asked. The teacher looked embarrassed for a moment.“Yes, Miss, why?” Marianne chimed in.“It’s just something I do. Now, I see we have some new faces.” I had thought that I was the only one.“My mom says it’s a sign of iron deficiency,” a girl called Laura said in a soft voice. When everyone turned to look at her, she gave us an apologetic smile and lifted her shoulders to shrug but they stayed up. The teacher, sounding annoyed now, said, “Thank you for that information, Laura.”“I’m Mrs Addis to those ofyou who are new. I’ll be your Geography teacher this year. OK, let’s go around and say our names so that the new girls can tell us who they are and find out who everyone else is.”As they took turns saying their names, my heartbeat accel­ erated slightly.“I’m Theresa,” a White girl with a short, dark bob said shyly. We waited. “Theresa Fernandez,”she said and looked at her desk.“I’m Marianne, the class socialite,” Marianne said, pre­ tending to be a movie star playfully flirting with the camera, and brushed hair strands away from her eyes. The class laughed and Trish said, “Yes!” and clapped. Voices around me agreed. All I could hear were their smooth “r” and long47]]></page><page Index="48" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“au” sounds. I was trying to learn the proper accent by care­ ful listening.“I’m Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Beth,” a tall White girl with strawberry blonde hair spoke from the back of the class, looking earnestly at the teacher. Her skin looked smooth and glowed like she had just splashed it with water and it had stayed that way. Her hair was pulled in a tight ponytail and her eyes were very bright. She looked like the kind ofgirl you saw in magazines all the time. She looked like she should be sure of herself except that she fiddled nervously with a pen in her hand and kept pulling at the tip ofher ponytail, her cheeks turning pink as she spoke. ‘Tm boring, because I am absolutely nuts about any and all kinds of sports. Its all I know.”The class cheered and agreed with her.Trish said, aShe cant stay away from the pool in the summer time.”“Or the hockey field in the winter, plus shes the best athlete in the whole school!”yelled Veronica.“Yes!”“She’s obsessed!” girls yelled all around the class.Beth shrugged without looking up at the other girls. “It’s allI ever do, really. Except some people don’t think it’s cool, because I’m not all about boys and clothes.”It sounded like a comment meant for someone specific. The class started talking all around me.Trish said in Setswana, “She doesn’t stop complaining,ngwanOy eeeyl”“All right! Let’s carry on!”Mrs Addis said.The class seemed to lose its excitement as we all waited for the next girl to speak. I saw the Black girls exchange glances in anticipation, but the person about to talk looked bored with the whole exercise. She put down a book she had been leafing through and sighed as if to say, “Ok, I suppose I must speak if you’re waiting.”Then she sat up straight and tilted her head to48]]></page><page Index="49" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[one side, looking at the teacher like she was about to address a child.‘Tm KB. I’ve been here since primary school.”Everyone seemed to be anxiously waiting for more, as they all stared at her expectantly, but she picked up her book again and started reading. I was disappointed. I wanted to hear more about her, what she liked and what sort of things she was good at. I had enjoyed hearing her speak earlier - she had an accent so close to the teachers that I thought it was flaw­ less.“Or Kebone, depending on who says it,” Veronica said to no one in particular. KB slowly moved her eyes from the book to Veronica and raised her eyebrow, and then went back to her book. Someone shifted a foot. The class had been so quiet that its sound was all we heard. Mrs Addis cleared her throat, seeming nervous.“Yes,”said Mrs Addis, looking at Dirusha, who sat in front of KB. I could feel the dampness on my palms and under my arms. ‘Tm Tshidiso Masemola,”I kept rehearsing in my head. What else was there to say? I didnt play any sport, I was not a “socialite” - whatever that meant - and unlike Laura, the nervous, red-haired girl with the soft voice, I did not love horses and my father was not a veterinarian.When it was my turn I said, “Tshidiso Masemola”, with my fingers pointing at my left breast.“Would you like to tell us something about yourself?”Mrs Addis said, her voice rising like she was speaking to me through a glass pane.“Ah ...” I cleared my throat and rubbed my palm on my dress, a pencil slipping onto the floor. The class was dead silent.“I am new,” I said finally. No one said anything, and Trish handed me my pencil. I could hear the echo of my wrong accent ringing in my head. I felt everyone take note ofit like49]]></page><page Index="50" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[they had just heard the sound of a loud trumpet played by an amateur. I was too afraid to look up in case I saw puzzled stares - instead I took the pencil and drew stick figures on the back ofmy exercise book, waiting for the next person to speak and make the sound in my head disappear.“Im Tumisang - they call me Tamz - and ... I ... am quite fabulous at braiding hair,”Tamz announced from behind me. I could hear the pride in her voice.“Yeeeeees!”someone called out. My shoulders dropped as the cheers rose all around me.“She braids everyones hair, even White girls’! You have to do mine next, OK?”shouted Marianne from across the room, stroking her own long, brown hair.Mrs Addis said, “Marianne, you don’t need to braid your hair like the Black girls, it’s beautiful just as it is,” and for the first time I saw her smile - without showing her teeth.Throughout the rest ofthe morning, I bit my lower lip and avoided people’s glances, thinking that they must all still be remembering how I had spoken. I could still hear my voice and my horrible accent. It reminded me of the times I had been to visit Mmamane Malebone when she worked in the White people’s kitchens. Her accent was in such sharp contrast to that of her Madam that they sounded like two foreigners speaking to each other. I was convinced that every­ one would feel my strangeness more now that they had heard me speak. I was so mortified that at lunchtime I went to sit behind the swimming pool, at the far end ofthe tennis courts, where nobody went.On the first Sunday ofmy first week at the new school, we put on long dresses, stepped into high heels and headed for church. This was my mother’s suggestion. She said we could50]]></page><page Index="51" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[make inroads with the neighbours by showing that not only were they sending me to a school in town - that is, a “good” school - but they were also capable ofdoing the sort ofthings the neighbours did. Mmamane Malesedi came reluctantly, grumbling that “baking cakes and cookies could work just as well”.I took out the Bible I kept under my bed. Mmamane Malebone looked at it in shock and asked, “Where did you get that? School?”I nodded.“They just gave them to you?” She put her hands on her hips. “Malesedi!”M y mind raced. I could not tell them that it had been a gift from two young White men who had come to our street once, asking if our family had “accepted Jesus Christ as our personal saviour”. I had liked them. No White people had been to our house before or since. They seemed very nice and sincere, even though I hardly understood a word they said. I spoke to them at the gate and asked for a Bible to make them feel like I had appreciated their visit (I knew people who swore at them and ran them out of their yards), and also to have something of theirs. When one of them spoke in Setswana, I almost dropped to the stony ground. It was like something out of a dream. I asked them more questions to keep them there longer, hoping that Mma Motsei would see us, but it was a weekday and she had been at work.When Mmamane Malesedi appeared in the doorway to take a look at my Bible, I looked up at Mmamane Malebone and said quickly, “I borrowed it from Veronica, for Religious Studies homework.”They both stood there looking at me suspiciously because they could sense that I was lying. I turned around and fixed my hair. Ifthey had heard about the two young White men - each called “Elder” something - they would not be happy with51]]></page><page Index="52" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[me. Talking to strange men would get me in enough trouble, but talking to strange men about Jesus would have them yelling at me for days.“Ifyou need a Bible for religious studies then we’ll buy you one,” Mmamane Malebone told me. I pressed my lips together and put small clips in my hair.The church was nothing like I had imagined it would be. I thought it would be shabby, but in fact it was the grandest building in the township. The benches and floors were pol­ ished and looked new. There was an enormous cross behind the altar and the windows were large, their frames painted in beautiful warm colours.The priest started off with a sermon about disciples and Jesus but the topic went straight into leaders and followers and before we knew it he was talking about our country’s pres­ ent and future leaders. He spoke about people’s hopes for their children and the changes they looked forward to. (Mmamane Mabatho liked that a lot, and I think it was the reason we went back a few weeks later - Mmamane Malesedi said not tooverdo it.)The priest spoke about people’s rights and needs in thecontext of the Bible. He pointed to the great deeds of prophets and then went on to speak about the “prophets among us” and “those who may be called criminals for want­ ing the best for our people”. He was guarded and never too specific, but you knew who he was referring to. The congre­ gation nodded and sang fervently at different points.The singing was my favourite part. They clapped and played drums throughout the two-hour service. This, coupled with the priest’s sermon, felt like a composed, secret version of a toyi-toyi march.People stared at us and some smiled, but when they all went outside to speak to each other - which seemed to be just as big a part of the day as the sermon - no one came to say “hello”52]]></page><page Index="53" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[to us. The after-church time was like weekend mornings in the township. People used it to bring each other up to date about the goings-on in their lives. Having lived next door to Mma Motsei, I had thought that church-goers spoke about Christ, heaven and hell all the time. But these people only commented on each others clothing, shared gossip and even invited each other to their houses for the late afternoon. I did not hear anyone mention the sermon.“Catholics are not like Bazalwane, the reborns. They go to church for different reasons,” my mother told me. It also seemed like they all belonged to one specific group ofpeople. They were all professionals or businesswomen and men. I could see that someone like Mma Motsei, who lived a much less extravagant life, would not fit in here.I wondered if people had paid so little attention to us because we were clearly not wealthy. Admittedly, a few people in front ofus did turn around and shake our hands when we got to the “Peace be with you” part of the service. When we had Mass in school I learnt that this was routine in every Catholic church service.As we were returning home, I saw Mma Motsei knitting on her stoep. The aunts greeted her and I made sure that I held up the Bible in my hand and waved to her with it. She looked at us for longer than she usually did, her mouth slightly open.The sisters debatedfor longer than necessary about whether or not to send Tshidiso topre-school. Mabatho held onto her and refused to let hergo, although Malebone thought it might do them good to show the neighbours that they could let their child out into the world. She was notgoing back to work and they were living on the earnings o fMabatho and Malesedi.53]]></page><page Index="54" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[In the end\ they kept her at home, teaching her to read and write themselves, until it was time fo r her to start school. Then they mowed the lawn, cut the shrubs and opened their door and win­ dows and set herfree.When she came back confused and cryingfrom other childrens rejection, the sisters decided that locking the gate and teaching her toplay on her own was the best solution until they couldfind other ways o fmaking amends with their neighbours.54]]></page><page Index="55" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[sixIn the following weeks, I hardly spoke at all in school. When people talked to one another in groups, I would either just lis­ ten or stand a few feet away and watch them talk. My prob­ lem was that someone always tried to draw me in, thinking they were helping me feel more at ease. I just wished there was a lemon tree I could climb and hide in. They wanted to know where I was from, how I liked the school so far, if I knew how to play netball, hockey or tennis. I was only comfortable speaking to the Black girls since, when they were alone, they only spoke Setswana or Sesotho. But when everyone was together, speaking English, I would shrug and give one-word answers, feeling embarrassed and angry with the people who had asked. Sometimes it felt as if the whole world would pause, waiting for me to speak and after I had spoken they would stare, waiting for more - and that was always the worst part, the pauses.Most of the time in those first few weeks, people would reminisce about the year before anyway, and get excited about sports and boys, two subjects in which I was no expert.The only things I could share were news about people in the township and whatever my aunts had been talking about that week. But I noticed that the Black girls were almost never asked about the townships by the White, Indian and Coloured students. Even among ourselves, when we talked about the township it was usually telling the latest joke, and not much more. White, Indian and Coloured girls spoke at great length about where they lived. I felt as if I was getting55]]></page><page Index="56" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[to climb the lemon trees in Eersterus and Laudium to watch how people lived there.Black girls missed school on a few occasions because of strikes and stay-aways in the townships. The school asked us not to wear uniforms on those days, so that no one would know we were going to school in town. In the township, I watched TV or sat outside reading a book on those days, happy to have the day to myself. The more uncomfortable I felt at Ascension, the more I wished for stay-aways.I began to know bits and pieces about a few girls’ lives. The “Indian Standard Nines” were a group of girls who moved together in one big group and left a trail ofdisapproving stares wherever they went. They were the most misbehaving group ofgirls in the school, wearing badges that proclaimed things like, “Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.”They would sometimes disappear for an entire afternoon, and Sister Cecilia would have to get into her car and drive around town looking for them. I watched them from a distance, envying their hair, their style (they wore bigger earrings and bracelets and somehow got away with it) and their carefree behaviour. I once heard a nun whisper to a teacher, “They’re not Catholic, that’s why they’re so much trouble.” But I thought they added so much life to the school. They were the type of girls who would make Mma Motsei feel hopeless. She would probably preach to them breathlessly and then go into isola­ tion - but leave her music blasting on the stoep, ofcourse.One day in swimming class, I was in the shallow end ofthe pool attempting the backstroke when I hit someone with my hand. She had been swimming lengths while I had been going across, doing widths. I stood up straight, wiped the water from my face, pretending I didn’t feel the pain ofwater in my nostrils, and said, “Sorry! Sorry!”When she stood up I was terrified - it was KB. I thought she would yell or look at me like I was emitting a bad smell, but instead she seemed calm.56]]></page><page Index="57" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[She slowly took off her swim cap and stretched her mouth slightly without showing her teeth, giving me a restrained smile.“Are you OK?” she asked.“Sorry,” I muttered, the sound of my rough “r” hanging between us.She kept smiling. We stood there looking at each other, her hand making circles on the water. She looked at me thought­ fully, her head tilted to one side, as if she was deciding whether or not my nose was right for my face.“What’s your name again?” KB asked. I put my right foot on top ofmy left one and followed her hand movements with my eyes. She was gracefully smoothing out her hair with her fingers and not looking up at me any more.“Tshidiso,” I finally said, my heart racing.“Do you have a nickname?” she was floating on her back now, squinting against the suns glare. I thought, she is talking to me!“Tshidi,”was all I could manage to say.“I love nicknames, my dad too. We call my sister ‘Snuggles’ because that’s her favourite thing in the whole world. She’s always coming into my room and climbing into my bed for snuggles. Oh! She’s the cutest!”She had her own room? Iyol She had her own room!“You have beautiful hair,” I said.“Thanks. Urgh! I never know what to do with it. It justgrows and grows. I swear my mother has White blood. You should see her. That’s where I get the hair. Hers is like, I don’t know, down to her back.” She stood up, turned her body and put her hand halfway down her back.I laughed a little too eagerly. I did not want the conversa­ tion to end.“Seriously, you should see her. Actually, do you want to come to my house for my birthday?”57]]></page><page Index="58" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[I swallowed hard and took a deep breath before answering. But before I could say anything the bell rang and the swim­ ming teacher clapped her hands and called us to get out ofthe pool. KB swam away and I was the last one to climb out.That night at home I watched TV1, the English channel. I understood everything but had no idea how to make my accent sound like that. In the following days, I abandoned the lemon tree for the sofa, watching television and practising my new accent by trying to repeat after the news anchors - or even people in shows I did not find particularly interesting. Mmamane Malebone came to sit with me and asked to watch the Setswana news, but I told her we should start watching the news in English.“I have to practise my English,” I said. “They’re always insisting that we only speak English, and since we dont speak it at home, how is it going to become easier for me?”“You dont have to go to that school if you dont want to, you know,” she said. It would have sounded harsh if someone else had said it, but my mother liked to cut problems short.“Its a good school,” I said.“I don’t want you always working hard to please people. You’re smart and you always do well. I don’t want you to think that speaking English with the White accent is more important than what you really have to learn at school.”“I should talk like the other girls.” I raised my voice, exasperated. She had no idea.“As long as they understand what you’re saying, you don’t have to speak like them,” Mmamane Mabatho said, havingjust appeared in the doorway.Mmamane Malebone added, “Malesedi says she hears youoften sit alone in class. Why? Because you don’t want them to hear you talk? You’re embarrassed?”Mmamane Mabatho always said things exactly the way she saw them. I looked down at my hands and then back up at the58]]></page><page Index="59" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[TV. I wont speak to them, they dont know what they re talk­ ing about, I thought. Then I changed my mind. “Who tells her? People are spying on me?”I spoke to them in English for the first time and was discouraged by the sound ofmy accent.“Iyol ”my mother said. “That’s how you speak to your elders?”I was only grateful that Mmamane Malesedi was not home yet.“He\ What are you afraid of? Whats wrong with how you speak?” Mmamane Mabatho insisted. I shifted my body and stared with determination at the TV screen.“There’s nothing wrong with how you speak, wena! Don’t let White people tell you that. Who said there’s something wrong with how you speak?”I refused to say anything*.“Who?”I pressed my thumbnail against the sofa and didn’t take myeyes away from the TV.“Nana, don’t let them upset you,”Mmamane Malebone said. “Bathong,”she looked up at the youngest aunt, “she’ll learn.It’ll be fine.” It was her way of saying, “Leave her alone.” “Go and prepare your uniform for tomorrow,” Mmamane Malebone said to me. I lingered stubbornly for half a minute before I stood up, turned off the TV and went to polish myshoes.“Onale nkane, man!”Mmamane Mabatho said. “You can beso disrespectful.”Tshidisosfather was a drifter - he went wherever work took him, so it never did seem right to him to ask Malebone to come away with him. He also understood the way the Masemola sisters lived\ and came and wentfrom their home with quiet acceptance. He had no hand in raising Tshidiso and would never have expected things59]]></page><page Index="60" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[t o b e a n y d i ffe r e n t . I t s e e m e d n a t u r a l t o h i m t h a t s h e w o u l d c a l l h e r mother “Mmamane”.The neighbours were more concerned with how the aunts raised Tshidiso than herfather was and,for reasons she could not always explain,Malebone was constantly trying toprove that she wasjust as normal and capable a mother as any o fthem. She would send Tshidiso to school with cheese sandwiches andfruit - the bread cut diagonally and thefru it thinly sliced and separatedfrom the bread. Tshidisos uniform was always clean and her hair neatly braided.Malesedipanicked aboutpeople's attitudes towards her niece and in turn constantly complained about Tshidisos behaviour and her manners. So when the opportunity camefor them to send her to a Whiteschool,Malesedi was thefirst toput theplan into motion.I would have flown to school if I had had wings. I was excited to start a day feeling like I now had a friend. It was nice ofthe other girls to try and make friends with me, but I found KB more intriguing. She was more like who I wanted to be. Her accent was flawless, and she seemed very sure of herself. I liked the idea of being close to her and her mysterious charmed world. I wanted to be a small part of it, to get a glimpse ofwhat it was like to live the way she did. Plus, she was one person: groups ofgirls were overwhelming.Usually Mmamane Malesedi walked faster than I did, and most of the people walking to work seemed to speed-walk past me, but on that day I had no trouble keeping up. Mmamane Malesedi asked if I had a test I had to rush to. I barely said goodbye to her when we reached school, and rushed away from her. Ahead ofme, I saw girls from my class standing and talking in a group. My eyes were searching for KB when they called me to come and stand with them.“Hi,”I said.60]]></page><page Index="61" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Howzit!” they replied and carried on talking. I was dis­ tracted, trying to hear their opinions ofwhat had happened on The Bold and the Beautiful last night and still looking for KB at the same time.“I thinkhe’s so hot!”Tamz said and nudged me. “Don’t you?” “Who?”I said softly, hoping it had come out right. “Ridge,” she said. I nodded.“Who are you looking for?”Beth asked me. “Your mom?”Ilooked at her with confusion and bit my lower lip when I realised that she was talking about Mmamane Malesedi.“My mom?” I whispered, and then cleared my throat, trying not to look as surprised as I felt.“She’s over there,” Trish said, and I saw that she was pointing to Mmamane Malesedi, who was speaking to three primary school girls.“She’s not my mom,”I said and then realised that I had said too much and my voice had come out much louder than usual. “She’s not?” the two of them asked at the same time. Ishook my head.“Who is she then?”Trish asked.“She’s my ahnt,”I said.“What?”Marianne’s face leant closer to mine.Veronica knew what the problem was. “She’s her aunt,” sherepeated, with the right accent.Oh, I thought, the “au” sound is almost an “o”. In my head,I was taking notes. I turned my face away because I was embarrassed and because I was still looking for KB.“Who’s your mom?”I turned back to face Trish. “Her sister.”“She looks a lot like you,”Trish remarked and I was takenaback for a moment - I didn’t like the comment.Just then Veronica looked past me, towards the driveway.“Woo! New car, new car!” She was elbowing Trish. We all turned to look.61]]></page><page Index="62" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[A large blue BMW had stopped in the middle ofthe drive­ way, as if to give everyone a chance to see it. None of the parents turned off the ignition of their cars when they dropped their daughters offat the school, there were too many cars waiting behind for that. But the driver ofthis car did not seem to care. She was a very light-skinned, slender Black woman, who was fixing her hair and make-up in the rear-view mirror. She wore sunglasses, large gold earrings, a gold watch and a gold ring on each hand.The cars boot was open and there was KB picking up her school bag and a sports bag out ofit, taking her time.Marianne asked, “Do we have swimming today?”Veronica answered, “No. But you know, when you have a new car you have to bring extra bags just so it takes you that much longer to take them out ofthe boot.”I watched mesmerized as KB brought out her lunch box and another much smaller bag that must have held make-up. She finally closed the boot and said something I could not hear to her mother. Her mother opened her door and left it open. She was wearing very high heels and a short dress that looked expensive even from a distance. She took the make-up bag and the lunch box out of her daughters hands and they came towards us.When our eyes met, KB smiled and pointed at me and said something to her mother, who hurried towards me. I was afraid she would trip and fall, but evidently she had been in heels that high for longer than I could imagine. She handed me the lunch box and the small bag and looked relieved, like she had dropped a large stone from her dainty hands. She lifted her sunglasses, revealing long eyelashes and eye make-up that could have been done by a professional. She smiled softly at everyone while KB strolled past us without looking in our direction.“Hi, girls,” she said. A smokers deep voice surprised me coming from the small frame.62]]></page><page Index="63" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Hi,”they all responded. I imagined saying “hi”to a woman my mothers age in the township and heard my mothers scornful voice in my head, “Thats not how you speak to adults.”The rules were different in this world.“Patricia? Hows your mom?” She spoke in English, with an accent that closely resembled mine except that she sounded like she was trying to make it sound more like her daughters. I knew right then that they only spoke English at home.“She’s fine,”Trish said quite pleasantly, concealing the bit­ terness she had expressed earlier.“Still at the hospital?”“Yes,”Trish answered.“Well, tell her I said hello. Bye, girls.” She walked back toher car without hurrying, not like a woman who had left a door open and had seven other cars waiting behind her. I noticed that no one, not even Sister Agnes the driveway policeman, said anything to her.“She used to be a nurse before her husband got rich. She worked with my mom,”Trish explained to me in Setswarla.I started to walk towards our class, the bag and lunch box in my hands.“You should drop them on the ground, you’re not her servant,” Vies said. Everyone was making a case against me carrying KB’s things for her. When the bell rang, I walked over and put them on KB’s desk without saying a word to her. She said “thank you” but her face was saying, “Oh, I forgot I had that.”For the next few days I felt like I was playing a netball game with my new friendships, careful not to make any mistakes or let the ball fall. I was determined not to be an outcast like my fam­ ily was at home, so I was constantly running between KB and the other girls. I was excited to have KB pay attention to me, but I did not want to alienate the other girls. They obviously saw KB as a snob and felt her contempt towards them. She acted like she63]]></page><page Index="64" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[did not know they existed but I wanted to have their friendship and be her best friend. So I pretended to dislike KB, and had all ofthem thinking that I was only her friend to collect information on her so they could know her secrets. KB, on the other hand, could not have cared less who else I spoke to. But I did want to seem classy - her favourite word - so I only spent time with the group when she went home. She went home much earlier than the rest ofus, who had to wait for the kombi that picked up chil­ dren from other schools as well. KB’s driver - a man employed solely for the purpose ofdriving her from one point to another - was in the driveway even before the final bell rang.I had not forgotten about the invitation to her birthday party. She spoke about it every day. One day at lunch time, she pulled out a notebook and started writing things down between taking bites of her sandwich. “Do you like chicken, steak or boerewors?” she asked me, without looking up.One day after school, we were all standing in the driveway waiting for the kombi. I would sometimes wait for Mmamane Malesedi with Veronica, and other times I would wait with the rest ofthe girls and then set offfor the taxi rank. It was still hot and humid, the first week ofFebruary. A few girls from different classes were playing tennis and some were in the swimming pool. Except for the sports teachers, most ofthe teachers had left.Tamz, whose father was a lawyer, said, “Did you hear that Mandela might be coming out this year? My dad thinks this is the year.”“It’ll never happen. They’ll never release him, man,” Veronica said.Trish pulled a bag ofchips out ofher schoolbag and passed it around. “Maybe when he comes out we won’t have to come to school. Maybe it’ll be a holiday!”Veronica frowned, “They would never make it a holiday. If they hear about it, they’ll probably tell us the day before that we’ll get suspended ifwe don’t come to school that day.”64]]></page><page Index="65" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“No, Lesiba told me he was coming out. He knows these things,”Trish told us.“Lesibas her man,”Veronica whispered to me.“Trish, where do you see Lesiba? Since he s, like, twice your age, I wouldn't have thought your dad would like it much,”Tamz asked.Trish laughed. “We have our ways,” she said and winked at Tamz.“Oh, and what do you guys DO, exactly?” Veronica asked, tickling Trish a little.“A lot ofthings,”Trish laughed some more.I was completely clueless about boys and felt left out ofthe conversation. All that the aunts had told me about boys was to stay away from them.“My mans picking me up in his beamer this weekend,” Tamz said confidently.“Oh yes, Tamz, we know,” Veronica said. “Hes a working man.”“Vies, are you jealous?”Tamz said playfully.“No,” Veronica said and started tickling Tamz.I wanted to know more about what Trish meant when shesaid “a lot of things”, but they had moved on.A car drove in and stopped in front ofus. Two girls from theprimary school ran towards it, excitedly yelling, “Mama! Mama!” Their mother, a young Black woman with short braids and sunglasses and wearing a business suit, stepped out of the carand hugged them.“Did you bring us chips?”“Can we go to Wimpy?”“Can we get ice cream?”They both spoke at the same time. Their mother took their school bags and put them in theboot, saying in Setswana, “Get into the car and we’ll see.”A primary school teacher whose name I did not know was walking past carrying her school bags just as the children were65]]></page><page Index="66" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[getting into the car. She stopped in front of the mother, who was closing the boot, and said, “Please speak English on school premises.”The mother said, “Excuse me? Excuse me? I can speak to my children in whatever language I want to. How I speak to my children is none ofyour business.”She came close to the teachers face, her finger almost touching the teachers nose, and yelled, “I am not one ofyour students!”The teacher stepped back saying, “These are school rules and - ”Before she could say anything more, the mother had climbed back into her car and roared off.The teacher walked towards her own car, her face turning bright red with fury. We stood staring in disbelief as the kombi came into the driveway.The idea was soperfect that it came to Malesedi accompanied by a sharp headache: there was enough money to send Tshidiso to a school in town, andprobably even enough to see her through thefirst year ofuniversity. She could see the neighbours' envy then, watching the women o f4 Mabele Street send their child to a school that was infinitely better than any o fthe ones they sent their own children to.She had been working in the kitchens when she came up with theplan toforfeit their dream o fhaving a business and use all their savings to send their child to the best school. People were talking about change like it was the coming o fthe Messiah. “Wellthen,”sheputhermopandbucketdown andstoodstillagainstthewalltolet the headachepass. “Tshidiso willbe apart ofthat change.”When she came home and told her sisters about it, they satfor hours in their meeting room planning everything.66]]></page><page Index="67" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[sevenOn the Saturday morning ofKBs birthday I sat in front ofthe mirror looking at the only two outfits that might be suitable for the occasion. The morning heat had already engulfed the room. Tshepo Tshola was belting out “Ho lokile”- Its ok - on Mma Motsei s stoep. I liked the song so much that I opened the window to hear it better. When I looked out, two neigh­ bours, Mma Tsie and Mmamane Kitso, were standing talking across their fence. The woman who had been selling brooms on the street since I was in pre-school was walking past our house, her brooms balanced carefully on a piece of cloth folded into a cushion on her head.I could hear her cry “Mafieeeeeelo!”- Brooooms! - above the gospel music. The long “e”was coming from her throat as if she were singing a praise song.I remember we bought a broom from her when I was about seven years old. I remember asking Mmamane Mabatho if I could give the vendor the money myself, because I wanted to see her face up close and touch her hand. She had a sort of mystique about her, since I had only seen her from the top of the lemon tree or from the stoep.Today, as she passed, a group oflitde boys was putting bricks and stones in the middle of the road to prepare for a football match. Two litde girls sang after her, “Mafieeeeeelo”. Had they been older, I would have thought they were mocking her, but I could see they were only imitating her for the pleasure ofthe sound. The woman selling the brooms stepped gracefully, respectfully, around the girls’ game offish, around the lines drawn on the ground.67]]></page><page Index="68" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[It was mid-morning, the time which people call “late” or “day” in the township. By “late”, you should be clean and out ofthe house already. Everyone was done with their housework. The dust that rose when they swept their front yards and the space just outside had settled. Children were allowed to start playing on the street. Men were out starting their first beer of the weekend. The women took time to share the events of their week with neighbours while lunch cooked on their stoves. In my house, the floors sparkled and the stoep had already been shined better than anyone shines their shoes. There wasn’t a single dish in the sink and the yard had been swept when the sun first came up.The aunts sat chatting and laughing in the kitchen. Mmamane Mabatho was relaying stories about people from her work at the grocery store two streets away. I could hear Mmamane Malebone’s giggle and Mmamane Mabatho’s loud laugh - I imagined her throwing her head back and tears streaming down her cheeks, because she always had tears when she laughed that much. I could also see, in my mind’s eye, Mmamane Malesedi grinning, letting out quiet laugher while her shoulders shook up and down.“Come and eat something,”Mmamane Mabatho called out to me. I was not even dressed yet. Eating was the last thing I wanted to do. I looked at the clothes again: tight blue stone- washed jeans and a simple white chiffon blouse on my bed, and on the other bed a black dress that was tight around the chest and loose around the waist. The shoes would be the same either way: a pair of relatively new black sandals - the only part ofthe outfit I was confident about.‘Tm not hungry!”I said, biting my lip and unable to decide. Mmamane Malebone appeared in the doorway, startling me.“Definitely the dress,” she said. “You look nice in it.”I was not convinced. “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” I suggested, only half-seriously.68]]></page><page Index="69" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[She looked at the outfit intently without responding and left the room. I took my towel offfinally and put on the dress and then the shoes. In front ofthe mirror I brushed my hair. No style seemed right. I brushed out the curls and made it flat, making a parting in the middle.“I give up,”I said to the girl in the mirror.“You cant leave without eating!”Mmamane Mabatho said from the kitchen.“There will be a lot offood,”I told her.“Still, you don’t want to look like you haven’t eaten in years. Come here. There’s bread and peanut butter and jam“No!”I yelled out in English, frustrated.I expected the three of them to come running into the room, telling me how rude I had been and that I had to apol­ ogise. I waited with my teeth pressing on my lips, fighting back tears. But only my mother appeared in the doorway holding a box in her hands.“T s e a she said, and handed it to me. Inside were a few ofher rings, a collection she treasured, that I was not allowed to touch. “Take that one,”she said as I picked up a silver band. “Wear it on your thumb, it’s the best way.”I put it on my left thumband looked away from her.She left the room and came back with a piece oftoast withbutter and jam on it and gave me half. “Just eat this, to hold your stomach.”I ate it reluctantly, while she ate the other half. When I was about to leave, the aunts all stood up and puton shoes, wrapped their hair in doeks and followed me out of the house.“Where are you going?”I said with a sinking feeling.“Walking you,”Mmamane Malesedi said. “You’re going to catch a taxi, aren’t you?”“Yes, but I can go alone. I know how to catch a taxi.”“Fine. No one said you couldn’t catch a taxi,” Mmamane Mabatho said.69]]></page><page Index="70" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“I dont need anyone to come with me,” I insisted.“Tshidiso, were coming.” Mmamane Malesedi had the final say.They walked me to the taxi, all the way talking about neighbours, the street and their jobs. I wanted them to turn around and go away. I was nervous enough without worrying about when they would start giving me instructions on how to behave. People looked up and some children pointed as always. I walked hastily ahead of them. To my surprise, they let me stop a taxi ofmy choice and only said, “Goodbye, have a good time”, when I climbed in. I spent the hour waiting for the taxi to fill up with passengers, wondering if I looked too formal and not fun enough. I thought that the jeans might have been a better choice.The meeting place was at the top ofthe stairs at Sterland, the movie theatre in town. Many people our age roamed around us, most ofthem talking in what Mmamane Mabatho now called the Model C accent. KB smiled and waved when she first saw me. She was standing next to a White girl with a bob and a short Indian girl with long straight hair. All three ofthem were wearing jeans and stylish, short-sleeved T-shirts. KB was more cheerful than I had ever seen her. She had let down her ponytail and her hair fell to her shoulders. All three of them wore eye make-up and lipstick.“This is Brittany,”she said about the girl with the bob. “And this is Sumaya,” she pointed to the girl with the straight hair.“Hi,”we all said to each other. I looked around, waiting to see who else would join us.“Well, let s go.” KB led the way.“You’re at Ascension, right?” Sumaya asked, the fingers of one hand in her hair and the other hand in the back pocket of her jeans. When I looked at her again, I saw she was wearing too much lipstick.“Ja,”I said, my arms folded across my chest.70]]></page><page Index="71" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“We used to go there, me and Brit. We left last year.” “Oh,”was all I could manage to say.“Ok guys, you know the agenda, right?”KB said to us as shejoined the end ofthe ticket line. ‘Til get us the tickets.”She was paying? I seemed to be the only one who was sur­prised. Sumaya and Brittany turned to face me.“Did you just start this year?” asked Brittany.UT» Ja-“Do you like it?”UT» Ja.“The three ofus were friends when we were there. We meet for KBs birthday every year,” Brittany told me.“Her parents pay for everything,” Sumaya whispered. She was still playing with her hair.KB walked towards us and handed us the tickets. We had not even decided what we would be watching.“What would you like?” she asked us as we reached the refreshment stand. The three of them each got popcorn, chocolate and different flavours ofa drink called Slush Puppy, which I had never heard ofbefore.“Are you OK?” KB asked, as I had not asked for anything yet. I had always been taught that it was rude to take money from other people. No one should pay for your entire meal. So I stood silently, not able to decide ifI should pay for myselfor let KB pay. She stepped forward and got me a Slush Puppy, a bag of popcorn and a bar of Kit-Kat. I thanked her and fol­ lowed them into the movie theatre.I already knew what was on the “agenda”, as KB put it. First the movie, then lunch at a restaurant ofour choice and to KBs house for a swim in their pool. I had deliberately left my bathing suit at home and planned to say that I had forgotten it. I was not yet a good swimmer.At lunch, we sat in a booth at Pizza Hut, drinking cooldrinks from large glasses and each enjoying our own71]]></page><page Index="72" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[pizza. “Get whatever you want, my dads paying,” KB had announced when we walked in. I was not saying much, but who noticed? Sumaya hardly stopped to take a breath as she fed us stories of her new private boarding school. She had us laughing hysterically with tales of girls whose main aim was to seek adventure at boys’ schools and on the streets of Pretoria. It was all fascinating even if some ofit sounded a lit­ tle exaggerated. We ate, drank and laughed out loud while older Black women in red and black uniforms waited on us.“Oh! M y parents should really let me switch schools,” KB told us with a look ofdesperation on her face.“Why dont you? Ascension is such a dumb school!” Sumaya said emphatically.“I’ll convince them someday. My mom likes it because its right downtown. That way she can drop me offand go shop­ ping all the time,” KB said with a deep sigh.“I hate my stupid government school. I should switch too,” Brittany said. “My parents were just happy to get me out of Ascension.”“Why?”I asked her.“They said it was becoming too ... I don’t know ... multi­ racial.” I was the only one whose eyes popped.“The thing is,” Brittany started to clarify for me, “my dad says these schools lose their standards when that starts hap­ pening.”“Mmmhmm,” Sumaya and KB nodded.“It’s true,” KB said. “I mean, our head girl hasn’t even been there since primary school. How can you be head girl without having known the school for that long?”All three ofthem nodded.“Ascension is going downhill,”said Sumaya, taking a bite of her pizza. “It’s a shit school. You should leave, especially if your parents can afford it,”she said to KB. Then she turned to me. “What do your parents do?”The question I had been72]]></page><page Index="73" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[dreading. I had heard girls ask each other this so many times that I was surprised KB had never asked me - or that Sumaya and Brittany had not asked me sooner.I cleared my throat and thought quickly. “W ell... my mom designs clothes,”I said. She did make my dress, I reasoned in my mind.“Oh, cool! That explains your fancy dress!” Sumaya said, her face lighting up. “Could she make something for me?”I shrugged. “Sure,”I told her.“What about your dad?” Brittany asked. This was an even harder one. I took a bite ofpizza and chewed while I thought of an answer.“Mmm ... He sells the clothes my mom designs,” I told them, speaking with care and making sure I pronounced each word right.“Cool, like a businessman. Like my dad,” KB said. It was the first time in that part ofthe conversation that she was showing interest. I saw in her eyes that she had new respect for me.“So why don’t they move?” she asked me. I had never seen her look this interested in anything I said.“And why didn’t they send you to the school as soon as it opened?” Sumaya inquired. I thought that she was not com­ pletely convinced that I was telling the truth.“Ummm ... They’re still looking for a place,” I lied. The aunts would have been angry but my father would have laughed if he had been there.“Cool. Where?” KB asked.I shrugged nonchalantly. “Somewhere in town. I don’t know,”I said.Our waitress came to collect our plates. I sighed. KB announced that she had to pee and Sumaya followed her. The waitress came back with the bill while they were gone. She looked at me curiously and asked in Setswana, “She’s your friend?” She meant Brittany.73]]></page><page Index="74" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Eeng”I said, politely.“Where do you know her from?” she said.“We go to school together,”I answered.“Hooo!” She said, understanding. “You go to the schoolsthat just opened for Blacks here in town?”“Eeng”“OK,” she said and walked away.Brittany looked at me curiously. “I told her we go to the same school,”I said.Brittany laughed. “I guess were like the United Colours of Benetton!”After lunch, I was very disappointed to realise that I had to return home and wouldn’t be able to go to KBs house with them. If I had to catch a taxi, it was better to do it sooner rather than later. This was very embarrassing for me to tell the other girls.“Why doesn’t your dad just pick you up?” KB asked. “He’s so busy this weekend,” I said.“My dad would pick me up. What about your mom?” “She’s away ... buying cloth.”“Well, my dad could drop you off,”KB offered.This was getting too complicated. I had to be firmer. “It’s fine, I should go. I already told them I would take a taxi anyway.”“OK. My mom doesn’t let me take taxis. I’ve never even been in one,” KB told us.“OK, let’s go,” Sumaya said. They all hugged me and went to wait for KB’s mom to come and pick them up. I walked to the taxi rank, wondering if they knew that I had been lying.In the following weeks, I tried not to speak about my parents. KB was curious. She kept asking, “When are you moving?”, “Have you found a new home?”, “Why don’t they pick you up from school themselves?”For every question, I came up with a new lie. She even asked me to move to her side ofthe classroom, and every week74]]></page><page Index="75" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[I found an excuse for why I had to stay where I was. Every time she brought up my family, I changed the subject. Finally I told her, “They are so stingy, I don’t think they’ll move. They want to save money all the time and I don’t like to argue with them about it.”I told KB that I liked taxis, that people were so strange and unusual it was always an interesting experience to ride in one. I brought cheese and polony sandwiches instead of peanut butter and jam to prove that we had money. I improved my accent by watching more English-language TV. I declined every invitation to go out with her because I could not afford to go to the movies every weekend and was too intimidated by Brittany and Sumaya to want to see them again. Trying to keep up with her tired me out but I liked the fact that she thought I was “classy”. One day she was telling me a story about someone she went to piano les­ sons with and she said, “You know what type ofperson she is? She’s not classy, like you and me.” So my parents went on being businesspeople because I loved being classy in KB’s eyes.The eleventh ofFebruary, 1990 was a sunny Sunday morn­ ing in the township. But this Sunday was different. People had woken up before dawn to clean their houses, sweep their yards, bathe and eat. Where children would normally have been on the streets, they were home tucked under their mothers’ arms or sitting at their fathers’ feet. The television channels roared with excitement. No one wanted to move away from their tel­ evision sets. Sunday felt unfamiliar, except for Mma Motsei’s gospel music. Church was the last thing on our minds. No one wanted to miss this.Then the strangest thing happened. Eight young men and two older men appeared at our open front door and knocked. The aunts and I stared up at them curiously. Whoever came to our house?75]]></page><page Index="76" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Dumelang,”they greeted.aAshe,” the aunts greeted back.The strange men came in, all the young ones sitting on thefloor and the older ones sitting on the sofas.“What time did they say?”one ofthe older men asked, tak­ing offhis hat.“Not long, I think. It should be soon,” MmamaneMalebone said. “Can I offer you some water?” she asked the older men.They looked at each other and said, “Er ... no. No, thank you, we are fine.”We watched the crowds who had gone to meet Mandela at the gates, many of them with cameras, some sitting on the ground, some sitting up on high walls to get a better view. We felt envious of them for being so close. The television announcer said that many people had been waiting since the night before. In our living room, no one said a word.When he walked out, he was holding Winnie by the hand. When the crowd roared, they raised their fists, “AmandlaT They roared like lions in heat. Everyone raised their fists, including the young men on our living room floor. I was mes­ merized. I dont think I fully understood the meaning of the event until that moment. We were in awe. No one had seen a picture ofMandela for 27 years, but now we saw he had aged gracefully. I looked up and saw Mmamane Malesedi and the two older men silently crying.76]]></page><page Index="77" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[eightWhen theyfinally saw Tshidiso leaving home and coming back without that look o fdespair she had worn on herface all thoseyears, the sistersfelt relieved and excited. They wondered about this new world she was entering and tried to live in it through her. “Does she talk to them?' they would ask each other. “Does she makefriends with the Whitegirls?”Malesedi watched her silently, hoping that she wouldfit in and move smoothly through the big change in her life. Malebone wor­ ried that she wouldfeel lost in that strange world that she could not relate to. Mabatho marvelled at Tshidisos bravery. She could not imagine herselfliving a life so different and removedfrom herfamily. Her own life was always simplest and most comfortable near her sisters.Outside, the neighbours were asking each other questions about how the sisters could afford to send a child to a private school and how they were going to be able to keep her there. Some said it would never last, while others —the older women —nodded and admitted to each other that the sisters were taking care o fthe child in the best way they could.After the excitement of Sunday, I wanted to be around the girls who lived in the townships because I knew that every township had had a party. I didn’t want to spend lunchtime with KB. The event created a temporary segregation in the school, with even Marianne standing with the White girls at77]]></page><page Index="78" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[lunchtime. We were all elated, talking about our reactions to the moment when Mandela walked through the prison gates, while the White girls spoke in hushed tones and exchanged stories about what was going on, mainly their parents’ fears.“Civil war,” they cried.“The Blacks are going to rule the country.”“My father says there will be more riots than the countryhas ever seen.”“My mom says hes a terrorist and a criminal, they shouldn’thave let him out.”“My dad says we’re moving back to Portugal.”Civil war? My whole neighbourhood had danced up anddown the streets! There were parties all weekend. Even Mma Motsei had come to our fence and spoken to Mmamane Mabatho for a full half-hour about her excitement. I was over­ whelmed by the celebrations around me.KB said she was sick and had her driver come to fetch her before lunch. She told me that she would rather be home with her parents. I think she sensed the tensions between people of different colours and did not want to be part ofit. The Indian and Coloured girls sat together and talked about Mandela - some had watched, some were hearing the news for the first time. I had a sense that this did not affect them.After that day everyone began to drift together again and went back to their friends. But most White girls still talked about civil war. Some families even started taking their children out ofthe school, right in the middle ofthe first quarter. Some racist jokes even surfaced - so I heard - in the primary school.In class, Tamz asked Mrs Aleixo, “Miss, what do you think about Mandela being out ofprison?”Mrs Aleixo put down the book she had been looking at, took a deep breath and sat down.“W ell...”she started, “I think it means we’re going through some big changes. No one knows what this really means.”78]]></page><page Index="79" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Yes, but are you happy about it?”Trish asked.“I don’t know. Frankly, I’m worried. It’s a time ofbig uncer­ tainty. I don’t know what it means for me, but obviously Blacks are happy.”“Yes!”“Definitely, miss!”The Black girls cheered all around. “OK, OK. Calm down everyone. Sshhhhh ...”“It doesn’t really matter to me,” Dirusha said.“Why is that?”the teacher inquired.“Because for Indians it’s all the same. It doesn’t matter whois in the government. Mandela fights for Blacks.”“Mandela is everyone’s leader,”Tamz said. This seemed toannoy people all around.“I don’t think he’s my leader,” Dirusha responded.“Nor mine.” I was surprised to hear Laura take such astrong stance. “I mean, my parents taught me not to be racist, so I accept Blacks.”“Accept?!”Tamz yelled the word. “I’m not here for you to ACCEPT.”“Sshh! OK, girls! Girls!” Mrs Aleixo clapped her hands together. “Quiet, please.”“I don’t think she was trying to offend you. She just meant that she is not racist,”Dirusha defended Laura.“Accept is, like, if you must be here, then there’s nothing I can do about it. Blacks were in this country first“All right! All right! Sshhh! Tumisang, that’s enough! Girls, stop it now. You will have to discuss this at a different time. And I don’t think it’s about who was here first.”“Miss Veronica started.“No, no. Let’s move on. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”And that was as far as the discussion went. People snickered. It was obvious that everyone was upset, but they all let it rest.79]]></page><page Index="80" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[In the township, people began to walk past our house, instead of crossing over to the other side. Once in a while, Mma Motsei even waved to us. After the visit ofthose men, no one actually came into the house, but people did start greeting us. Mmamane Malebone even stood at the fence with Mma Motsei and discussed the cabbages and tomatoes she was growing in the backyard. We were making progress. The aunts said very little about these changes, as if they had been going on for years. But I knew that they were relieved.One day in March, not long after Mandela s release, our team was on the netball court for practice, preparing to play against Williams, a school not too far from ours. Mevrou van der Westhuizen, the netball teacher, was particularly nervous that day because - Veronica speculated - Williams had excellent and strict netball coaches, and would be tough competition. Mevrou kept pacing furiously along the sidelines, screaming and warn­ ing us “for the last time”to stay focused. “Come on, girls! Move! Pass the ball! Watch the net!” She was frantic, sweating and blowing her whistle with all the air in her lungs.I was not the worlds best athlete, but in my class there were worse players than me, so the coach was planning to use me for that weeks game. Everyone was under a lot of stress. I keep reminding myselfofthat now, it helps me to keep things in perspective.This is the way I remember it: Marianne, who had limited skills as a ball player, was having trouble keeping the ball in her hands. She dropped it a little too often, frustrating the teacher. Beth, who was the best player by far, was steaming. She was like the teacher but without the whistle. She would scream, “Come on, guys! Come on!”, coughing up her “C’s” so that I thought she would have a sore throat by the end. Trish was playing very well as she did at most sports, but Veronica - although she was good too - was finding Marianne s butter­ fingers very amusing. She would laugh and clap her hands80]]></page><page Index="81" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[when Marianne dropped the ball, or whisper something to Marianne when someone passed the ball so that Marianne would be too busy laughing to focus. On the court, the players were as tense as soldiers on a battlefield. Only Marianne and Veronica were having a good time.I heard it, I know I heard it, but I didn’t want to. Dirusha, tall and lean, working hard and ready to walk off the court because ofthe tension, passed the ball to Marianne. Marianne barely caught the ball and made a double-step, and then almost dropped it again as she passed it to me. I caught it halfway to the ground, and then turned around too quickly and bumped into Beth, who was playing in the opposite team. Our foreheads slammed against one another. The ball fell from my hands and bounced away, but not before it hit her feet.“Watch it!” she screamed and glared at me, her eyes the windows to the rage in her body. As my mother would say, she was burning from her own heat. I felt dizzy for two seconds and then composed myself.“Sorry,” I said, but she was already walking away.Two, maybe three steps away from me, she said it. “Kaffir.”Softly enough that I thought only I would have heard it,but apparently loud enough for Veronica, on my right, to hear as well. Heat travelled from the centre of my head down my cheeks, arms and back until it settled in my feet. The ground seemed to shift and I felt I was losing my balance. I shook my hands out to stop them from trembling, crossed my legs to stop the wobbling. I had stopped breathing, come undone.The next thing seemed to happen in slow motion, it felt so surreal. Veronica, who now had the ball in her hands, slammed it to the ground so that it bounced higher than the net pole. Then she leapt towards Beth, pushed her, and when Beth turned to face her, slapped her - no, whacked her -81]]></page><page Index="82" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[across the face with the back of her hand, as if she wanted to slap the word out ofher. Nothing and no one seemed to move or breathe for a moment. The ball rolled back to my feet - the only noise we heard.“Who are you calling a —”Veronica started, barely catching her breath, but the sound of Mevrou van der Westhuizens whistle drowned the word and brought us out of the trance imposed by our collective state of shock.“Veronica!”Veronica ignored the teacher.“Veronica! You will look at me when Im speaking to you.Come here right now!”Beths mouth was slightly open, her eyes welling up, herhand on the cheek Veronica had slapped. “You bitch!” she said, but too softly to stir a fight. Like she only said it to regain her dignity, but hoped that Veronica would ignore it.Veronica moved so close to her that their breasts and toes touched. “Who are you calling a bitch? HP. Hmm?”The teacher ran towards them, hands clapping furiously, the whistle bouncing offher chest. She stretched both arms in front of her, palm to palm, like a referee at a boxing match. Her arms parted the two girls.“What on earth is the matter with you, Veronica?”“Miss, she said ‘kaffir’!” Veronica responded, incredulous, pleading.“She did not!” the teacher insisted. “Elizabeth would never say such a thing.”I thought, well surely she heard Beth say “bitch”- she was close enough to hear.“What is wrong with you, Veronica? Where do you think you are? In the townships? This is not an ANC march!”Beth burst into tears, like a victim grateful to be rescued.Veronica stepped further back, hands on her hips, a woman demanding respect from her neighbour, ready for battle. She82]]></page><page Index="83" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[stepped back to make room in front ofher as if she was going to push back the sand at her feet and lunge forward in a moment. The teachers words meant nothing to her.“Veronica, I asked you a question!” the teacher screeched.Beths sobs intensified. Someone came up from behind her; it was Laura, putting her hands on Beths shoulders, protect­ ing her. The teacher said, “Laura, take her to Mrs Allisons office.” She said “Laura” so sweetly, in a way that separated Laura from Veronica, like she was saying, “Laura, my child. You, the sweet one.”Laura hugged Beth before taking her away. “Come, Bethy. Its OK,” she said, without looking up at Veronica.My knees wobbled and I felt unsteady. The ball was still at my feet. I considered sitting on it. Veronicas back was to me, so I had no idea what her face looked like, but I knew she was not crying. She stood defiantly. She was still looking in the direction of that empty spot where Beths face had been. She was not finished with her.“Vies, a reye”Trish said.The other Black girls joined her.“Vies, mo tlogele.”“Lets go, leave her, lets go,” they were saying in soothingtones.“And SPEAK English! This is an English MediumSchool!”yelled the teacher at the faces around her.“OK, Miss, ei\ Relax!” Some girls responded. They had no use for what she was saying. Their main concern wasVeronica.“Vies?” they tried again, but all that Veronica did was turnto watch Beth leave.The teacher turned to the rest of the class and I thoughtshe wanted to ask us something but she only told us to go and change and return to the classroom.I hesitated before stepping forward. “Miss,”I started.83]]></page><page Index="84" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Now!” she said to me and I jumped and ran after the rest ofthe class.We were whispering all the way back to the classroom. Most of us could not believe that Veronica had actually hit someone right in front of a teacher. We were stunned at the gall of our classmate and her defiance, and her refusal to respond to the teachers questions. We felt a mixture ofexcite­ ment and nervousness, admiration mixed with relief that we were not in her shoes. All I kept thinking was, “I heard it. I heard her. She said it. I heard it. And she said it to me, or about me.”Trish poked my shoulder. “You were near them, Tshidi, did you hear Beth say it?”Two other girls stopped and waited for my response. I nodded feebly.“Wow, Beth really said it?” asked Tamz.I nodded again. The word had turned into “it”. “Why?”Marianne asked, the first time I had ever seen hersolemn.I touched my forehead and shrugged. It still stung a littlefrom knocking into Beths forehead. “I think she was angry with me for hitting her.”“You hit her?”Marianne frowned.“No, Marianne, they bumped into each other,” Trish explained. Oh, so thats how you say it, I thought. I was still taking mental notes.“What do you think Mrs Allison will do?”Dirusha asked. We all shrugged. Below the stairs, in the court, we saw Laura with a Coke can - presumably cold - pressed to Beths fore­ head. Mevrou van der Westhuizen was trailing behind Veronica who was marching towards Mrs Allisons office, looking determined, ready to make her case.Mmamane Tiny - one of the women who cleaned the school - had been working in the toilets, and walked towards84]]></page><page Index="85" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[us with a mop and a bucket in her hands. “Girls, go back to class,” she said in Setswana. The other girls stood there explaining the situation to her. She put down her mop and bucket and I turned around to see her eyes fascinated, furious, taking in every detail.“Was she the only one who heard Beth?” she asked. I hur­ ried towards the class and wondered if she would tell Mmamane Malesedi since they knew each other well.When Tshidiso was at school in the township, the sisters had always been ready to march down to the school and demand apo­ logiesfrom the teachers, but now when she came homefrom the private school with thisproblem theyfelt less confident about tak­ ing action. This wasnt their world or their language, so they watchedfrom the sidelines,frustrated and anxious about what would happen next. Malebone and Mabatho said that they did not want tojeopardise Tshidisos opportunity to go to such aprestigious school. Malebone said that she was waitingfor the teachers toput Tshidiso on the spot. I fthey suspended Tshidiso, she reasoned, then they would have her, Malebone, to deal with. Every day, they waited anxiouslyfor the latest developments. Every day in the meeting room, Malebone suggested they take Tshidiso to another school. Malesedi and Mabatho urged her to give it time although neither one ofthem was sure that waiting was the best idea. All three suffered some sort ofincessantpain - from headaches to stomach pains - throughout those weeks o fthe ordeal.85]]></page><page Index="86" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[nineVeronica came back from the principals office wiping her face and not looking directly at any ofus. Her hair was standing up all over the place and she was tightening the belt around her waist. She looked like she had been in a fight.All the Black girls - with the exception ofKB - were anxious to hear what Mrs Allison had said to Veronica. We all stood up when she walked in and rushed to her side. There was no teacher in the class at that moment - Mrs Tanner was next for Religious Studies, and I guessed that she was late because she was proba­ bly talking to another teacher about it. She was always gossiping, with teachers and students alike, about everything that was going on in the school.Tamz put her hand on Veronicas shoulder and asked in Setswana, “What did Mrs Allison say?” But Veronica would not speak. She sniffed and walked to her desk. Trish handed her a hairbrush and repeated Tamz’s question.“They dont believe me,” Veronica said flatly. I sighed, because her tone told me that they wanted to let it go, and I was relieved.“Tshidi heard her,”Trish said. A few girls gathered around us, their faces pleading with me, asking me to comfort Veronica. But she was not interested. She knew that I had heard. For some reason, this was not important to her.“What did she say, Tshidi? You can tell Mrs Tanner when she comes in, shell believe you,” said Tamz.“Yes.”“Yes, she will.”86]]></page><page Index="87" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“You’re new and you never say anything, she’ll believe you,” the girls all around me were saying. I shrugged and bit my lip, and they took my silence for a declaration of solidarity.“Just tell her when she comes in,” pleaded Trish. “And they’ll-”Laura walked in just then, holding Beth’s hand, Mrs Tanner following behind. The class fell silent, except for a few hisses from Trish, Tamz and even Dirusha. They all gave me knowing looks before returning to their seats.“Tell her,”Trish whispered one more time.Mrs Tanner strolled in wearing her usual over-decorated glasses, a knee-length pencil skirt and very high heels. She put her bag on the table and eased into the chair, looking calmer than usual. We stood up.“Good morning, girls,” she said in her deep voice that always sounded like she had just had flu.“Good morning, Miss.”“Is everyone all right?” she inquired, her eyes scanning the class.“Miss,”Tamz spoke first. “I think someone should tell the truth about what happened, Miss.”A few people started chattering. Mrs Tanner held up her hand to calm us down.“What did happen?” she asked, taking off her glasses and stroking her hair. I knew that Laura and Beth must have just filled her in. She was not speaking like someone hungry to hear a story for the first time. She sat back in her chair with­ out taking out her teaching books as usual.Everyone spoke at the same time. “All right girls, I can’t hear you all talking at once.”She looked behind me. “Veronica? Do you want to tell me what happened?”Veronica shook her head but the class waited still. On the other side ofthe class, I saw KB putting Endearmints into her87]]></page><page Index="88" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[mouth and chewing. She looked like a half-interested observer, happy not to be part ofthe drama.“Beth said an offensive word, and it wasn’t just Veronica who heard her,”Trish said.“I’d like to hear it from Veronica,” the teacher said softly, still looking in Veronicas direction.“Miss, it wasnt just her who heard it, its true,” Tamz added.“Who else heard her?”I held my breath and looked down at my desk. I dreaded hearing my name.“Tshidi heard it,”Dirusha spoke.“Who?”“Tshidiso,”Dirusha repeated.“Oh! Tshidiso. What did you hear, love?”Mrs Tanner said things like “love” and “sweetheart” to girlsall the time. It endeared her to us. It made us want to tell her things we wouldn’t normally tell teachers, like problems in our families or complaints about other teachers. It was easy to pic­ ture Beth crying on her shoulder.I cleared my throat. Across the classroom, my eyes met Beths. I could see that this was a surprise to her. She probably hadn’t imagined that anyone else had heard her. I suddenly felt sorry for her. She looked so terrified; I knew she felt completely alone. I thought that she felt guilty and maybe even wanted to apologise. Her eyes were pleading with me, pulling me to her side of the divided classroom. Away from the netball court, without Mevrou van der Westhuizen, it was her and Laura against the rest ofthe class - judging from the look on Beth’s face, that must have felt like the whole world.I knew she wanted me to say that I had not heard anything, that I had only sort ofheard her mumbling something. Maybe this is not what she was thinking, but that is what I read from her quivering lips and her sad, watering eyes.88]]></page><page Index="89" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Tshidiso?”the teacher called.“I heard Beth say ...”I said. Even then - even in the mid­ dle ofall that - 1was painfully aware ofmy misfit accent. Mrs Tanner held up her hand, instructing me to stop.“You dont have to repeat that word. I dont want to hear it in my class. And I cant believe that anyone would say it on school property.”I felt heat on my neck and ears, my heart racing. At that moment, I thought that Mrs Tanner understood exactly why Veronica had been so furious. Who would have imagined, I thought, that a teacher would take our side? Who would have guessed? I felt relieved. We were about to come to the end of this. She would probably tell the principal, who would of course believe her, and Beth would be reprimanded.But then she continued, “I don’t know if she said it or not, because I wasn’t there. But it’s not OK to upset or offend peo­ ple like that.” She paused and looked straight at me - not Veronica - and added, “And it’s definitely not OK to hit peo­ ple.”Beth, looked betrayed. Veronica, her face expressionless, looked up at me and said, “See? What difference did that make?”I felt sheepish. I did not want to be seen as someone who was defending violence. I was just stating what I had heard. Part of me resented Trish for making me speak up, and I felt angry that I had to be in the middle ofit all. How was I going to extricate myselffrom this?Then the debate started. Tamz announced to no one in par­ ticular, “I don’t think it’s OK to call people offensive names either. This is a name we all hate and that makes us all feel bad, so why should someone be allowed to say it?”Mrs Tanner put her glasses back on, then took them off. She searched for something in her bag. She was fidgeting really. They were reading glasses and she was not about to read.89]]></page><page Index="90" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Tumisang, this is a very, very complicated situation,” she said firmly. “If Beth actually said the word then both parties were in the wrong.”“If} I f Miss? She did say it, you heard Tshidiso!” Tamzs voice trembled as she spoke.“Tumisang,” Mrs Tanner said softly but firmly, and then took a deep breath. The class fell silent. “Tumisang,” she repeated. “Calm down. This is not your battle.”“The word should be banned,”Trish spoke up but instead oflooking at the teacher she looked around her, at the Black girls. Tamzs eyes looked watery. Veronica sat with her elbow on the desk, her head resting on her hand and turned away from the front ofthe class.“Tamz, leave it. A ba nyake go utlwa,”Veronica said. “They don’t want to hear it.”Everyone was quiet after Tamz spoke. The teacher looked in our direction, the students looked at Tamz. We had never seen her cry before. She was always so strong and determined. Her trembling voice rattled us. Mrs Tanner was silent for a moment. Veronica had been crying, Tamz was close to tears. The netball court felt like a place we would now approach with caution. Everything was, as they say in Afrikaans, deurmekaar. It was a mess. We were losing hold of the familiar things. Except for KB. She looked engrossed in a teen novel.“Ifyou heard her, you go back tomorrow and tell the prin­ cipal exactly what you heard,” Mmamane Mabatho said to me. The aunts were sitting around me in the meeting room.As always they had gone in first, spoken in hushed tones and then called me in. They left me staring at the TV screen, trying to watch the English news and listen in on their con­ versation at the same time. At one point, I heard Mmamane Malesedi’s voice rise as she said, “She will not!” Voices always stayed as low as possible in the meeting room. I knew that this was serious.90]]></page><page Index="91" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Then Mmamane Mabatho said, “You wont!”, but that was all I heard.“You’re sure you heard her, so we re in the middle now,” Mmamane Mabatho said. I hated that she said “we”. I did not want them involved. I did not want to be involved myself, espe­ cially after we had gone back to class and I had seen how upset everyone was. I wanted it to go away. I wanted everyone to for­ get about it. People had heard that word so many times. White people had even said it to me or about me a few times before in my life. I knew it was upsetting, but I didnt want to speak up. I wanted Veronica to forget it. Couldn’t we just label Beth “racist”- like we already had done with halfthe teachers any­ way - and leave it at that? I wished and hoped and willed it to turn into nothing.“That child’s family will not forget that she was smacked by a Black girl,”Mmamane Malesedi said to me that night. “And I think someone should tell them what their child did.”“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” my mother said, holding my hand.“Malebone!” Mmamane Mabatho cried. “She heard the girl, she has to say something. Hao! Waitse wena, you know, sometimes you act like you don’t know how things work.”“I know how things work, and I don’t want Tshidi alienat­ ing teachers and potential friends. It’s her first year, tlheng\ Let her be. Legona, she wasn’t the one who hit the White girl. Shejust heard. If they didn’t believe the other girl, the one who has been in that school for much longer, how will they believe her, who has only been there for a few months? He ? ”“OK,” Mmamane Malebone said, still holding my hand, “but wait until they ask you to say something. Don’t go straight to the principal’s office.”91]]></page><page Index="92" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[tenI used to fantasize that I could go to our neighbours’ house and sit with them, have dinner with them and pretend that my family had mysteriously left the township for a while. Whenever I was in trouble as a small child or when in school someone said something about my aunts that made me feel desperately ashamed, I looked longingly at the neighbours and wished that they would take me in. Now that Mmamane Malesedi and Mmamane Mabatho were determined that I stand up for Veronica, I wished for that again.But still I had heard that word. And as I drifted offto sleep I kept being stung by the sound ofit, as ifI had been hearing it for the first time - even as I felt sorry for Beth.In the morning, I looked out at the empty streets. The ris­ ing sun was daring me to come and join its will to prevail but I did not feel ready for battle. I had read that people in cold countries put on a few layers of clothes and heavy jackets to brave sub-zero weather, and that is how I felt that day. My heart wished for a boycott, a strike, riots or roadblocks - any­ thing to keep me away from school. When my mother came into the kitchen to make me porridge, I faked a cough, but Mmamane Malesedi walked in and gave me a look that said, “Don’t even think about it.” Like it or not, I was going to school that day.I even hoped that the taxi to town would overturn and kill us all - or at the very least send me to the hospital for a stay that would outlast any memories of what had happened on the netball court. As we drew closer and closer to town, I92]]></page><page Index="93" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[decided that I would pretend that nothing had happened. I would ignore everyone but KB and go on with my life at Ascension without ever looking at the other Black girls again. I did not want to be involved with a crowd that had been branded as troublemakers. I wanted to enjoy the school as much as possible. This decision eased the panic and I felt more ready to walk through those gates.When we walked in, Mmamane Malesedi reminded me, “Speak up when they ask you. Tell them what you heard. Even ifthey dont askyou, tell someone.The principal is full ofshit. Forget her. Tell your other teachers.” I frowned at her. She knew what I was thinking.“We didnt teach you to be a liar,” she said, wagging her finger at me.“Fm not going to lie.”“You are. Ifyou keep quiet, you’re lying.”She was still glar­ ing at me, her eyes a warning, as she walked away. I sighed and resisted the urge to tell her that I would do as I pleased. In the end, I reckoned, it was my choice. In any case, this whole thing did not rest on me. Veronica didn’t even care if I spoke up or shut up. Mrs Tanner had not even thought my state­ ment meant anything.As I walked along the driveway, the usual crowd of girls were standing and chatting loudly, waiting for their friends to arrive. The whole school had heard about the incident. No- one said what exactly it was that Beth had said, just that it was “a racist word”.Some of them looked at me and cupped their hands over their mouths, saying God-knows-what to their friends. The younger girls pointed. Two even ran up to me and asked, “You heard her? Did she say it to you?”The story had reached the broken telephone stage. Everyone had their own version. Some said that Beth had turned to Veronica and said it to her face. Some said that Beth93]]></page><page Index="94" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[had said it to my face, smashed her forehead purposefully against mine, and Veronica had heard and defended me. Although the first story was the most popular, the most bizarre one was that Beth had sworn about Veronicas mother, Veronica had hit her, and then Beth had said the word. The day after it happened, the incident on the netball court sounded a lot more sensational than it actually had been.I saw KB walking down to class and I ran after her, des­ perate to leave the crowd behind.“KB!” I yelled as I caught up to her. She turned her head once and then looked straight ahead. She had seen me before I had seen her.“You shouldn’t associate with that crowd. Those girls are so ... township. I mean, who hits someone in a place like this,you know?”I nodded, more to myself than to her. “I know. I wasshocked.”“Seriously, its barbaric.” I didn’t know if I agreed, but Iwanted so much to dissociate myselffrom what had happened - and I wanted KB to think highly ofme.“I know, I know,”I said.I sighed and tightened my small ponytail, looking enviously at KB’s long one. She put her school bag on her other shoul­ der and handed me her lunch box to carry without looking in my direction. She spoke looking straight ahead and never turned to look at anything else. It was as if she was looking in the mirror, talking to herself. I admired her detachment from the rest of the world. If I could be so removed from what was going on around me, I mused, I would be so much better off. I could really enjoy that.I thought she would ask me what I had heard but she just brushed the tips ofher fingers against her temples as ifbrush­ ing back strands of hair and said, “Veronica was probably just looking for an excuse to hit someone. She’s got a bad reputa­94]]></page><page Index="95" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[tion for that temper. Its out of control. If thats what she heard then she should have told the teacher instead of doing that. Gosh, people like that give Blacks a bad name.”The bell rang as we reached class. I nodded without really agreeing and reflected on how she said “V’ro-n’ca”, the same way the teachers said it. Her accent was perfect.In class, neither Veronica nor Beth was at her desk. Sister Margaret, one of the oldest nuns in the school, was speaking with them outside on the balcony. I imagined that she wanted them to shake hands and call a truce. Sister Margaret always wanted us to turn to God in difficult times. “The Lord says: leave your troubles unto me. He will carry your load,” she always told us. She would make sure her eyes met each and every one ofus as she added, “There is no need to walk alone. Christ said: I am the way, the truth and the life. Remember the disciples’ uneasiness on the boat. Remember Christ calm­ ing them, telling them to have more faith? Trust in his love.”She always said “Christ” and never “Jesus”, like when older people prefer to call people by their surnames. Once she asked me a question and my answer was “Jesus”. Sister Margaret fixed her eyes on mine and said, “Christ”.Outside, she was probably quoting the Bible and forcing them to speak to each other. When they returned to class we were in the middle ofreading Fiela se Kind, so no one had a chance to ask what had happened. The Afrikaans teacher looked annoyed with them for walking in while class was in session.The rest of the morning passed by smoothly, and I felt relieved. The air coming through the window was cool with the arrival ofautumn. It was nearing lunch time and no teacher had asked me to give my account ofwhat I had seen and heard the day before. I began to think that the aunts had overreacted as usual. It looked like people were already beginning to forget about it. Beth even looked cheerful talking to Laura and KB,95]]></page><page Index="96" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[and Veronica was laughing about something with Trish. It looked like a normal school day.The first sign that this was not to be was the arrival ofa sil­ ver Mercedes Benz at lunch time. Parents did not come at lunch time unless there was something urgent - a sick or injured child. This time apparently the injured child was Beth. Her mother, a dark-haired woman who took short quick steps, was walking behind her tall and slightly overweight husband, who looked like he was marching to battle.“Aye-ye\” someone nearby said. “Beths parents are here. This is not good.”I was sitting cross-legged on the playground with KB, sur­ rounded by primary school children playing all sorts ofgames. I put away my peanut butter sandwich. My stomach churned and I felt nauseous. My palms were sweaty, too slippery to hold anything.“Do you think Veronicas parents will come too?” I asked KB.“Please!” her voice was flat. “Her mother is a nurse and her father probably works in the kind ofplace where the boss has to give you permission to go outside for a smoke.” KB chewed on her last baby carrot.“She brought it on herself,” she added, her focus shifted to a nearby game of rounders. Her words cut through me, and I winced. I wanted to say that there was more to the story than that, but I decided against it. If anything happened with Beths parents, if they were angry with the school or some­ thing, it was probably safer for me to be seen with KB, who was not in any way involved. Now I was glad that KB had not asked what I had heard. I did not want to talk about it any more.“Mmmm,” I nodded and sighed. My heart was pounding against my chest. I looked around for the girls from my class to see if they had also seen Beths parents, but they were96]]></page><page Index="97" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[nowhere near the playground. I took a sip of the cooldrink I had bought from the school tuck shop, my eyes still searching. KB took out a teenage romance novel and we sat there silently waiting for the bell to ring.When it did and everyone moved towards their classes, Beth was carrying her school bag and hurrying behind her parents. Her fathers face had turned red from rage.The three ofthem got into the car and drove away.I was walking home after school that day when two girls who were younger than me stopped me as I approached our gate.“You go to school in town, right? What class are you in?” they wanted to know.“What do the teachers call you?”“Do you have an English name that you use in school?”I stood there for about twenty minutes answering all oftheir questions.“Do you have a White friend?”one asked.“No,”I said.“Do you have White girls in your class that you talk to?” “Yes.”“What are their names?”they both asked, and I told them. “Have you ever, have you ever, umm, touched a White per­son? Like this?” one girl asked me, touching my skin lightly with only one finger.I laughed. “Yes, I think so. We play sports together.” “Do you swim?”“Yes.”“Do you like it?”“Yes.”“Im telling my mama I want to go to a school in town,”one ofthem said.“Me too,”her friend said, and they skipped away to play.97]]></page><page Index="98" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[eleven“She’s not coming back,” Laura informed Dirusha in class after lunch, speaking loudly so that everyone could hear, but not looking in Veronicas direction, where all the Black girls sat. Beths parents were keeping her at home, she said, because her father would “not allow her to be in school with uncivilised, dangerous people”. This story we’d already heard from a girl whose family was close to Beths. She was in a dif­ ferent class but one of the biggest gossips in the school, so everyone knew her. She had come to our class to tell no one in particular, just hoping that we would all hear and be shocked.Veronica did not react. Trish said “Good riddance” and Tamz agreed. I hoped Beth would just become a distant mem­ ory, that her parents would keep her out of our school and maybe even take her to another one.Mrs Aleixos class was the first one after lunch. When she came in, she looked solemn. We took turns reading a few paragraphs from a prescribed book. Everyone was silent and tense. Marianne, in an attempt to break the ice, looked up when it was her turn to read and asked, “Miss, hows the home life? Are you keeping the fires burning? What’s that expres­ sion again ... keeping the home fires ...?”Mrs Aleixo did not smile as she usually did when the sub­ ject turned to her marriage. She looked up from her book and glared at Marianne. “There are more important things tothink about, Marianne. Please pick up from where the person before you left off.”98]]></page><page Index="99" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Marianne cleared her throat, exchanged looks with one or two girls and kept on reading.In the next class, Sister Shirley taught Biology with her usual focus. She had a way ofmaking Biology seem like a fas­ cinating game ofcells and tissues. She would explain what we were about to observe through a microscope and when she was finished we were all anxious to put our eyes on the lens. But that day her voice lacked its usual fervour. It was as if she had no substantial knowledge ofthe topic, like she was filling in for another teacher.None ofus knew what Beths parents had said to the prin­ cipal or what reason they had given for taking her away. I was curious about what Veronica was thinking and whether or not she was nervous, but I did not want to ask because I was try­ ing to look as detached as everyone else.That night my father called. It was nice to speak to him. His days were going well; he was close to finishing paying lobola for his girlfriend and was ready to get married. His job was all right but exhausting. When he asked about the new school, I told him about my new friend KB, the strict teachers and the beautiful buildings. He asked me about sports, if I was swimming yet. I made it all sound a lot more interesting than it really was. I knew the aunts were within earshot and did not want to talk about Beth and Veronica.“Do you have White friends?”he asked.“No, not really.”“Not really?Heee, you sound like them already!”he laughed. “How about Indians and Coloureds?”“I have one Indian friend,”I lied, thinking about Dirusha. He said that he was thinking of coming to visit, that hewould speak to the aunts and see when would be a good time. I bit the corner ofmy lip, not wanting to give the phone to my mother. As soon as she said “hello”, I cringed.99]]></page><page Index="100" isMAC="true"><![CDATA["... so now the White girl left the school in the middle of the day. Tshidi didn’t say anything. Hmmm. I know. Hmmm. Who knows? Probably that she had a headache from being slapped and needed to go home ... I would believe it ... hmmm.”Knowing my father would ask to speak to me afterwards, I disappeared into the bathroom and took a long bath.When she got offthe phone my mother told me I had been in there long enough and that it was time for bed.“What are you so afraid of?”Mmamane Mabatho asked me just before I fell asleep. “I know we wanted you to tell the teachers what you had heard, but its fine now. White people just like to make a noise about nothing. She’ll recover soonand be back in school tomorrow.”The next morning one of the city’s newspaper headlinesread: RACIAL TENSION AT CATHOLIC SCHOOL. Mmamane Malesedi and I saw it held up by a woman sitting in front ofus in the taxi.“He\ Mathata. Problems. Bare, these children are already starting to fight,”the woman said.“What children?”another passenger asked. “These ones in these town schools.”“Ao} What are they fighting for?”“Are they mistreating our children?”aAi\ Makhoa\ White people!”“It’s not just Whites, gape, our children are not always well- behaved.”“It’s not our children. White children learn from their par­ ents. They don’t teach them to be respectful. I have a friend, someone on her street goes to one ofthese schools, she says —”“Utlwa\ Listen!” the woman reading the paper tried to speak again.“She says,” the passenger said, ignoring her, “that these White children don’t even speak to them sometimes.”100]]></page><page Index="101" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Hao!” a man sitting near the driver turned around, appalled. “Dont speak to them? How? Aren’t they in the same school?”“She says they just walk right past them, pretend they dont see them.”“Hee? Iyol”An elderly woman clapped her hands together. “IVe never heard ofsuch a thing. You mean just like they walk past us on the streets?”“Yes. Just like that.”“In the same school?”“In the same school.”“Matichere bona? Dont the teachers say anything?” “Maybe the teachers are just the same.”The man in front noticed me for the first time and I wanted to hide under the seat.“Wenay my child, dont you go to one of those schools? Im just seeing the uniform.”Mmamane Malesedi spoke for me, “Yes, its her first year. Ail Its not easy for our children.”That morning we were the only ones from our neighbour­ hood in the taxi, so no one knew us.“Maybe she knows this school?”the woman with the news­ paper asked no one in particular.“What does the paper say?” asked an older woman sitting next to us.“It says a Black girl attacked a White girl.”“Hao!”the man in the front said. “What did the White girl do to her?”“Dont forget its a White newspaper. We cant know what happened.”The elderly woman spoke up. “It says that the Black girl is known for being a bully. Apparently she had had a fight on school grounds with someone else last year. They say she didnt like the White girl, she accused her ofbeing racist.”101]]></page><page Index="102" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[People’s voices rose. “What did she do?”“She wouldn’t just attack her. What did the White girl do?” “She didn’t like her? Ao\ No, no. What did she do? She didsomething.”“I don’t think she did anything. Our children are not alwaysfree from blame.”This was coming from the same person who had said that our children were not always “well behaved”.It was the first time that I had appreciated elders speaking as if I was not there. I did not want to say anything. I imag­ ined for a moment that the paper was speaking about another school. After all, what had happened at our school was surely not big enough to make newspaper headlines? Then I remem­ bered Sister Cecilia saying that the appointment of our new, non-White head girl had been announced in the same paper.Finally someone said, “Let’s hear what the paper says”, and people gave the woman with the paper a chance to read.The Black girl - said to have been in the schoolfor afew years - comesfrom a single-parent home. Her mother has sofa r not come to apologize or speak on her child's behalf. The White girlsparents have been in constant touch with the school. Their daughter is one o fthe school's best athletes and has won several awards. Both have taken time awayfrom their busy lives to have aface-to-face meet­ ing with the schoolprincipal.Mrs Allison, the principal\ said\ “We deeply regret any distress that this may have caused thefamily. This is a well-integrated school\ and we do not believe this was a racial issue. Our students are o f many different colours. They work and play side by side every day. There have been no racial tensions thusfar."Theparents maintain that the attack had everything to do with their child's skin colour. They are looking into takingpossible legal action against the school.102]]></page><page Index="103" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[At that moment I got my period and cramps at the same time. Mmamane Mabatho once told me that she had a friend who was so shocked when she heard about a death in the family that she got her period even though it was not due for another two weeks. So many questions were running through my mind, I could hardly focus on one at a time.Would they be forced to close the school?Would they ask all the Black girls to leave?Would there be reporters at the school when we arrived,asking me what I had heard?There had been nothing in the paper about what Beth hadactually said to me, and that bothered me more than anything else. Mmamane Malesedi looked at me and I knew what she was thinking. She was correct: it wasn’t right to tell only part ofthe story. I knew it wasn’t fair.The driver joined the conversation. “That child’s mother probably has ajob, like the rest ofus. She has to ask her White people for time off. What’s she going to say? What’s going to be her reason?”“Ee. Yes. You’ll probably find that the White girl’s mother doesn’t work and the husband is self-employed. Of course they’ve had time to go to the school.”wAg,”the passenger with the newspaper folded it and put it on her lap. “Mathata”Problems.“I suspect the White girl said or did something they don’t want the papers to know about.”“But why would they go to the paper if they didn’t want the truth to be known?”“Because they won’t print a Black girl’s story. Her mother can’t go to the paper and the school is sympathetic to the White girl - she is the one who was hurt,”concluded the eld­ erly woman before we got off at the taxi rank. Had it been polite for me to speak to a group of adults, I would have said103]]></page><page Index="104" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[that more than one person had been hurt.At school, anyone found reading that mornings edition ofthe paper was told to put it away.“Don’t read that in school time, please,”Mrs Allison said toone girl.Beth was not back in class. Mrs Tanner was the first teacherthat day, but she was late again, having been in an impromptu staff meeting.“Good morning, girls,” she said solemnly, as she came in. “Good morning, Mrs Tanner,”we said in unison. “Girls,”she started as she put down her pile ofbooks. “I’mafraid everyones quite upset downstairs”- meaning the staff room. “Beths parents are very angry about this whole thing.” Her voice was low, whispering as if telling us a secret. Still, she refrained from telling us exactly what had been said at the meeting between Beths parents and the principal. She brushed back her dyed red hair with the tips of her fingers. She looked out the window, checking if anyone was there and then lowered her voice even more. “I think the principal may be coming to speak with you sometime during this class.”Afraid and shaky, I bit my lower lip and looked down at my desk, trying to focus my thoughts. It was like sitting in your house knowing that the police were coming for you, terrified but aware there was nowhere to run. I remembered the times during the 1980s’ uprisings when the police had questioned my family and I had felt the same way. When I was younger I used to just climb the lemon tree and disappear, but as I got older the police wanted to ask me questions too, so I had to sit on the couch and wait with the aunts. You had to sit still and remember exactly what you saw and heard because when they got there you could not stutter or change your mind about what you could or could not remember.I took deep breaths and, avoiding everyone’s eyes, recalled to myself the scene on the netball court step by step. When104]]></page><page Index="105" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[the principal came, I would be prepared to give my statement. Yes, I had been there. Yes, I had been playing. I did acciden­ tally bump into Beth. Our heads did knock against each other. We were both a bit dizzy. Yes, I was right behind her when she said it. No, not “it”, she had said “kaffir”. No, she did not say it to my face, but she was referring to me.Worries about my accent alternately faded and resurfaced, depending on whether or not I imagined speaking in front of my whole class. It was possible that Mrs Allison would take me outside and question me. I nodded at my desk, telling myselfI was prepared. Girls whispered all around me. Would there have to be a statement from the whole class? Would Veronica be asked back to the principals office? Would the netball teacher speak to the newspaper?Veronica did not say anything. I turned to see a note being passed to her from Marianne. I looked as Veronica unfolded the piece ofpaper and put it on her desk so that I could read it too. “Is your mom coming?”the note asked. Without think­ ing about it, she took her pen and wrote “NO”. She re-traced the pen over the letters to make them look bolder and then sent it back through the same chain of girls until it reached Marianne. Marianne opened it, read it, then looked at Veronica and moved her lips, “Why?”Veronica took another piece of paper and wrote “SHE WORKS!!!!”She sent the note back. Just at that moment, the principal entered the classroom.“Good morning, Mrs Tanner, I just wanted to have a word with the Standard Sixes for a moment, please.”I was still taking deep breaths, ready to speak when my turn came.“Ofcourse,”said Mrs Tanner and sat down at her desk. The principal glanced at her as if she might ask her to leave but apparently decided against it. Trish once said that while the105]]></page><page Index="106" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[students thought ofMrs Tanner as a confidante, to the teach­ ers she was just a gossip.Mrs Allison began, “I just wanted to say that we are all very shocked and upset about what happened in this class. I don’t know what happened on the netball court, but I do know that a student was attacked and hurt on school grounds. Now, this is not the type ofbehaviour we are willing to tolerate.”She paused and looked at our side ofthe class.“Whatever manners you learn at home or on the streets, please leave them at the gate when you enter school premises. We cannot allow something like this to happen here. We all work very hard to teach good manners. Some of you have been here long enough to know better.”She paused again. This time she was looking out the win­ dow.“I’m sure youVe read in the paper that we have a situation on our hands. Elizabeths parents are very upset (she took a deep breath) about what happened and want us to take steps to ensure that this sort ofthing never happens again. IVe been getting phone calls all morning from concerned parents ask­ ing whats going on, and are their children safe? IVe had to assure everyone that this was a big misunderstanding - just a girl who let her temper get the best ofher.”She put her hands together and looked at the ground for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. “Now, I’m here as your principal and someone who wants to help before this whole thing gets even more out ofhand. I’d like to know what hap­ pened two days ago on the netball court, starting from the beginning. Were you all there?”We all nodded and said, “Yes.”“Now, who can tell me the whole story?”No one volunteered. Mrs Allison looked around and madea choice.“Patricia? Would you like to tell me what happened?”106]]></page><page Index="107" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[Trish cleared her throat. I had never seen her nervous before that moment. She looked to Veronica as if for approval and then began, “Miss, we were playing, um, practising for the match with Williams. I think Tshidiso was trying to catch the ball but when she turned around she bumped into Beth, and then I saw Beth turn around and walk away. Miss, she looked very angry. So then I think she said something - I was too far away to hear what she said, but Tshidiso said she said the racist wordThe principal interrupted her, “Just tell me what you saw and heard, not what someone else heard, please. Go on.”“Well, then Veronica slapped Beth and the netball teacher came between them. Then Beth started to cry.”Trish shrugged and lifted her hand, palm up, to say “thats all I know”. No one else said anything.Mrs Allison turned to me, “Tshidiso, what did you see?”I told the story, cringing all the while at the sound of my accent but going on anyway. Then in the end instead of say­ ing “the word”, or “it”, I paused and inhaled, then said - loud enough for the class to hear - “Beth said “kaffir” to me. She said “kaffir” and thats when Veronica slapped her.”The principal’s face stiffened and her ears turned red. No one moved or said anything.“Well,”she said finally. “Well, thank you, Mrs Tanner. I will take this back to the rest of the staff. Veronica, can I see you in my office, please? Thank you, girls. Good morning.”“Good morning, Mrs Allison.”We said it, as always, in uni­ son. Veronica stood up to follow the principal.When Veronica came back, she was sobbing. She packed her desk, took her schoolbag and left. We were in the middle ofa lesson and were not allowed to speak, so none ofus could ask what was going on.107]]></page><page Index="108" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[twelveThat evening while I sat on the sofa watching the English news, my knees up to my chest, I heard a loud knock at the back door. Since no one ever came to visit, the knock startled me. Mmamane Mabatho opened the door. There, on our doorstep, with a pen and a notebook in one hand and a tape recorder in the other, stood Tihelo Masimo, waiting to be let in. I’m not sure what made me gasp - her stunning face, partly covered by a large mop ofbig curls, or what she was carrying.Tihelo s beauty was a combination of her bright and gentle face and the ease with which she carried herself. Looking at her made me more aware ofhow I looked, my straight hair brushed back, my face - as I saw it - plain and far from stunning.Mmamane Mabatho stepped out of the way for Tihelo. “Ao,Tihelo,”she said.“Mmabatho,”Tihelo greeted and walked in slowly, politely. Although they were not friends, they had gone to school together.“Le kae? How are you?” she asked my aunt and me. Mmamane Mabatho answered, pointing to the dining room.“Tsena, come in,”she offered, and Tihelo accepted the invi­ tation by walking towards the dining room. She looked me in the eye with every step she took.“Tshidi, I came to see you, actually.” She said it like she was asking if it was all right for her to be there. I seemed to have lost my voice, but I nodded quickly as she passed me and fol­ lowed her into the dining room. Mmamane Mabatho fol­ lowed us. I was grateful that the other two aunts were not108]]></page><page Index="109" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[there. I might never have got a chance to say anything if they had been.Mmamane Mabatho offered Tihelo tea and then turned to me saying, “Please put a kettle on the stove.”I left the room bitterly. It was me she had come to see, not my aunt!In the kitchen, I brushed my hair some more and looked at my clothes, regretting that I was still wearing my school socks and shoes. I listened to their conversation from the kitchen. Tihelo was there to speak with me about what was going on in my school. She was working for the Sowetan and the paper thought that it was important that they report the other side ofthe story.She knew that I had heard everything when I came back in with the tea tray. “You know the other girl, akere? I did a little research, and someone told me that you had heard the other girl - Elizabeth, net - you heard her say ... (she looked at her notes) kaffir?”Just like that. She didnt pause or flinch before saying the word. She looked straight into my eyes like she had just said “girl” or some equally inane word, and waited for my answer, her pen on her notebook. I swallowed hard, looked at my aunt and nodded.“IVe been following the story since the other papers are also onto it. But of course no one has said anything about what really happened. To me, the story sounds incomplete. I just want to hear what you know.”“Did you speak to the other girl, Veronica?” Mmamane Mabatho asked her.I saw then that Mmamane Mabatho was staring at Tihelo the way I had been. Tihelo looked back at her, as if she thought Mmamane Mabatho looked as beautiful as we thought Tihelo did. Without looking away, Tihelo smiled and answered, “Yes. I spoke to her and her mother.”109]]></page><page Index="110" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“Is her mother going to the school to talk to the teachers?” my aunt asked.“The mother called the school and spoke to the principal.” She stopped and shook her head at the notebook. “I have their story, I just need to hear yours.”“We were at netball practice,” I started. I told my story slowly, not feeling uneasy at all. I did not have to hope that she would believe me, as I had to when I told the teachers and the principal. I did not have to worry about my English accent. This time my voice was steady and slow. For the first time, I wanted to tell everything - not because my aunts had told me to or because my classmates had asked me to. I could still see Veronica packing her bags, sobbing.Beth had obviously told her parents a different version. Maybe she had said that we did not hear right, that she had uttered something different and Veronica thought she heard something else.Tihelo asked me what the teachers’ reactions had been. She asked for details that I had never thought of as significant, like, “Did the teachers ask Veronica to tell her story in front ofthe class? Did the principal have you in her office with the two girls?” I answered without hesitating as the tape rolled and Tihelo scribbled in her notebook.When I had finished recounting it all, Tihelo pressed a but­ ton, stopped the tape recording, and we were all silent for a moment. Tihelo smiled up at me and said, “I like to write and record at the same time. Its a habit from a time when tapes could be confiscated.” She and Mmamane Mabatho looked at each other knowingly. I knew that Tihelo had been a comrade and that Mmamane Mabatho had been involved in riots at the same time.I asked if - as it was Friday - the story would be in the paper on Monday. Tihelo put everything on the table in front of her and replied, “Definitely. That’s what were aiming for.”110]]></page><page Index="111" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[She took a sip of her now-cold tea and thanked me several times for speaking with her.Tihelo was only about four years younger than Mmamane Mabatho but she spoke to me as ifwe were the same age. It made me want to sit with them longer, sip tea and discuss life and everything else. But it was rude to stay when adults were talking, and I knew they wanted me to leave the room. So I went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. In the next room, the two of them were talking in whispers but laughing out loud.I spent Saturday doing school work, just so I could focus on something different. I did homework that was only meant to be handed in on Wednesday. Mma Motseis gospel music came through her front windows like a raging wind. I had no idea why, but I thought the volume was louder than usual. They were songs I had heard so many times that I now found myself humming and singing along as I answered questions about glaciers from my geography textbook.On Sunday, I climbed the lemon tree, lay my back against its trunk and watched people go by. Neighbours stood on each side oftheir fences, discussing children, husbands, wives, work and neighbours. I sawTihelo’s mother and sister sitting and talking on their stoep and wondered ifTihelo was away work­ ing on our story. I heard young people my age walking and talking past our house - but because I was hiding, I could not see who they were. Like everyone else in the township, they were talking really loudly. I heard my name being mentioned. “She hit someone? Tshidiso or the other girl?”“I think Tshidiso.”“Iyol Its no surprise, being raised in that house ...”Their voices trailed off as they moved farther and farther away.So we were still the shameful women of 4 Mabele Street. Not a lot had changed after all, although some people waved and walked on our side of the street - some even stopped to111]]></page><page Index="112" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[speak to Mmamane Mabatho or Mmamane Malebone for a minute or two. People still believed the worst ofus. IfI had to leave school because ofwhat I said in the paper, I thought, I’d have to go back to a school where people saw me in that same old way. It made my heart heavy.112]]></page><page Index="113" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[th irteenWe did not usually have assembly on Mondays, but the teach­ ers said that this one was urgent. I had read the Sowetan early in the morning, as Tihelo had come and left one at our doorstep.CATHOLIC SCHOOL GIRL CALLS BLACK GIRL “KAFFIR”I had gasped at the bold headline, the audacity of it. It seemed frightening that this was what the teachers and the principal would be reading. Hardly anyone at the school had said the word at all, none ofthe teachers had wanted to even hear that part of the story, and now the terrible word would be daring them to stare back and acknowledge it.Mmamane Malesedi had nodded at the headline and said, “Tihelo is the only person I would trust to tell this story well.” Malebone and Mabatho just looked at each other and shrugged, anxious to see what people would say.In the letters-to-the-editor section of the White paper, there was a whole discussion headed “Opening our schools to non-Whites”. Most letter-writers held the opinion that it was “just not time”, that “the country was not ready” and that “we shouldn’t create problems when our country’s future’s looking dim as it is”. The opinion that prevailed was that “if these people don’t teach their children manners, then our children are just not safe in multiracial schools”.The Black talk-radio stations spent Monday morning answering the radio presenter’s question, was it justified for the Black girl to slap the White girl? And was it right to send113]]></page><page Index="114" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[the Black girl home? Most listeners said nothing justified vio­ lence. However, they also maintained there should be some sort of disciplinary measure taken against the White girl for saying something so offensive.In the Sowetan, a columnist headed her column, “Have you ever been called ‘Kaffir?” In it, she stated clearly that she did not condone any kind of violence: “Let me just say that it is neverjustified to hit someone in anyway”, but that she did not support abuse either. “And uttering racist slurs is a form of abuse. I’d like to know - and every South African should ask - how the school plans to deal with that.”At school, everyone was absorbed in the story, taking in every word and discussing their thoughts every time they had the chance.“We are here in this assembly today to discuss a few school rules,” Mrs Allison started in her high-pitched voice, her cheeks in flames.“First, while you’re all free to do whatever you please off school grounds, you may not take information about the school to the newspapers without the schools permission. Tm sure you are all aware of a crisis we have recently had on our hands (she looked up and squinted at the sun and inhaled as if taking in something from the air), and there are many jour­ nalists out there waiting to take advantage of you. You’re young and unsuspecting. And it’s understandable that youwould like to see your name or be quoted in the paper. These people would like you to tell them things about our school so that they can look at us and say ‘this does not work’. They can point to us and disregard all the positive changes we’ve made in the past little while ...”She paused for us to take in her words. She clasped and un­ clasped her hands and then put one hand on her chest while making a fist with the other. “They want to say that people of different colours coming together does not work. Some of us114]]></page><page Index="115" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[have been together for years without this kind ofproblem. We have proven that it works, now lets prove to the rest of the world that it does. Lets show them what we know.”Mrs Allison looked at Sister Cecilia, who was standing at her side looking at us seriously.“The other thing,”Mrs Allison continued, “is that you are all - and I know we keep stressing this, but some people dont seem to listen - you are all in an English Medium school. Please speak English! Especially the Black girls. This is not a township school. You cannot speak your languages here.” She paused and started to say something but she seemed so overwhelmed that she only sighed heavily and wiped her eyebrows. I remembered the Portuguese girls speaking Portuguese in class and when they were sitting together at lunchtime.“We are all here for the same reasons,”added Sister Cecilia. “We want to provide education, knowledge, and that means education without prejudice. As Mrs Allison said, let us prove to the world that we can succeed at this. We have set an exam­ ple; let us continue to do so.” She paused and looked from one end of the lines of pupils to the other. Taking a deep breath, she added, “Girls, what you dont understand - and what you may not be able to understand because ofyour age - is that we are living in a time of making amends. Truces. Rightingwrongs. The past has been difficult and unfair for most of us, but that is no reason to take out anger on other people. This is a time offorgiveness. Forgive and forget - thats what the Bible teaches us.” She stopped and looked down at her hands, and then she nodded to herself. “Thank you, girls.”We said the Lords Prayer and were then sent back to class. As we walked, I approached KB and walked alongside her.“Did you read the SowetanT I was anxious to hear her opinion. I was ready to tell her how I now felt that we should tell the whole story and let people hear everything.115]]></page><page Index="116" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“No,”she said. “My parents only get the city paper.”“Well, I told Tihelo, this woman who writes for the Sowetan, that I heard Beth call Veronica a kaffir.”My saying the word surprised both ofus. It gave me chills and I did not like it, but I had got tired of dancing around it along with everyone else. KB was so shocked that she looked at me for a moment, incredulous. Neither one ofus said any­ thing as we walked. I wanted to know what she thought. I wanted to talk to someone about the article, someone who was a little removed from the situation.When we reached the classroom, she shrugged and shook her head. “Anyway, I’m not going to be here for long.”“You’re leaving?” I asked.“Yup. My parents are transferring me to St Andrews. My dad says there are too many Blacks here anyway, that’s why the school’s having all these problems.”St Andrew’s was where her friends Sumaya and Brittany went. It was an extremely expensive school. I was not sur­ prised at her father’s reasoning. Many wealthy Black people had made that comment about the Catholic schools. Because they were cheaper than the other private schools, they had a lot more lower middle-class Black students.I wondered what she meant by “not for long”. I didn’t imag­ ine that she would leave mid-term. I started wondering if we would spend any more time together. The strange thing was that the thought of more time with KB suddenly felt less exciting than it did before.On Sunday, the aunts gave in to my request that we go to church again. Mmamane Malesedi stayed at home and said that she would cook while we were out. I think that she was least able or willing to take the stares.We sat in the back as we had the last time and hummed along when they sang. The priest’s sermon was about forgive­ ness. “And Jesus said: forgive them Father for they know not116]]></page><page Index="117" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[what they do.” He repeated this at different points in his ser­ mon. As he had done the last time, he started with Jesus and the Bible, and then made obscure statements such as “in the papers these days, we see stories about events, incidents that happen and lead to crises, all because of anger and peoples inability to forgive”.But who was supposed to forgive who for what first? Was Beth to forgive me for my clumsiness, Veronica and I to for­ give Beth for her offensive word, or Beths parents and the teachers to forgive Veronica for her slap? I thought about the situation and played it back in my mind, asking what could have happened to stop the chain of reactions that followed. I went back to the sports teacher’s nervousness and how anxious it made everyone, but then I started going further, thinking that perhaps Beth shouldn’t love sport so much or imagining that if none of us knew the meaning of the word “kaffir” we would all be better off. Thats when I gave up.Neither Beth nor Veronica was back in class that Monday. When Mrs Tanner came in for Religious Studies, she was also solemn, but instead oftalking about the Sowetan story, she went straight to her lesson. I was so uneasy and afraid that day, and I could feel a chill from every teacher who walked in. They were all angry and nervous for different reasons. The teachers hated seeing the school’s name in the papers and hearing people say unfavourable things about their place of work. Some teachers, according to rumours, were already sending out their CVs, looking for different jobs. Now that Veronica and Beth were out ofthe school and the article in the Sowetan mentioned my name, I felt like the person on whom they were venting their frustrations. I could already see myselfbeing asked to leave the school at the end ofthat day, and going back to a township school.The Sowetan had mentioned that Veronica was “asked to leave until such time as the school called her back” and at the117]]></page><page Index="118" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[same time it reported that the principal had pleaded with Beths parents to bring her back. Rumour had it that the school had not made any attempt to communicate with Veronicas family.“I spoke to Vies last night,”Trish told me in class. “She says she doesn’t see herself coming back until after Easter break - if at all. Her mom called the school and they told her what Vies had done was unacceptable. She says Mrs Allison was quite rude on the phone.”“What do you think will happen?”I asked Trish, hoping for reassurance.“I don’t think anyone knows. Mrs Allison is probably inter­ viewing for other jobs right now. Do you know that Williams cancelled?”“We’re not playing them any more?”I was not completely surprised. I had already heard that another school had can­ celled a tennis match with the younger students, saying parents had asked that they not play with us.“And,” Trish continued, “netball’s been cancelled for the rest ofthe season.”While the whole country debated the topic, we continued to attend to school as before. “Who should be punished for this?”was the question most people liked to ask on the radio and in the newspapers.Every morning I prayed for just two things: first, I would be allowed to stay the whole of that school day and, second, that Veronica and Beth would soon be back at school. I thought that if they let me stay then that would prove that my part in the incident was insignificant.Had I done anything wrong? Before speaking to Tihelo, I had insisted that I had only heard something and I had done nothing. After I spoke to her, I maintained that what I had heard needed to be told and whatever people did with it was not for me to decide. Now I felt helpless.118]]></page><page Index="119" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[One night I phoned Veronica but I had nothing to say, really, and neither did she. When I asked her what her mother had said she took a deep breath and then said, “What could she say?”Veronica said that she was tired and cut the conversation short.I asked my mother what she thought would happen. “They’ll decide soon, I’m sure,” she said.“Do you think they’ll come back?”“The girls?” She sat back in the kitchen chair and looked atthe window as if it held the answer.“I think they’ll let the White girl come back, but Veronica?I don’t think so. I think they are under a lot ofpressure from the parents, and the White parents are in the majority.”I thought about KB leaving and her parents choosing to have nothing to do with this.I said to my mother, “The Sowetan has had stories on this, so a lot of Black people are angry. They could put pressure on the school to do something. Don’t you think that you and other people should talk to the school and have them bring back the two girls?”She leant forward to look me in the eye. “Tshidi, remember a few months ago when Mandela came out ofprison?”I nod­ ded and she took a deep breath and I knew that she was about to explain something crucial. “A lot ofWhite people were angry because they said that a criminal and terrorist was being released. They still insist that we should release people like Strydom, that maniac who randomly shot and killed a lot of Black people.”“It’s not the same,”I said, confused. “This is only a school. That’s the whole country!”“What’s offensive to you is not always offensive to me. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”“But it doesn’t matter. The school wants peace. Everyone does. They’re always saying, ‘This is the new dawn. This is the119]]></page><page Index="120" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[season for change/ Its also a season for mending fences, isn’t it? Why cant they just let it go?”She shook her head and raised her hand for me to stop. “Change is difficult for everyone, especially change that peo­ ple feel they cant control. But this is something people feel they can control. They can make phone calls and write letters and they are giving money to the school, so ... Its not the whole country, but it’s not only about this one school.”“But Black people can go to the school and protest, cant they?”“Tshidiso, when people first moved from the townships to the suburbs there was a story about some people being attacked by their White neighbours and being forced to move back. People could have protested, but thats not the first thing on' most peoples minds. Not to say they were not angry, because we all were. You know, people want homes instead of living in shacks, but they are not about to go and march so that someone can go and live in a bigger house. In any case, we could say whatever we want but the school will look at the people they have known the longest. Black people have just got there ... I don’t know. This is a hard one.”“You really don’t think Veronica will come back?”“I don’t know, but I doubt it,”she said, holding my hand. “I think the other girl has a better chance.”“The school claims to be so proud ofbeing the first school to let Black people in - and Veronica was in the first group of Black people to go there - I think they should want her to stay, maybe just for that.”My mother shook her head, doubtful. She usually calmed me down and made me believe that nothing was as bad as it seemed. Mmamane Malesedi was the one who never said any­ thing positive, so my mother’s negative attitude worried me even more. She was not helping. “Ifpeople can say the school is unsafe because their children could get attacked by this one girl ...”She bit her lip.120]]></page><page Index="121" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[I stood up and started washing the dishes, not interested in hearing more from my mother.“Your father is coming this weekend,” she told me, her voice sounding more cheerful now. I looked forward to my fathers visits. Hearing more about his world was always a nice change from my everyday routine. I was fascinated by his sto­ ries of men and women who worked far from home. They always took me away from Bofelong and into the back rooms and hostels ofGauteng.I felt grateful to have something to look forward to.“Tshidiso,” my mothers depressing tone had returned. “Do you think Veronica should be allowed to come back? After what she did?”I stopped. The aunts rarely asked my opinion on any important topic. I turned around and faced her.“I think they should both come back. I think they should get detention or whatever kind of punishment, but I think they should both be allowed to come back. If they re punish­ ing Veronica for slapping Beth, why aren’t they punishing Beth for swearing at Veronica?”“It s not the same offence to the school. This is what I keep telling you.”I returned to my chair. How exhausting I found this! “Dont you think they should come back?”“Ofcourse. They,ll never learn anything this way. The par­ents should stay out of it, really.” I remembered just then how the aunts never stayed out of my other school when I had come home with bruises from being beaten.“Would you go to the school if Veronica had slapped me?” I asked her.“No. Only if the teacher had slapped you.”“I don’t want to be asked to leave,” I said to her slowly, watching her reaction.“That will never happen,” she said.121]]></page><page Index="122" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“How do you know? I could be expelled.” M y heart beat faster as I waited for an answer.“You didn’t do anything wrong. And we put everything into this. We wouldn’t let it happen.” She sounded so sure of her­ selfthat I instantly felt a little bit better.122]]></page><page Index="123" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[fou rteenAnother week went by. The media quieted down. The schools focus seemed to shift to homework and other, less distressing problems such as who would sing what song at the end-of- the-month Mass. I did not call Veronica again but Trish spoke to her more and more and said that she did nothing but watch TV all day. Her mother had still not come to the school but had written a letter to the principal asking her to allow Veronica to come back. No one heard any more on Beths fathers threat to contact a lawyer.The waiting was excruciating.Then one day, Tihelo came to visit again, asking me if any­ thing had changed at the school. She seemed as interested and engaged as she had been the first time. I told her that we had fewer sports matches with other schools. And that the teach­ ers’ anger seemed to have dispersed. The biggest change was that a lot ofWhite girls were leaving the school.aWe are writing a letter,”she told me. “I don’t know why we didn’t do it before. I think we were hoping that, after the art­ icles in the papers, the school would call the students back. I know they’re hearing a lot from the angry parents.”aThe girls have been out of school for so long,” I told her. “They’ve both missed so much school work, and I hear that Veronica has done nothing but watch TV at home. I don’t know about Beth.”“We’re writing a letter to let the school know that this is not in line with their commitment to desegregation.”“Who is writing the letter?”123]]></page><page Index="124" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[“I am. On behalf of the paper.”True to her word, Tihelo wrote the letter. She even came to our house to read it to me.I felt like she was treating me like someone her own age. She wanted me to let her know what I thought and if she needed to add or change anything. I took the opportunity to say that she should praise the school a little more because from what I had observed they valued the medias approval. “You should have seen how they were about the new head girl,” I told her. Tihelo listened to me, taking notes and shar­ ing some ofher ideas.Two weeks later, mid-term, KB moved to St Andrews. Veronica was allowed back after Beths parents enrolled her in another school, which had not yet desegregated. White girls continued to leave the school, and the make-up of our class changed a lot.One day in class, Marianne said something about how she had seen Beth at a hockey match oyer the weekend. Mrs Tanner overheard her and asked, “How is Beth?”Marianne said, “Shes fine, still an excellent hockey player.”Tamz said, “And a netball player?” Everyone laughed nerv­ ously.Mrs Tanner resumed the lesson. The teachers never said that it had been unfair to suspend Veronica. Even in our class, opinion on that was divided.After a while we shoved the memory ofthe incident on the netball court to the back of our minds. It was not a distant memory, only one we wished to ignore.Mma Motsei spoke to the Masemola sisters regularly now ... while they still kept to themselves and never went into otherpeople's houses, they greeted others andfelt more a part o fthe neighbour-124]]></page><page Index="125" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[hood. Every once in a while, a woman would stop one o fthem on the street and ask how Tshidiso was doing at the White school and how they could send their children there.When their child no longer spent all her days in the lemon tree and they were seen in church, it looked like the neighbours were finally beginning to rest their minds about the goings-on at 4Mabele Street.I wait for my father, sitting on our stoep, thinking about all the questions I will ask him. I anticipate the thrill of him telling me stories that will take me to the place where he lives. On Radio Metro, Brenda Fassie is singing “Life is Going On”, it s such a classic. She reminds me of the times I used to sit on the floor while my mother braided my hair. Now I brush back my straight and oily relaxer. It has been four years since I first started at Ascension Convent. You would not believe that it was segregated at any time if you saw it now. There are classes now that have more Indian, Black and Coloured girls than White girls.Soon we will be having South Africa’s first democratic elec­ tions. Again there is a feeling ofuncertainty in the air. In the townships, people predict overnight changes while in town they warn of more riots, more calamities.“Civil war,”the White people are still saying, but “freedom” is what they say in the townships.I live in both worlds. Sometimes I bring a bit ofone world to the other, which heightens peoples excitement or fear depending on who I’m speaking to. IfI tell the aunts that peo­ ple in town say Blacks will revolt, it makes them that much more hopeful, because it means they are not the only ones anticipating change. And if I tell some teachers about what they are saying in the township, it intensifies their worry.125]]></page><page Index="126" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[There is a lot I have spent the past few years trying to for­ get. Sometimes when private schools come together, I see KB and some of her friends and we both look away and pretend not to see each other. I would just as soon forget the Tshidi who so desperately wanted to be liked by someone like her - I look for friends in different places these days. I've learnt to identify people I can depend on when things fall apart.I've held on to some ofwho I was then - I don't think I would have been made a prefect if I wasn't still pretending to be Catholic. My aunts have not set foot in church since my first year at Ascension and I only go to Mass at school, but as far as everyone knows, I'm Catholic - it counts for a lot here. Sometimes the nuns make comments like, “It’s not the Catholic girls who have no respect for our school - its the other girls.”I still hate to be an outsider. But I dont watch my neigh­ bours’ lives from the lemon tree or anywhere else now. When I pass people, I politely greet and chat with them for a minute or two. I still know all the gossip, the difference is that now I know it from talking to people and asking questions. The aunts still stay within the boundaries of our home, but people look at them differently. Our house is known as Gabo Tshidiso - Tshidisos home - instead ofKo Baloing,.The incident on the netball court is told sometimes to new students like it is an urban legend, a story that happened in the distant past. No one attaches names to it. It is only about “these two girls, one Black and one White”.Those ofus who were there cringe as we hear the many different versions of it circulating in the playground. We like to pretend that it really was many, many years ago.Just last week, I was walking behind two girls who were leaving netball practice. One ofthem said, “You know, I heard that years ago (she put an emphasis on “years”) these two girls got suspended . . . ” I listened to her tell the story with so many126]]></page><page Index="127" isMAC="true"><![CDATA[of the details changed that I started to wonder if she was speaking of something that had happened at a different school. But, at one point, she stopped to whisper, “You know, the K word.” I noticed that I had been holding my breath and that I was relieved that she didnt pronounce it.127]]></page></pages></Search>