The Water Man's Daughter (25 page)

She intends to travel to the lok’shini. She intends to bide her time while she waits for the analysis of the cloth shreds. She intends to be patient. But after weeks of hitting one snag after another, even her pride, hanging in the balance on this one, can’t deter her from following the lead. She wants to wait, but wonders if that is because the reality of the evidence in front of her is hard to handle. How could she have been so blind?

T
HE STREET BEHIND
F
LORENCE’S LOOKS PEACEFUL
again without the police grid and the mess of young officers combing every inch. Zembe drives to Mira’s house. Zembe feels for her gun as she raps at the door. There is no answer. She knocks harder, steps back, and tiptoes through the yard to peer in a front window. Through the bars protecting the
glass, she sees a living room in disarray, blanket on the couch, dishes by the sink. But the house certainly seems empty.
Whoever was here ran out in a rush
, Zembe thinks to herself. She vows to keep the house under surveillance in the hope that Mira might return later that night. Part of her, she acknowledges, doubts very much that he will be coming back anytime soon.

She heads back to the police buggy. The windows of all the other houses on the street are lit up. Little eyes peer out towards the door of Mira’s house. The whole township will hear of Zembe’s visit by morning. She will be the enemy of every mama for harassing one of their leaders.

After the short drive to her side of town she hides the buggy in her garage and walks past her own haphazard collection of shrubs and rocks on the front walk. Entering her house, she feels very lonely.

M
ORNING IN THE DESERT IS A QUIET AFFAIR
. A
FEW
insects rub their legs together in a feeble attempt to rouse the world. Roosters sound sunrise, but they are so far apart, only their neighbours notice.

When Nomsulwa opens her eyes, she realizes that she has tangled the sheets into a nest around her legs. It is still cold in the room and her skin is pricked with goosebumps where it is exposed. She covers up and turns over.

“What happened to your father?” Claire asks as soon as Nomsulwa opens her eyes for longer than a few seconds. “You said he was dead. What happened?”

It takes a moment before Nomsulwa sits up on the bed. She looks over at Claire, still lying down, but impossibly awake for this early in the morning.

“Didn’t you sleep at all?”

“Yes. I just stopped sleeping early.” Claire shifts so she is leaning on one elbow. “What did happen? With your father, I mean.”

“He was an activist. A leader of the resistance during Apartheid. He was killed by the government. Many were. My father wasn’t around much. He needed to be out there,
doing things. I’m pretty sure we were the last thing he had on his mind, my mother and me.”

“But you must have admired him, what he was fighting for. He was part of a revolution.” Claire is sitting up now so she is face to face with Nomsulwa.

“I admired him. I know that what he did is important. I just wish it had been someone else doing it. Because having someone to admire is not the same as having a father, you know?”

“I want my father back. Every day. But I also need to know that he had an impact, other than on my life and my mother’s life.” Claire lies back down.

“Why? Why not worry about your impact? My father didn’t teach me how to be an activist.”

“But still, you followed in his footsteps. My father’s part of me. What he did is part of me. It’s not just family history – something to pass on to my children – it’s like it’s in my skin, part of who I am.”

“I didn’t become an activist who takes off and leaves a wife and kid at home to fend for themselves.”

“Well then you’re a better version.” Nomsulwa feels a pang of remorse and shakes her head.

“Maybe
you
are someone different from your father altogether. Maybe you are not the same person at all. I think you could just be Claire.”

“Maybe.” Claire seems saddened by the thought.

Nomsulwa stands up, checks her cellphone, and gets her toothbrush from her bag.

“Want to get breakfast?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Claire puts her arms behind her head, stares at the ceiling.

“Okay. I’ll save a fat cake for you.”

“Thanks.”

Before Nomsulwa leaves she turns and adds, “I understand how what they do, our fathers, are part of us. You just don’t seem to feel like he’s in you at all. Instead you are trying to find him out here. I’m just not sure you’re going to.”

“It takes time, that’s all.” Claire says with a sure voice. But Nomsulwa can tell that she’s not feeling quite as solid about her quest as she once was.

After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, Nomsulwa descends into the main room, now empty. Breakfast, a little amasi and cornmeal, fruit and fat cakes with jam, sits on the table. She sees Kwanele on the porch and goes out.

“You’re up early.” She touches his shoulder and then joins him on the steps.

“Always. You know that.”

“Yes. An annoying habit. Listen, any chance you’d be able to take Claire to the water filtration site while I prepare for the meeting today?”

“You think that’s smart?”

“Just give her the tour, no mention of the company, okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

“I’m asking you for this favour, please? Just be careful with her. Make sure nothing gets out.”

“Fine. No mention of cholera, Amanzi, or the water men.” Kwanele’s sarcasm is irritating, as if she hasn’t been struggling with the same thing. Nomsulwa doesn’t answer. Instead, she opens the screen door and walks to the breakfast table. She takes a seat, pours the thick amasi on her mealies, and drops a few pieces of fruit into her bowl. Claire comes downstairs and looks over the breakfast spread. Kwanele sweeps in with a smile and puts a long arm over her shoulders.

“Want to come to the water plant with me this morning?”

Claire doesn’t answer but looks at Nomsulwa.

“Fine with me. I have a little preparation for a community meeting later.”

“Meeting? I’d like to come.” Claire perks up.

Kwanele looks at Nomsulwa with raised eyebrows.

“It’s going to be pretty boring. Just a strategy meeting.”

“I won’t find it boring. I promise.” Claire answers right away, starting to smile.

“Okay.” Nomsulwa curses herself inwardly for giving in so easily. Having Claire at the meeting is a bad idea.

“So we’ll catch you in an hour or so?” Kwanele says grimly. They start to walk away from the table. Claire reaches out before she leaves and takes a fat cake for the road.

“Well, have a good tour.” Nomsulwa hopes her voice is imbued with a warning for Kwanele. As they walk away, Neil comes downstairs and begins opening the windows in the main room.

“Why don’t we move outside?” he asks her lightly.

“You going to be able to carry breakfast with that bulky guitar strapped on your back?”

“I do everything with this baby on my back,” Neil jokes.

“Sure you do,” Nomsulwa answers, bringing her bowl out with her.

They sit. Nomsulwa takes slow bites. Neil downs a fat cake in two and then places his guitar on his lap. He strums as he talks. The surface of the wood is scratched with a crosshatch pattern that, though it is from years of playing, looks deliberate. There is evidence of the original stain, a deep cherry, but mostly the sickly yellow of the underbelly shows through. Neil loves his guitar. He cradles it in his armpit, resting his chin on the dip in the waist when he’s deep in thought. At times, she has caught him lightly kissing the upper surface, an unconscious reaction like lips to skin.

Neil gives Nomsulwa a crooked-toothed smile.

“So, sis, tell me the news from your end.”

“There’s not enough to tell, comrade. Not enough.” Nomsulwa shakes her head sadly. She won’t open up about Mira’s accusation that she is too wrapped up in a white girl to concentrate on the movement she began. “We had a strong start, but things are moving slowly. There’s been a split. The same old split.”

“Tell me more.” Neil always speaks with such formal encouragement. Nomsulwa loves this.

“Some mamas want to keep marching, train people to dismantle the water meters like the electricity boxes. They object to the direct action we’ve done, digging up the pipes
and stuff. Ag, man. Those meters are tough. I can barely figure out how to break open the old models without causing the tamper alarm to go off.”

Neil thinks about this for a second.

“I was at a conference the other week at the big centre north of the city. In a suit and tie. They never questioned who I was representing. They served me cookies and tea. I spoke with some representatives there to sell their products to the government. They gave me brochures about the new meters, the ones Amanzi is recommending to the government. It’s only going to get harder. You can’t even pry behind the screens of these new ones. The alarm goes off immediately and notifies the nearest company office.”

Nomsulwa laughs incredulously. “You mean they intend to send a repairman every time someone fiddles with the thing? Ychoo. Unbelievable!” Nomsulwa adds flatly, “Or turn off the water and leave it at that.”

“Talk to me about the white girl. Is she a comrade?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You should educate her, send her back to collect money from abroad. Most of the big
NGOS
here get money from America.”

“I know, Neil, but she’s from Canada. Anyway, she wouldn’t be interested.”

“Why not?”

“She just wouldn’t.”

“Oh.” Neil drops the subject. Strums a few big chords and then retires to light finger-picking.

“Are you going to play for me tonight?”

“Of course. I always do.”

He rests his head on the guitar. Nomsulwa scans the town in the distance for Claire and Kwanele. Where are they now?

“I think the mamas are right,” he says.

“What?”

“We have to keep protesting. It worked before. It may work again.”

“Yeah, right.” Nomsulwa doesn’t need to hide her disdain for the civil society route around her friend, which is more than she can say about her comrades at home.

“Also, arrests are expensive.”

“Yebo. Ngiyazi.”
I know
.

“And it keeps international interest strong. Last thing we want to look like is a bunch of crazy Africans. Don’t want to be like Zimbabwe. We need that support.”

“Sure, bru, whatever.” Nomsulwa uses Neil’s line. He always catches Nomsulwa off guard with his preference for civil action over civil disobedience. As if he wilfully ignores the success of campaigns that are violent, where people refuse to pay their bills and chase company reps off their land.

“Why did you say the girl wouldn’t help us, again?”

Nomsulwa sighs. “I didn’t. The white girl’s father works for Amanzi, well, did, before he died.”

“Oh.” He plays again, the beginning of a song Nomsulwa thinks she recognizes. “Makes her an unlikely companion for you, doesn’t it?”

“Leave it, Neil. I had to. Officer’s orders. The company’s working hard to keep the girl’s nose out of the investigation. I owed a cop one.”

“Got it.” Neil strums a full chord so that the highest string twangs a little later than everything else. He doesn’t press Nomsulwa. He doesn’t ask her why she’s making deals with the police. She feels thankful for this. He helps her ignore her problems a little longer.

“Want some tea?” Neil is already on his feet.

“We should get out of here soon. It’s almost time for the clinic to open.”

“We?”

“Oh, you’re too old for meetings?”

“Ach, I’m too faint of heart to see you lead them.”

“Heh, get us some tea and then I’ll go. Alone. I’ll go rouse us some mamas alone.”

“Sure thing, sis.”

Now that it is almost time to head over to the clinic, Nomsulwa is getting that flutter of nervousness that comes with each presentation, and today the thought of Claire being there amplifies her nerves. She wants to make sure she has everything in order. Her cellphone buzzes in her back pocket. It’s a missed call from Mira. She takes advantage of the minutes alone and dials into her voicemail.

There are three new messages. The first is from Zembe, quick and breathless: “I heard you were out of town and you took the Matthews girls with you! She leaves soon. Bring her back. Now. Call –” Nomsulwa ends the message and
erases it before Zembe finishes. She doesn’t want to hear orders about returning Claire to the city. The second message is from Dadoo, his droning voice with little hiccups that mimic the bobbing of his head: “Ms. Sithu, I was wondering if you could leave a message indicating when you intend to bring Mr. Matthews’s daughter back to the city. She is scheduled to return to Canada in three days.” Nomsulwa waits for the third message, which begins as Neil walks in carrying a tray with teacups, milk, and sugar.

“Nomsulwa, it’s Mira. Please call me back. I need help. The police were snooping around my house. I think they found something. I couldn’t see what, but they looked too excited. Look, please, call me back. I’ve gotten out of Phiri. I need to meet you. Call me.”