Eleven-year-old Khulekani sits on the floor in front of a snowy TV screen cheering the South African football team.Bafana, Bafana is playing against Mexico in the 2010 FIFA World Cup opening match and every muscle of his slim body is tense with excitement. Musa, his five-year-old brother plays on the bed with their sister, Mbali. He is tickling the toddler’s chubby cheeks. It’s a bright early winter day.
It’s a two-room house. The room they are in is built of wood. A scratchy voice calls for Khulekani, and he rushes to the other room, where his mother Cecilia lies on a sleeping mat on the floor. In this room the walls are made of mud, collected from the river nearby. It is steaming hot, but she covers herself with a loose sheet. She is lying on her back.
“Yebo Mama,” Khulekani says, crouching beside Cecilia, who appears fragile. She is skeletally thin. Breast cancer is nibbling every particle of her.
“Get your mama some water, would you?” says Cecilia, rolling her eyes to gaze at him.
Khulekani dashes to the other room where he scoops water from a 20-litre bucket with a small metal jug.
“Here, Ma, sip,” Khulekani says as he hands Cecilia the water.
Cecilia is too frail to even sit up straight.
“Leave it here; I’ll drink it later,” Cecilia says.
Khulekani hurries back to the other room and sits in front of the TV again. He watches, thrilled by the anticipation of a goal, but the game continues till halftime and not a single team has scored. He is outside, peeing, when his brother, Musa, chases him down.
“Mama calls your name, Kuhle,” Musa says.
Khulekani rushes back, but as he passes the TV he notices that the game has resumed, so he stands still for a bit.
“Khule!” calls Cecilia, but her voice is weak.
He is only shaken alert when Musa tweaks his trousers and says, “Mama called for your name, remember?”
In the other room Khulekani finds Cecilia is naked now, the covers are around her feet. He squats in an attempt to pull it to her chest.
“No, it’s hot in here, I can’t breathe well… I can’t breathe well with the covers over me,” says Cecilia. Her voice is shallow.
“But Ma, you are naked,” says Khulekani.
Cecilia nods slightly. “Please make porridge and feed Mbali for me,” says Cecilia, but her words dwindle at the end.
“Ma?” says Khulekani.
“Feed Mbali.”
Khulekani remains by his mother for a while, he wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. Warm streams of tears flow from his deep-set eyes on his light-skinned cheeks and fall on his mother’s chest.
“Why are you crying?” asks Cecilia. “Don’t cry, stay strong for me, okay?”
Khulekani nods, snorts, and stands up.
“I want one too, please I want one!” says Musa, watching Mbali as she eats the instant porridge Khulekani has prepared.
“I will make one for you too,” says Khulekani, slowly removing his eyes from the TV screen.
Just when he is stirring Musa’s porridge, he sees Simphiwe Tshabalala, the midfielder of the South African team, swinging his thunderous left foot. He strikes the ball to a marvellous goal. Vuvuzela’s buzz all over Amaoti and from the TV.
“Ma! Ma!” shouts Khulekani running to the other room. “They have scored! Tshabalala has scored!”
Cecilia’s dry lips are as rigid as her body.
“Ma! They have scored,” says Khulekani.
Cecilia still says nothing. Khulekani looks closer and realises that his mother’s chest isn’t rising. He kneels and lowers his head to her nose, but no breath is coming out of her.
He lifts his head and looks up, hoping the tears will fall back into his eyes. He wipes his tears, pulls the cover over his mother and then goes to the other room.
“Mama is happy?” asks Musa. He is putting the porridge into his mouth with a tiny spoon, and is smeared all over with it
Mbali is sitting with her back supported by a bundle of pillows on the bed. Her eyes are wide open. Khulekani picks her up and sits her on his lap. He stretches his hand to take the bowl of porridge from the table to feed Mbali.
“Yes, she is,” says Khulekani.
Tell us what you think: Why does Khule tell the other children that Mama is happy?