Out of Bounds (5 page)

“Are you feeling sick?” Caroline asked. “I feel sick too! I was scared at school, weren’t you?”

When I didn’t reply, Caroline clapped her hands around her face.

“Oh no! Do you think the natives are still coming?”

I shook my head. I just felt miserable and wanted to be in my own home. Janey would find a way of making me feel better.

“What’ll we do if they come here? You won’t be able to go home, will you? We’ll have to ask my mom if you can stay the night!” Caroline’s face switched like a lightbulb—one second scared, the next excited.

She took out her new box of games.

“What shall we start with?”

I let her choose. I couldn’t concentrate and let her Ludo counters gobble mine up. Then in draughts all her counters became kings and wiped me off the board. We ended by arguing.

“You’re not playing properly, Lily! It’s no fun if you don’t try.”

“I don’t feel well. I want to go home.”

“You’re mad! You heard what my mom said! The natives are dangerous! How come you don’t know?”

I kept quiet. Was she holding something back? Something she thought about my parents. The kind of things her parents thought. But she wasn’t saying it yet. I too didn’t want to fight over parents.

“I’ve got a headache,” I said dully. “Can I lie down?”

Caroline told her mom, and I was taken to the spare room. I must have dozed off because I was startled to find Mommy pressing my arm lightly, waking me up. Caroline and her mom stood in the doorway behind her. Everyone was stiffly polite as we left.

Before we even got to the car, I was telling Mommy about the panic in school. I wanted to tell her also about Caroline’s mom and how badly she had spoken to Janey. But she interrupted, putting both hands on my shoulders and looking straight at me.

“A very terrible thing happened today, Lily. Africans weren’t marching to Johannesburg at all. They were marching to a police station in the township—to protest about the passes that make
their lives a misery—that control where they must live, where they must work—everything. They were marching to the police to say, ‘Arrest us if you want to!’ But they never even got there.” Her voice was choked. Angry. Tears flooded her eyes. She fought them as she fumbled with the key in the car door. She said I would find out more when we got home.

I still don’t understand everything that happened that day. Perhaps I never will. But I remember Janey sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly ahead of her, not even turning toward Mommy and me as we came in. A young man—an African whom I’d never seen before—stood beside Janey, speaking to her in Zulu, their own language. From his face I knew he was describing something awful. Mommy sat down and stretched across the table for Janey’s hand, but Janey shrank away. It was only then that it hit me. The township where people had marched to the police station must be the same one where Janey’s family lived.

When Mommy asked the young man to tell her what had happened, he spoke in English. He was Janey’s cousin and had come to break the news
that her brother’s child had been shot. She and her friends had been playing near the people who were marching to the police station. There was no warning. The police just began shooting. At first people thought they were firing blanks. Some women even laughed, but then bodies started falling. Everyone was running away, but the police went on shooting. Many people were dead.

“The children—they were leaping like rabbits—over the bodies.” The young man bounced the palm of his hand up and down as if to show how the children had leaped.

“It’s…it’s not Busi, is it?” I stuttered.

Janey’s eyes turned toward me but seemed to look right through me.

“Yes,” Janey’s cousin said simply, “it’s Busi.”

“Is she…is she…?” I couldn’t say the word.

“The bullet went here.” He jabbed at the lower part of his back. “She’s crying in the hospital for her aunty.”

I ran to Janey and threw my arms around her neck, nestling my tears into her maid’s pink uniform. I could feel her chest heaving, but her eyes were dry. I saw Busi leaping like a rabbit as bullets were flying, and I sobbed. I could feel Janey
wanting to get up, and I was clinging on. I heard Mommy’s voice.

“Lily, you must let Janey go. Busi needs her!”

Only when Janey had patted me on my back did I let her remove my arms and stand up. My brother Mark hung in the doorway, silent and awkward. Janey had looked after him since he was a baby too.

Daddy didn’t come home that night. He went to help at the hospital with the injured people. In school the next day our teachers didn’t tell us what had really happened, and none of my classmates talked about it. The panic from the day before was over. It was like it had just been a bit of an adventure. I tried to tell Caroline about Busi and the children who were shot like rabbits. She thought I was peculiar.

“Stop it, Lily! You’ll give me nightmares! My mom doesn’t let me listen to anything like that—she knows what I’m like.”

If I had never tried to tell Caroline about Busi, I wonder if we would still be best friends? We didn’t ever have a real quarrel or proper fight. We just stopped going off alone together at break and stayed with the other girls instead. We didn’t talk
about our rabbit collection and didn’t say anything about visiting each other at the weekend. Perhaps we both wanted to forget a little before starting over again. But nine days later something else happened that would have split us anyway like a huge chopper….

After the shooting in Janey’s township, the demonstrations spread like wildfire all over the country. The government made a State of Emergency, and Daddy was arrested again. The police said they were locking up the “troublemakers.” It didn’t make sense. Did they really think Daddy started the trouble? His picture was in the newspaper with Uncle Max’s and lots of other people who had been thrown into jail.

It was Alice, the new girl, who broke the Big Unspoken in school: Don’t mention Lily’s parents in front of her. I should have expected that someone would say something but still she caught me by surprise with her loud, brassy voice.

“My mom says your parents are Commies. She says they have native friends. Is it true they sit and eat with you?”

My cheeks flushed red hot. A hush swept through the children lining up outside our classroom. I felt
everyone watching, waiting. Alice’s cat-green eyes bore into me. A stony face like the Sphinx with plaits on either side. Was it best to remain silent? But a nervous giggle behind me, sounding suspiciously like Caroline, unlatched my mouth and a reply just popped out.

“Well, your parents have dinner every day with a monkey. You!”

Without waiting for our teacher to arrive—and with my head high—I stepped out of the line and strode into the classroom. Alice’s voice followed me in a whine.

“I was only telling the truth, wasn’t I, Caroline?”

I covered my ears. I didn’t want to hear the reply from someone who had been my one and only best friend.

I hate Alice and her sneering over Mommy and Daddy. What does she know? I think she and Caroline are becoming best friends. I see them whispering together, and I think they’re talking about me. I miss Caroline most at weekends. Mark won’t play with me. If he isn’t playing cricket or rugby, he’s moody and locks himself in his room.

Mommy knows that things have changed
between Caroline and me, but we haven’t really spoken about it. It’s four months now since Daddy was arrested, and I know Mommy worries about him all the time even though she tells us he will be fine. Every day she goes to the jail to take food, clean clothes, and collect his washing.

Sometimes I feel so mixed-up and angry. Nasty, stupid thoughts come into my head. Like why couldn’t Mommy and Daddy be like the other parents who don’t bother with politics and don’t care if things aren’t fair? What about me and Mark? Don’t we matter? I even shouted that the other day at Mommy.

“Of course you matter,” she said. “You matter very much. But what about Uncle Max’s children? And all the other children in this country—like Busi? Don’t they matter too?”

How could I answer that? But at night I lie awake thinking what will happen to Mark and me if the police come and take Mommy away too.

At least Janey is back with us, so I go and sit in the kitchen and do my homework and other things there. We don’t talk as much as we used to when I was little, and Janey doesn’t like to talk much about Busi now. I overheard her tell Mommy that
the whole family is praying that Busi will walk again properly. But the other day Janey asked me about Caroline.

“She’s not my friend any more. She’s friends with a horrible girl—Alice.”

“
Ttch-ttch
…shame!” Janey shook her head and quietly went on drying the dishes. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened, but I felt she knew. I turned back quickly to my drawing of mountains, trying to push away thoughts of Alice, Caroline, her mother, and all the rest of them. I felt like scrunching up my paper until I felt Janey’s hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

“One day, Lily, it will come right.”

“Do you really think so, Janey?”

“I think so, Lily.” She slipped her hand away and went back to the dishes. I got on with painting my mountains.

I try to keep Janey’s words hanging inside my head now. They remind me of Uncle Max saying “One day, little Lily, one day. When we have freedom, you and I will go to the park.” I don’t know when one day will be, but I tell myself that if Uncle Max, Janey, Mommy, and Daddy all believe in it, I should try too.

1976

“Here, read this! Give it to your parents!”

Someone thrust a leaflet into Nandi’s hand. She glanced at it, keeping in step with the steady march of school students on their way to the cemetery.

For the last few weeks Nandi’s school had been
closed. From the news on Radio South Africa it seemed that all over the country black students were refusing to go to classes. Some schools had even been burnt down. Everywhere the cry was rising, “Down with Bantu education!” “Down with white rule!”

With news of shootings and mass arrests, Nandi’s mother worried constantly about leaving her children when she was out at work in the factory. Nandi was eleven and the twins barely three years old. But Ma had no choice, except to ask old Ma Tabane, their neighbor, to keep an eye on them.

Ma had been especially anxious about today. It was to be the funeral of two students from the high school, shot by police a week ago. Before leaving for work early that morning, Ma had told Nandi very firmly, “Don’t go out at all. There’ll be trouble for sure.”

Nandi hadn’t wanted to disobey Ma but, when she had heard the shouts and the singing so close to the house, she had felt unable to resist. Her little brother and sister had been playing happily in the backyard. Ma Tabane had been hanging out washing next door, calling over to them occasionally.
She was rather deaf, and her crackly old radio blared out music that seemed to cover the other sounds being carried in the air. Quietly Nandi had slipped out through the front of their small box house and into the dry stony street. With luck, no one would notice she was missing for a short while.

Marching along with hundreds of students, dust rising from under their feet, Nandi now carefully folded the leaflet she had been told to give to her mother, putting it in her pocket. She wasn’t sure what Ma would say about it. There was also the problem that if she gave it herself, Ma would know her order had been disobeyed. She would have to ask Esther to pass it on. Her cousin was sixteen. Living with Khulu, their granny, Esther seemed free to do so many things Ma would never let Nandi do. When Khulu went off to work each day to sell fruit in Johannesburg, Esther didn’t have to stay at home looking after younger children.

Nandi kept looking for Esther in the crowd. It was certain she was there, probably near the front. The older students usually led the way, carrying homemade banners and hurling their voices into the air. Nandi knew all the freedom songs by now.
Esther and her friends had taught them to her. But this was electric, so many people singing together what they felt:

Nandi’s voice mingled with the rest. At least their voices were free. Street after street, past rows of box houses all like her own, hundreds of feet and voices stirred up those who were not working in the city. Faces appeared at doors and windows. Little children ran out shouting before being pulled back by firm elderly hands. A voice from the side rang out,

“Go back home! You youngsters are asking for trouble!”

“Don’t worry, Baba! We’re ready for it!” someone shouted back.

Another old man, struggling off a chair in his front yard, raised up an arm and fist.

“Amandla!”
In a wavery, thin voice he called for strength.

“
Ngawethu!
To the people,” thundered students passing by, cheering and waving to him.

As they neared the cemetery, however, the mood suddenly changed. A halt in the march brought students packing in on each other. Up ahead, beyond the banners, Nandi could see that the cemetery gates were closed, barred around by rows of police and gigantic gray tanks. Steel monsters with great square black eyes. A voice was barking through a loudspeaker: “YOU ARE TO GO HOME IMMEDIATELY! ONLY FAMILIES OF THE DECEASED MAY ENTER!”

The crowd roared back: “THEY WERE OUR BROTHERS! LET US IN!”

Suddenly a great cry rose up. Choking, coughing, eyes stinging, blinded with something fierce and burning, Nandi found herself being pushed and pulled to avoid the swinging, crashing batons. Stones skimmed overhead toward the police as the school children began to push back desperately, scattering to find cover, fearing more of the terrifying
gunshots. The same gunshots that brought them to the cemetery today to sing their songs for the two already dead. Once again, songs had turned to screams and cries. Nandi could hear her own voice ringing out as she ran home. Above it echoed sharp, fearful cracks through the air.

No one saw Nandi slip back into the house. She grabbed her rope and began to skip vigorously out in the front to cover up her shaking. When Ma Tabane came to sweep the dirt out of her front door, she shook her head slightly.

“Ai, Nandi! You’ll finish yourself like that!”

Ma came home later than usual. There had been a rush job at the factory, and she had been ordered to work overtime. She knew already there had been trouble at the cemetery.

“You stayed at home?”

Nandi nodded.

“Did Esther come here today?”

“No, Ma.”

“
Tch!
That boss has no heart!”

Ma spoke angrily. She looked upon her brother’s child as her own and wouldn’t be at ease until she knew Esther was safe. But now, with the
curfew, it was too late for a half-hour walk through the dark streets of Soweto to Khulu’s house. Nandi kept very quiet, trying not to let the pictures in her mind show on her face.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

At first it seemed part of her dream that night….

Nandi was acting “lookout” for Esther and her friends as they held a secret meeting in the tiny, cramped kitchen while Khulu and the neighbors were all out at work. Nandi’s job was to play outside, but if she saw anyone strange enter the road, she had to warn Esther immediately so the others could slip away through the back. She was pretending to be busy skipping in and out through the gate, when she heard the tapping. It sounded as if the students were typing. Then Nandi realized the rhythm was wrong. She froze. Whatever was it? She wanted to call out a warning signal, but somehow her open mouth had become stiff….

Nandi woke up, feeling panic. The tapping
was
real, coming softly from the window. Then everything was silent for a few seconds, except for the breathing of the twins sleeping next to her. It was very dark, probably after midnight. No noises
came from outside now—no running footsteps, no odd shouts or cries, no roaring of police vans.

Nandi gripped her breath and waited.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

The soft tapping came more rapidly. Her heart drummed as she forced herself from the bed to the window.

“Who is it?” she whispered through the open slit. She clenched the curtain, scared to pull it back.

“It’s me…Esther! Open quickly!”

Carefully, she released the latch and leaned forward. The shape of her cousin was pressed up against the wall. Eerie moonlight lit part of the yard but the side of the house was in deep shadow. Before Nandi could say anything, Esther began:

“Look, Nandi, I need help!”

“Ah! Are you hurt?”

Esther was shaking, and Nandi could just make out that she was clutching her arm. Her voice was low and hoarse.

“It’s nothing…later…there’s something urgent!”

Breathing heavily, the older girl explained. In the afternoon she and her friends had been close
to the cemetery gates. Themba and Zinzi had been carrying a banner saying: “THEY DIED FOR FREEDOM.”

When the police attacked, both Themba and Zinzi had been grabbed. Esther had escaped, although a baton had whipped down on her arm. She had seen both her friends being beaten about their heads and thrown like sacks into a police van.

Esther feared the worst. Everyone knew the police stopped at nothing to get information. There were funerals to prove it. So it wouldn’t be long before they would be coming for her too. Even now, someone could be secretly watching Khulu’s house, waiting…. But worse, they might have started searching the house—and then Khulu would be in terrible trouble.

“It’s the typewriter, Nandi. For our leaflets. I hid it—but if they find it, they’ll arrest Khulu. They won’t believe she knows nothing!”

Nandi sucked in her breath, horrified. Esther continued.

“It’s not only Khulu. That typewriter can send us to jail for a long time.”

“Can’t we do something? Can’t I get a message to Khulu?”

“It’s dangerous. Not a game.”

“I know…but I can try…first thing in the morning. If someone is watching the house, I can look as if I’m going to help Khulu.”

Esther said quietly,

“It’s very risky…but it’s our only chance. There’s no one else I can ask.”

“Where is the hiding place?” asked Nandi simply.

Briefly Esther explained that the typewriter was hidden behind the kitchen cupboard, wrapped in brown paper. Nandi and Khulu would have to pull away the panel at the back. To get rid of the package, she said they should stuff it in the dustbin outside the backdoor and cover it well with the rubbish. If the police didn’t find it in their search, it might even be possible for a friend to retrieve it later.

“But what if the back of the house is being watched?”

“Then we’re trapped,” replied Esther.

Although her voice was steady, her cousin was still clasping her arm.

“Where will you go? What about your arm?”

“I’ll find somewhere…and tell Khulu I’m
sorry….” Esther paused. “It had to be done. Tell her not to worry. I’ll send her a message as soon as I can.”

Nandi’s eyes followed Esther’s bent shape making its way across the yard. After closing the window, trying not to let it squeak, she crept back into bed to wait for the morning. She curled herself up small and tight, as if to hold in her fear and stop it from growing.

It was impossible to take her mind off Esther stumbling away into the dark to look for a “safe” house…Themba and Zinzi being hit about the head…Themba who always greeted Nandi with a wink and his “How’s it, sis?”…Zinzi with her warm smile and special way of swinging your hand in friendship. Both looked on her as a younger sister. When she had acted as “lookout” for their meetings, she had known it was something serious, yet it had still been a bit like a game. Although she had known there was danger, it was also exciting. But what she had to do this time contained no enjoyment, no excitement of that kind at all. The danger was all around now. When she began to think of Khulu, her mind blocked off. The police couldn’t harm her. No, no…

Nandi set off at first light, slipping out before her mother was up. She left a note: Gone to Khulu.

Nandi wasn’t sure what to tell Ma when she returned. It was too difficult to sort out at the moment. Later, after taking the message, she would think about it.

Gray mist hung over the streets and the early morning air was chilly. Nandi hugged her arms around her as she ran. Already a stream of people were walking steadily toward the station. In the half-light they seemed almost like ghosts, pulled by some invisible cord toward the city. Their grandmother usually set off for work early, so Nandi had to hurry. Perhaps Khulu had gone out looking for Esther. She must be so worried…and how would she be on hearing the message…angry, upset, frightened? Nandi refused to let herself imagine the police in the house itself.

Along the way Nandi could see the signs of people’s fury. The place where Ma came to pay the rent was a heap of smouldering rubble, smoke mingling with the mist. Further on, the roof of the high school was missing, the walls blackened and windows shattered. She ran on, pausing only at
one point to press herself against a fence as a police patrol truck thundered past.

Near Khulu’s road, out of breath and panting, Nandi stopped to lean against a wall. If the police had set someone to watch the house, her arrival must seem absolutely normal. It was impossible to prevent her heart from throbbing, but once her breathing had slowed down a little, she walked on.

Turning the corner, she saw the strange car immediately. It was parked a little way up the road from the house, with its hood raised and two men bending over the engine. One was holding a flashlight. Perhaps they were genuine and had really broken down. But why so close to Khulu’s? How could you know if they were informers? She had heard Esther and her friends discussing walkie-talkies once. What if the flashlight was one?

Nandi had to walk right past, quite casually. Close to the car, she found herself humming the tune of one of the students’ songs very softly to herself. It seemed to give her courage. The man with the flashlight glanced directly up at her as she passed. Reaching Khulu’s front yard at last, she clicked the gate carefully behind her. With the feeling that eyes were following her, she
made her way around to the backdoor, out of sight.

From the moment she had come home the evening before, after her day in Johannesburg, Khulu had known something was wrong. News had begun spreading earlier in the day among the flat workers near where Khulu sold fruit. A mid-afternoon radio report had mentioned “trouble at a funeral.” Later, billboards for the evening newspaper had been headlined: “FUNERAL SHOOTING: THREE DEAD.”

By the time Sowetans were making their long journey home by train, some had read the first reports. Their comments had weaved rapidly through the tightly crowded carriages. Parents and grandparents had made silent prayers.