Life in Durban’s Mkhumbane township was buzzing with new hope, and the shebeens were making more money than ever. Patrons were in jovial moods with the promise of imminent riches. Those with lively imaginations spoke of living in mansions with servants, fleets of cars and travels to countries they had only heard of.

A fermented pineapple drink, and isqatha, the lethal homebrew that sometimes included battery acid, fuelled dreams of an imminent new land of milk and honey. Under a cloud of intoxicating marijuana, patrons sat from mid- morning till dusk, drinking and dreaming of a life where their wealthier selves would be realised.

Skwiza, Zola’s aunt the shebeen queen with a string of taverns across Mkhumbane, looked on with satisfaction as
her patrons used their meagre salaries, earned from tending suburban gardens, to drink and fuel their dreams. Like many of the women in her family, she was tall. In addition, she had large breasts that burdened her with back problems, forcing her to lean forward when she walked. This leaning accentuated her large behind and pushed it even further out. Her knocked- kneed twigs for legs carried the heavy load that was her two- metre self. Her stature was both comical and fearsome. She was very warm at the sight of money, and terrifyingly icy when her patrons couldn’t pay their debts.

She was the opposite of Zola’s mother, who was matronly towards her children and a submissive servant to her dominating husband. Zola loved her aunt and was in awe wherever they had the rare opportunity of visiting her.

The feeling was mutual. Skwiza loved Zola because she was beautiful and young, and reminded her of herself when she was Zola’s age. Young people kept Skwiza alive.

It was obvious to Zola that once her secret was uncovered, that was where she would go for shelter. Skwiza was the only woman who stood up to her father. In fact, she towered over him in her stilettos. Pure Chilli did not like Skwiza for this reason. It was clear to Zola that something about her unsettled him, and he did not want his family near this woman.

When school opened Zola had three months to go. Her muscles were no longer pronounced and toned. She was rounder, but youth with its inexperienced eyes did not suspect anything. Pearl and Mr Zondo, however, knew what was going on underneath the uniform. She no longer took part in practice, but sat on the side and watched. It drove the coach mad, but she chalked Zola’s reluctance up to the fickleness of teenagers. ‘She had been slowing down anyway. A new Zola Budd will emerge from the new batch. You watch and see.’ The coach was ever the optimist.

Sporo was distracted from his game since the new term began. He could not stop worrying about the secret he and Zola were keeping. He wanted to tell his parents, but he knew that they would immediately show up on Zola’s doorstep to report the matter. So he became her accomplice.

Deep in thought about Zola, he did not see the speeding taxi as he and the team crossed the road from practice. The screams were too late and all went blank. Sporo and two other teammates were cut down by the runaway taxi. Zola with a baby in her arms was the last image he saw before he surrendered.

His muscles softened. The bloodied ball rolled away from him. The coach crouched and called, ‘Sporo, Sporo!’ His eyes were open but not registering the coach, who was frantic, crying, swearing and cradling Sporo’s head. Some boys ran towards the school to tell the principal, and others began to stone the taxi. The driver was dazed. He had been rushing to pick up an extra load of people who would pay him and not the owner of the taxi.

When Zola saw the bloodied boys crying openly, coming towards her class, water began to leave her body down her thighs. At first, when she felt this warmth coming out of her she thought she was peeing, but the water kept coming. She stood up, her eyes wide with shock. Teacher Pearl took one look at her and knew she could not wait. Pearl met the boys at the door as she shouted for Mr Zondo to help drive Zola to hospital. The nearest was Marianhill.

The boys blurted out the shocking news of the accident and pandemonium followed. Mr Zondo took the wheel and stepped on the petrol as Pearl held Zola on the back seat. They were forced to stop and deliver the baby in the car because Zola could not wait. She had heard what the boys had said and her body wanted the baby out.

He was gone. Her life support was gone. Now it was just her and this baby.

Pearl and Mr Zondo decided to take the young mother and baby to the Pinetown Clinic. When they got there they were sent to the maternity ward of the King Edward Hospital. She had bled badly.

The news that Zola had given birth came as no surprise to maSosibo. She was relieved, and secretly excited. Of course she pretended to be just as surprised as her husband was when he turned to stone. All he said was, ‘I have no daughter. She and her bastard are not welcome in this house. She has brought us nothing but shame.’

His words left maSosibo with no strength to argue. The next day she sneaked out to go and see Zola at the hospital while her husband was at work. Zola was grieving the death of Sporo and preoccupied with the baby. Like her father, she had turned to stone. She was silent while a million thoughts were racing through her mind about her next plan.

The sight of her mother did not frighten her. She simply showed her the baby but did not speak, except to say that she would move in with her Aunt Skwiza in Mkhumbane. Her mother protested mildly, but she knew it was the only option.

Zola apologised to her mother for shaming her, and asked her please to relay the message to her father. They held each other and cried, before maSosibo kissed her new granddaughter and left.

Zola remembered that Sporo had said if the baby was a girl she should be named Nomvelo, ‘as beautiful as you,’ his words came back to haunt her. When Zola went to register the baby she wrote down her name as Nomvelo Zulu, and the address of Skwiza’s shebeen.

On discharge day, she rolled the baby into the blanket that her mother had given her and headed to Mkhumbane for
a new life in the shebeen with Aunt Skwiza, where Skwiza welcomed Zola and Mvelo with open arms.

Nothing was for free with Skwiza. Zola had to work for her keep. She helped with fermenting the pineapple and bread for the homebrewed alcohol, she cleaned the house, and whatever else Skwiza asked her to do. But as much as she worked Zola, Skwiza made sure that she and the baby were taken good care of. Secretly, Skwiza was grateful to have the chance of living with real family, with blood ties.

In Mkhumbane Zola closed the chapter on her youth. She did not attend Sporo’s funeral. Occasionally she heard from her mother, who had been forbidden to keep in contact with her. Zola didn’t attempt to go back to school or contact Sporo’s family. She simply concentrated on her baby and working in the shebeen.

She was not one to pay any attention to men. Sporo had been special. But the men in the shebeen did not interest her. Their addiction to alcohol seemed weak to her. She watched them from a distance and they seemed to sense that she
was not someone to try their luck with. She was cold and indifferent to their antics.

Mvelo grew in the midst of the chaos of the shebeen. She was four years old when people headed for the ballot box to vote for the first time. There was a lot of jubilation and music all around her. She clapped her little hands and danced along with everyone.

She was a delightful toddler who was spoiled by Skwiza and the patrons, who offered her treats to get the affections of Zola. Mvelo simply called Skwiza, Skwiza, like everybody else, when really she should have been calling her Gogo. But Skwiza would have been mortified. Aging was something that repulsed her. ‘It smells of death,’ she said. So everyone just called her Skwiza.

In the middle of all this jubilation, one day the phone rang and Skwiza fell on her knees crying out to God. Zola’s parents were dead. Her father was accused of supporting the wrong political party and a vigilante youth group poured petrol in their house and set it alight with them inside. ‘My sister is gone, Zola, she’s gone. Oh God.’ Skwiza folded herself into the foetal position and howled. She frightened little Mvelo who had never seen her like this.

Zola remained dry-eyed and went numb inside. The church dominated the funeral and the burial. They did not acknowledge Zola and the baby in case she got any ideas about claiming an inheritance. Her father had bequeathed
his pension and savings that should have been for her higher education, to the church as sole beneficiary. She did not contest it and discouraged Skwiza from doing so as well. The turn of events brought Skwiza and Zola closer than before. Zola and Mvelo were the only two remaining blood relatives that Skwiza knew of.

Business was booming at Skwiza’s shebeen. While the black middle-class emerged and headed for the suburbs, on weekends they sojourned at Skwiza’s for beers, meat and township flavour.

In this exodus from townships to suburbs, a lawyer called Sipho Mdletshe stayed put. He was Skwiza’s favourite customer because he not only bought his own drinks but he also bought rounds for others who clung to him like bees to honey.

Skwiza was proud of him because he was acquainted with highly-respected leaders in society, but his friends were the customers at her Mkhumbane shebeen. This was a calculated self-protective measure on his part. He became close to those who were socially beneath him because they couldn’t hurt him. Instead they looked up to him.

While his colleagues headed towards upmarket Mount Edgecombe and Umhlanga in their fancy Hummers and Z3s, he would go in his humble yellow Getz from his fancy office with its view of the Durban harbour to his modest house in Mkhumbane.

His colleagues referred to his township as Cato Manor, but he reminded them that George Christopher Cato was some bugger born in England, probably a misfit in his own country, who then came to take his chances in the land of the naïve natives. They were so gullible that they allowed some of their land to be named after him, calling it his manor. ‘The audacity of these colonists is mind-boggling,’ Sipho would say, stating that he was perfectly happy with uMkhumbane, a vibrant old community named after a little stream that ran through the historic township, and making it clear that the subject was now closed.

He would go to the shebeen every evening with umngenandlini, presents for little Mvelo and for Zola. Mostly chocolates for Mvelo, which he sometimes gave her secretly because Zola did not approve of too many sweets, and Zola got fruit and biscuits called Oreos. His gifts did come with expectations of affection from Zola, and Mvelo latched on to him. She called him babayi, claiming him as her dad.

He had an easy manner that reminded Zola of Sporo, but she fought these feelings as best as she could. He was a known ladies’ man, a womaniser, and he didn’t hide the fact. He was tall, but he loved all kinds of women, tall and short, fat and thin, young and old, black and white, they came to him in their numbers. This made it easy for Zola to dismiss him, because she was not interested in sharing him.

Sipho was trying to use a nonchalant exterior to hook Zola, but he was beginning to think it wouldn’t work. This was new to him, feeling so helpless with the rock that this woman seemed to be. He had tried to persuade her with gifts, by loving her daughter, and even ignoring her. But none of it seemed to work.

At first he felt very sad for her because she looked haunted by something that had hurt her so badly that she had stopped living. He watched her working at Skwiza’s, clearing tables
in her distant way, as if she were alone in the middle of the rowdy crowd. He noticed her toned muscles from lifting the beer crates.

‘Forget about it my bra, this one is for the angels,’ said his drunkard of a brother. ‘She must have been hurt real bad. She is out of circulation, not for sale, unlike your gold diggers who are with you for your money.’

Sipho laughed at him and said everybody wanted to be loved.

‘Oh, rest assured, she will be loved,’ he paused meaningfully. ‘By me,’ he announced. And they both laughed raucously and continued to drink.

On the stroke of midnight, when 1994 closed, with renewed hope, Zola drank a bottle of cider and felt light in
the head. She was swept up in the spirit of celebrating the new democracy and wanted to close the chapter that had been so painful for her. The new year held promise, as she watched her four-year-old daughter grow to be a sassy little princess with the easy attitude of her late father. Zola felt proud that she had at least accomplished this in her twenty years of life.

In her tipsy state, she laughed and danced around with Mvelo. Sipho could not believe his eyes. He knew that if
ever there was a chance for him it was now. He cut in and offered his hand to Zola, pleading with his eyes. Mvelo gave her mother a shove that made her fall forward into Sipho’s arms. The music slowed and Sipho took his cue. His drunken brother looked on with his mouth hanging open in disbelief and envy.

And in that moment those four years of flirting culminated into a relationship between Sipho and Zola. But it was with a strict condition from Zola. ‘I will not share you with anyone. If that is a problem for you, speak now and let’s go our separate ways.’

Sipho was silent. He was so enjoying the moment that he did not want to deal with this ‘all or nothing’ stand. A few tense, silent moments passed before he responded. ‘All I know for sure is that I don’t want to lose you. I will do my best to be faithful to you, but if I am unable to keep my promise I will be honest with you.’ As he said these words he felt something tighten around his neck.

When he told his friends about how this girl was different from any other girl he’d dated, how he was both miserable
and indescribably happy, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her and her sweet little daughter, they all said the same thing, ‘Perhaps for the first time in your thirty-six years, you are in love.’ Then he felt even more panic-stricken. He was distracted and couldn’t work or concentrate for long without recalling Zola’s dry and clever jokes.

One day he went to the shebeen and asked Skwiza for her blessing to have Zola and Mvelo move in with him. She gave him a hug and laughed. To her, Zola couldn’t have chosen a better man. Besides the obvious benefit of having Sipho the lawyer as her son-in-law if it led to marriage, she really wanted Zola to find happiness. Love had already transformed her into a quietly blossoming flower. Sipho had brought a small, happy song to Zola’s lips. Anyone with an ear for music could hear there was talent lying dormant in her. Until now, Mvelo was the only one who had cracked her open with a love that couldn’t remain indifferent.

When Sipho proposed to Zola that she and Mvelo should come home, Zola looked confused. ‘But we are home,’ she said.

‘No, I mean you should come home with me. You and Mvelo belong with me. Please say you will move in with me.’

She was resistant. ‘I don’t think that Aunt Skwiza would—’

‘I have already asked her blessing,’ he assured Zola, ‘and she said yes. Please say yes, you belong with me.’

And so Zola agreed, but first she had to speak to Mvelo.

Again Sipho was one step ahead of her. He had asked what the little princess thought of the arrangement, and she had answered him by jumping up and down.

So they moved into his house not far from the shebeen, and those were good times for Zola. Remembering what it was like to have a family, she threw herself into creating a home for Mvelo and Sipho.

It was a long time before Sipho plucked up the courage
to take her to visit his overbearing and possessive mother in the rural area of eMpendle. At the back of his mind he knew it was a bad idea, but Zola wanted it and he wanted to make her happy. Since the loss of her own family, she had begun to crave a sense of belonging. She missed her mother and thought perhaps Sipho’s mother could fill that void in time. ‘Am I not good enough to meet your family?’ she had asked him when Sipho once more evaded the issue. He finally gave in, and they packed their bags for the weekend and headed to the homestead.

At the sight of Mvelo, who he explained was Zola’s child, it was over before it started. Sipho’s mother looked straight through Zola, and resisted the charms of little Mvelo. She called her son aside and gave him a tongue-lashing. ‘How long are you going to keep bringing these unsuitable girls into your father’s house? This girl has no meat on her bones. Look at her, she is all muscles like a man. Her behind is an ironing board. Not to mention her having a child with some other man. She is second-hand Sipho, isekeni. You are better than that.’ Sipho steeled himself and took it, not knowing that Zola had overheard.

Zola repacked the bags and asked to be driven back immediately. ‘I heard everything, Sipho. I am sorry that I insisted to come. I was wrong. I will spare her the pain of pretending.’ She was surprised by how much it hurt to be rejected by this woman who she had not even met before. The next time she would see Sipho’s mother would be years later, under very different circumstances.

The drive home was very subdued. Tears were dancing dangerously close to spilling down Zola’s cheeks. Sipho drove with one hand and held her hand with the other.

Mvelo sat very quietly at the back. She knew something was wrong.

Just as what begins as a small pimple can end up as a festering sore, cracks began to show in their happy home. Sipho began to work long hours, sneaking back home in the middle of the night. When he was there, dinners were tense and no longer filled with laughter and stories from the day at the office. Like a turtle, Zola retreated back into her shell and became her old sad self again.

Mvelo tried hard to keep her family entertained, but it didn’t work. The house was cold and she became angry, mostly at her mother. ‘Why can’t she just be happy?’ she would ask herself. Zola’s sadness was infectious. It seeped into everything and repelled Sipho to stay at the office or the shebeen.

Zola sensed she was losing him. She felt angry at him for not standing up for her with his mother and at herself for failing to keep him interested in her. A wave of panic came over her each time she thought of the future without Sipho. She fought hard to fight back the tears when she looked at Mvelo. What would become of this child? She knew she could not stay with Sipho if he began sleeping around with other women. The talk of the deadly HIV/AIDS sent shivers down her spine. She swore to herself that she would not contract the disease and leave Mvelo alone.

But she was her own worst enemy and, hard as Sipho tried to keep the family together, she pushed him further away.
She worried and panicked that he was not being honest with her and she would contract the disease, so she rejected his advances. She demanded tests and insisted on condoms. Rules tightened the noose around Sipho’s neck, until one day he woke up choking and could no longer remember why he was with this woman. He didn’t know how to tell her, and his bond with Mvelo made it harder.