On the last day of the revival Mvelo was asked to stay behind by Reverend Nhlengethwa. He said he needed to pray for
her and to strengthen her with the Holy Spirit so that her gift would grow. In the privacy of his makeshift office, he read from the Bible and placed his hand on her head and prayed. Then he embraced her gently. His kind act reminded her of Sipho, the only father figure she had known. The act brought back all the pain she had had to endure during the past two years. It was a relief to be held. She let her head rest against his broad chest, a sign he took as consent. What came after was like a bad dream to her.

His hands worked fast, finding what he wanted. He plunged hurriedly and brutally tearing her world and her illusions to pieces. The eye, her innocence, was gone. Deflowered and destroyed. The thought of a virginity-checker looking at her with disgust distracted her from the burning pain coming from between her legs.

She imagined a pained look of disappointment, shame and helplessness from Zola, as Reverend Nhlengethwa towered over her with a look of satisfaction while he tidied himself up. He had the smirk of a man content with himself, and did not say a word. The colour of life left Mvelo from between her thighs onto the floor. An iceberg of frozen water formed in her chest, freezing her tears and her heart.

She had leaned her head to his chest, and so when he turned from protector to wolf, the shock paralysed her. Her soul folded and nestled in a hard shell that formed in her breast. In her mind, she erased her predator from life, sending lightning to suck out all his life force, leaving him as a dried-up lifeless scarecrow in the fields.

She straightened her clothes, wiped away the blood between her legs and walked home without a word. She put one foot
in front of the other until she got home to Zola, whose face was burning with hope. She could not tell her mother what had happened, it would kill her. She was already fragile. ‘Did he think you can make it in gospel music? Will he put you in touch with Rebecca Malope? Did he—?’

Mvelo’s tears cut her off. A dam burst inside of her because her mother’s reason for living had been stomped on and trampled over. Through her tears, Mvelo could see her mother’s face drop and age from thirty-one to eighty years old.

Mvelo cried for her mother more than for her own pain. She wanted to forget what had happened. She needed the strength to nurse her sickly mother into her grave with dignity. So she smiled through her tears, summoning all the courage she did not have. ‘No, he just prayed for me. That’s all he did. The tent is moving to another town,’ she said.

They fell asleep silently in each other’s arms. It was all they had.

After the tent, Zola lost her ability to speak. She had no energy for it. She just made horrible sounds of pain that came in small weak howls. Mvelo could feel every laboured breath Zola took. It was hard work, she would be drenched in sweat just from breathing in and out. Her eyes, although sunken deep into her head, still had a shine when she looked at her daughter, her only reason for living.

Since the revival tent left, Mvelo tried, but she had lost hope, and was withdrawn and sadder than the smell of paraffin and candle-smoke, the smell of poverty. It permeated every piece of clothing and every shack in the informal settlements. She hid the sordid story from Zola, but a mother close to the grave senses things. She knew that something terrible and ferocious had touched her daughter’s soul.

From a brick house to this place, Mvelo cried, thinking again of the warmth and safety she had felt in Sipho’s house, what felt like a long time ago now. In this forgotten place girls could not play in the sun, splashing each other with water in their underwear. They had to sleep with one eye open at night. At any point the crude cardboard door could be violently kicked down by night-monsters who, like vampires, were coy to come out into the light.

Uncles. One too many of Mvelo’s friends had fallen victim to them. They came and went leaving behind destroyed lives and broken hearts. They played boyfriend to the struggling single mothers who never seemed to learn; playing house and father to someone else’s children bored the uncles. Wolves in sheep’s clothes, they turned to the daughters, causing physical damage and a lifetime of mental scars. Mvelo was one of the lucky ones. She was at least able to count Sipho as a father. Though he had let her down, he had never abused her. But through many of her friends and classmates she knew to be wary of men who called themselves uncles. They could be dangerous.

With these thoughts going round and round in her head, one night it all got too much for Mvelo. She simply gave up any illusion of her mother getting well, and decided to stop giving her the pills. She held her close and said, ‘Ma, you are not getting better, and we do not have food to help the pills to help you get better. It has become too painful. I have to let you go and I am asking you to let go and rest.’ She spoke like a woman who had lived many years. She didn’t know where it came from.
Zola tried to prop herself up on one elbow and looked her daughter straight in the eye. ‘Mvelo,’ she said, ‘I know something happened to you on that last day of the revival. I can see your stomach is getting bigger and your breasts have lines and colour. Promise me you will not do anything to harm the life growing inside you. It is an innocent life. And I will let go on one condition, that you promise you will not allow them to put me in a box. Whatever happens, wrap me in a blanket and send me to God, but please do not let them put me in a box.’ Her bony fingers were digging into her daughter’s wrist. Mvelo promised, even as she didn’t know how she would manage to do it.

Zola had always been afraid of closed places. She knew
she was being selfish to place this burden on her daughter, asking her to promise something that was going to be difficult. Neither of them had tears, those needed energy they both
did not have. That night they slept without much disturbance. Mvelo was convinced that she would wake up to find Zola gone. But it wasn’t to be, she was still labouring on when Mvelo woke up in the morning. Mvelo didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

It was Monday and she went to scrounge around the
bins in the suburbs. From one house to another, she would look for anything, glass bottles to sell, dried up bread for her mother. She would take anything that spelt survival. Unlike other beggars, she never rang at gates or looked to make contact. Just their rubbish. She did not want their pity.

For months after Mvelo had stopped giving Zola the pills, she hung on.

The elephant in their shack, Mvelo’s belly, grew bigger, revealing the truth of that cruel night in the tent. Then, one evening, Mvelo herself was struck by a fever that left her delirious. The neighbours found them the next day. Zola, unconscious in a pool of blood she had been coughing up throughout the night. And Mvelo, delirious in a river of sweat from fever. Zola did not make it. The doctors said she died of malnutrition and full-blown AIDS.

At the hospital, when the doctor found life growing inside Mvelo, her eyes were judgmental. She coldly broke the news that Mvelo already knew.

After the harsh words, Mvelo dropped off to sleep.

She dreamt she was being chased by a monster. She was terrified, until she remembered a torch in her pocket. She stopped and faced the creature, beaming the light onto it. Her actions were calm and deliberate. She told herself that she would shine the light onto the beast until she robbed it of its power. It was caught off guard. Now she was no longer the hunted. She was the hunter.

The monster let out a terrified cry and tried to run in the opposite direction, away from the light. She felt sorry for the creature that was now whimpering as she stood over it.

The batteries in her torch were dying, like the monster in front of her. She looked around and realised that everything had become completely still. The only sound was the beating of her heart.

When she woke up she knew that she would no longer be easy prey. Whatever she decided to do about her baby, it would be her decision. And one way or another she would carry out her mother’s wish of not being buried in a box.

***

Tell us what you think: What do you think of Mvelo’s decision about Zola’s medication?