Afrika (3 page)

S
ure enough, the next morning Kim woke up with a throat as sore as when she was a little girl with tonsillitis. Riana told her to stay in the top bunk and sleep while she researched stories to send back to the News Director at her radio station. But Riana had trouble coping with Kim's cold and the demands of the new job. Before the morning was finished, and despite the fact that she had declared numerous times that she would not be a white madam with a maid, Riana rushed into the garden to enlist Lettie's help.

Kim heard them approach.“Kim, this is Lettie,” said Riana. Kim turned her throbbing head to see a stout black woman moving toward her bed.

Lettie wore a navy beret and navy sweater over a white uniform. She stood beside the bunk bed and peered up at Kim for a long time.“Shame, you must drink,” she said as she raised an eyebrow. Lettie wore slippers and they made flip-flop noises as she crossed the wooden floor. “You better drink right now.”

“Fine,” moaned Kim as she rolled her head from one side of the pillow to the other.

Lettie set to work. She made bowls of sweetened tea and placed them near Kim's bed. Kim slurped the syrupy tea, dark as the earth, and made the best of her illness. She was in no hurry to leave her top bunk. As far as she was concerned, it was summer, and she should not be in school at all. Kim was going to have that argument again with Riana as soon as she felt better.

For two days Riana was gone most of the time and Lettie cared for Kim. When Kim felt better, she propped herself up in bed and Lettie sat in the chair by the window with crochet wool and a silver hook in her hands.

“So, when will you get up for school?” Lettie asked, as she moved her heavy body in the chair. “Tomorrow?”

“Nope,” said Kim.“I'm not going to school.”

“Aai, aai, Kim, you must not hate school.”

“I don't hate school, but I'm sick.”

“So, then, should we say a prayer?” Lettie asked.

“It's okay,” said Kim. “But thanks, anyway.”

Lettie explained that she was now a believing Xhosa woman. She no longer believed in witch doctors, or
tokoloshes
, but in the words of her minister.

“What's a tokolo-e?” asked Kim.

“Tok – o – loshe,” Lettie said the word slowly. “He has a hairy body and a baboon-like face and hides under the bed at night.” Lettie told Kim that when she was a child, many African women she knew in rural areas slept with their beds on high bricks to avoid these dwarf-like wizards. “My two children convinced me to stop fearing tokoloshes or taking herbal potions from the
sangoma –
witch doctor.” Lettie laughed. “I'm now a modern mama.”

“Where is your son?” Kim asked.“Why doesn't he come inside?”

“He's not here today. He stays in the township with his sister and grandfather on weekends. Nearby where the soccer field is located. They don't have permission to play on that field but men and boys do so anyway,” she added as she raised her eyebrows.

It was impossible for Kim to judge Lettie's age. She seemed older than Riana. Lettie was slow and capable like a grandmother, whereas Riana was quick and active like a teenager. Lettie was very neat and Riana was quite a slob. Lettie's smile warmed the room while Riana's anxiety could freeze the air around you in seconds. Kim could have stayed at home forever with Lettie, but two mornings later, Riana called the new school and told them to expect Kim.

“Not fair. This is my summer holiday,” argued Kim. To Kim's horror, Riana produced a new school uniform, a green skirt and blazer along with a stiff yellow blouse, and made her put it on. In Canada, she wore what she liked to school.

“Think of what an enriching experience it will be to go to a foreign school,” Riana said, as they climbed into the car that Oom Piet had arranged for them.

Before Kim knew it they were in front of the iron gates of the school. “I'm still sick,” said Kim. “I'm really not much better.”

“You are,” stated Riana.“And I'm late for work.”

Whenever Riana went out to work, she replaced her cloth slingbag with a battered old brown-red leather bag. Now it was sprawled open on the seat beside Kim. It smelled of smoke-filled rooms and Riana's tangy musk. Whenever Kim tried to point out the slick new briefcases in stylish store windows, her mother would say, “I like this old thing. It's me.”

“If I'm not here after school then Lettie will fetch you,” Riana said, getting out of the car.

Kim pulled a face. “I can walk home,” she insisted. “I have a key.”

“It's not safe, darling. Seriously. Lettie will fetch you.”

“Lettie doesn't drive.”

“She will come for you on foot,” Riana said as her cell phone sang its silly jingle.

“I thought you didn't want to be a white madam with a maid,” Kim said. “I thought you had principles about it.”

Riana sighed and jammed the phone to her ear. Kim remained in the car and fumbled in her blazer pocket for her Smarties. She gobbled them down. What amazed Kim was this: back home, her disorganized, untidy mother never had a nanny or a cleaning lady, much less a full-time maid. After recovering from the initial shock of seeing Lettie, Riana appeared to enjoy giving her instructions on what to cook, how to wash something, and when to pick up Kim. Even though they appeared friendly at the same time, Kim noticed a distance between them. “White madame with a maid” was a side of her mother that Kim had never witnessed before.

The phone call ended. “I have to leave,” Riana said, as she flagged down a teacher who happened to be passing. “Sorry. It's my daughter's first day. Could you show her to the office?” she asked the gray-haired teacher.

“Of course,” the woman said as she gave Riana a thorough once-over. “Come now. The bell will ring soon.”

Reluctantly, Kim got out of the car. Kim knew what the teacher was seeing. Riana wore a frayed
man's shirt and striped pants that tied at the ankles. Just before the car spun off, Kim resisted the urge to tell her mother that she couldn't go off dressed like that.

Kim followed the teacher beside a green manicured lawn. The school was surrounded by thick, whitewashed walls and iron railings. Ivy swirled around two thick pillars that flanked the entrance. Kim, uncomfortable in her unfamiliar school uniform, despised wearing a skirt, but she did enjoy wearing a tie.

“What school are you transferring from?” the teacher asked, looking Kim over. Her accent was clipped and formal, different from Oom Piet's.

“I'm from Canada.” When she spoke her mouth was thick with chocolate.

“Canada?” The teacher's gray brows lifted. “Why are you in South Africa?”

“My mother is a journalist,” Kim explained. “She's covering the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.” The teacher stared back from behind her glasses.

They arrived at the main office as the bell rang. The teacher tried to determine where Kim belonged. Two secretaries were chatting about a mid-day burglary in one of their apartments.

“No, really, they took everything. Even the milk in the fridge,” said the brunette.

“Jeez,” her blonde friend replied. “What are you going to do?”

“Get a watchdog, man.”

“Or a gun. I got one.”

“Or both. I mean it.”

They finally tore themselves away to come to Kim's end of the counter. No students were left in the hall. No doubt whatsoever, Kim would be brought in late and all eyes would be glued on her.

“Room 20,” announced the blonde secretary. “Miss Phillips' class.” She had fragile, almost blue-white skin and Kim had trouble imagining her carrying a gun around, let alone shooting it.

The teacher led Kim down the empty hall and knocked on the first door to the right. “Prudy, this is Kim van der Merwe,” she said, when Miss Phillips opened the door. “She's Canadian. Apparently her mother is here to cover the TRC.”

Both women exchanged a look. It was impossible for Kim to figure out what the glance meant. She remembered how her uncle had warned them that some people did not support the commission and suddenly, Kim was sure that Miss Phillips disapproved of the commission and of her too. She wished she could turn around and escape. Her throat was still scratchy and she still had a cough. She longed for the peace of her top bunk bed.

Kim was shown to a desk halfway to the back. She sat down, opened her pencil case, and took out a pencil. Miss Phillips was still observing her. And so was everyone else. Kim rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, hoping there were no traces of chocolate there.

Kim peeled off her blazer and placed it on the seat beside her. As she did she turned and peered right into the almond-shaped eyes of a girl sitting behind her. The girl smiled politely. On the other side of Kim, three or four black students sat together. While Miss Phillips wrote on the board, Kim listened as they spoke softly in their language. Every once in a while an English word or phrase would stand out crystal clear. It was odd to hear familiar words bounce around in the middle of foreign sentences.

Then the worse thing that could happen happened. Instead of starting the lesson, Miss Phillips put down her piece of chalk and directed her eyes so they were drilling right through Kim.

“This is Kim van der Merwe,” she said as everyone turned to stare again. “Kim will be with us for three months. Her mother has come all the way from Canada to cover the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.” The teacher paused in front of Kim's desk. Kim's heart stopped for a second. What if Miss Phillips asked her a question that she couldn't answer?

Miss Phillips moved on and addressed the entire classroom. “An historical event is happening at this moment in our country. Who can explain what this commission is about?”

No one wanted to answer. Unfazed, Miss Phillips leaned forward and said: “We all understand what the word
truth
means. What does the word
reconciliation
mean?”

A dark-skinned boy near the front of the room shot up his hand. “Reconciliation means to forgive,” he answered and then gave himself a hero's smile. Kim knew the type.

“That's right, Jerry,” said Miss Phillips. “Do you understand why this commission was started and how it works?”

“It's about healing the past,” he fired back. “Before we can build a new country, we must look at the wrongs of apartheid.”

Apartheid.
It sounded different with his accent, but Kim knew the word. She remembered when she was much younger, perhaps five or six, Riana had first told her about it. “How does it work?” Kim had asked noticing the little word
apart
tucked into the larger word. “It means totally separating black and white people,” said Riana. “It means forbidding black people to swim in the same swimming pools as white people.” She went on to explain that a black nanny could go to the pool or the beach to look
after a white child, but the nanny was not allowed in the water. “What if she went into the water?” Kim had asked. “It was against the law,” Riana replied. “She would get into serious trouble.” Even at a young age, Kim had been shocked by this injustice.

Kim noticed that Miss Phillips was smiling at Jerry. He spoke as if he had memorized the answer from a book. It was the sort of answer that teachers like, and Miss Phillips was no exception.

“Thank you, Jerry,” she said.“Many people will come forward to tell their stories to the commission. Some of the people will be victims. Others will be perpetrators – those who carried out the wrongdoings. The commission will listen to all the people and check out all the stories.”

Kim scribbled in her notebook. The heat was off and she began to relax. Miss Phillips had called the commission historical. Suddenly Kim was proud of her mother.

A white boy across the room waved his hand. Alarmed, Kim glanced in his direction. His ears flapped open instead of lying flat against his skull.

“Yes, James,” Miss Phillips nodded.

James leaped to his feet. His jacket was draped over his shoulders and it swamped his short frame. “My dad says this commission is a waste of time. He says they should just get on with building a new country and not drag up the past and waste tax
payers' money doing so.” His large ears had become flushed with the effort it took to speak in public. He looked right at Kim and added, “My dad says that the foreign press uses our troubles for entertainment.”

James sat down. Kim stared down at her paper. Would Miss Phillips ask her to defend her mother in front of the entire classroom?

A tall black boy beside Kim put up his hand. He got to his feet to speak. “In 1990 my pa was taken away in the middle of the night in the back of a police van. We searched for months but never found him. My mother knows that the commission will not bring my father back, but maybe our questions will be answered.”

Kim looked at the boy. He had a distinct African accent, yet he spoke clearly. As he sat down, he noticed Kim staring at him. He returned the look, but his eyes were impossible to read. Were they cold or curious? Then Kim noticed the cover of his exercise book. On it he had scribbled
Afrika
over and over.

“Thank you, Themba,” Miss Phillips said as she began to hand out the assignment for the day.