Mthobeli stands in the back yard of his house, the vegetable garden laid out in front of him. Standing here, quietly staring into space, it feels like a way out, a way to forget the pain he feels. He lets go of the muddy hose pipe when he feels his phone vibrating. It drops to the ground like a dead snake.
“Hello, Bhuti.” It’s Sivuyile. “Ntwana’m? Ugrand?”
“It’s hard, Bhuti. I don’t know …”
“I wanted to call kwa yesterday, ntwana’m. Your mom told me what that Principal said. I was worried you’d give up.”
“You told me to be strong, not to show weakness, no matter how sick, tired, or scared I am.”
“That’s it, sani. You’ve got it. Nothing can break you. You’re the smartest kid I know. Nothing will stop you from going to school. This call, it was for reminding you. I don’t want you to forget. If I could bring you to Cape Town, I would. Maybe things would be easier apha. But you know how it is right now. I’m still new here. Maybe next year, when I’ve saved up some more.”
Mthobeli feels like screaming. Next year. That’s too far away. Your eyes work fine, Bhuti. You’re not like me. You don’t hold a phone close to your face to use it. Your eyes easily see the screen. You’re not like me.
“You’re quiet. I know what that means. You’re panicking.”
Mthobeli wants to deny it, to pretend he’s calm, but he blurts out: “I don’t want to sit bored at home again, Bhuti! I don’t want to hear the other kids going to school. They run past every morning. I go inside the house.”
“I’ll push for the whole year. I want you here with me next year. This is your last year in Dordrecht. Just be strong for one more year, ntwana.”
Mthobeli feels torn between hope and sadness. Cape Town is a dream. But another year? No! He can’t sit at home again.
*****
“Just three more years of high school and I’ll be done” says Zimkhitha, her voice overflowing with excitement. “My aunt in Cape Town wants me to go and stay with her, for college.”
Maybe it’s her sister. Ncumisa must’ve been accepted at Phandulwazi. Maybe that’s why she’s so excited. Don’t mess up the moment. Let her smile. Let her talk.
The two of them continue walking down Zimkhitha’s street. The shop they’ve just come from has disappeared behind them.
“Nam my cousin there says he wants me to go stay with him. But he can’t afford it right now.” Mthobeli can feel the energy being drained from his voice. “He’s saving up right now.”
No weakness. Smile. Look at her. Stand up straight.
He takes a deep breath, and tries to let the fear, the tension, fly out of his body, like pressing a reset button.
They walk through her gate. Zimkhitha’s mother is shouting at someone inside.
“You leave me with uNcumisa apha and go find yourself another disabled kid, Mrs Khothe. I tell you she can’t cope there. She can’t even read. How is she going to learn? Her brain doesn’t work properly. No, she must stay at home and help me. One child at school is enough.”
Zimkhitha storms inside. Mthobeli follows hesitantly.
“Why do you always say those things Mama? Ncumisa should go back to school.”
Her mother stares at Mthobeli like she wishes him gone and glares at her daughter. Zimkhitha’s sister is sitting quietly at the table next to Miss Khothe.
Mrs Khothe greets him and Zimkhitha. As he comes closer to her he catches a whiff of her perfume. Fresh flowers.
“Molo, Miss.”
“I’m glad I found you here. When I am finished here I want to talk to you, and your mother.”
Zimkhitha’s mother has turned her back on them. She is packing things away in a cupboard. She doesn’t want to hear. Then she turns and shouts at Zimkhitha to do the washing and for Ncumisa to stop sitting there and to go to the shop for milk. Mthobeli sometimes argues with his mother, but she’ll never get tired of him, resent him, like Zimkhitha’s mother does Ncumisa. Never!
Nthabiseng continues. “I’m here, because I’m worried, Mama, about Ncumisa. I want Ncumisa to come back to school. I will help her.”
Zimkhitha’s mother interrupts. “Listen, young girl. Don’t come into my house and tell me how to raise my children. Where were you when the teachers were complaining that Ncumisa doesn’t understand any of the work? They told me she slows the class down and that I should send her to some school in Queenstown. I won’t waste money I don’t have sending that child to school. It’s a waste of time. Zimkhitha could be a nurse. If she listens to me and stops running after blind boys, she can become something. But Ncumisa … she must stay at home and help me.”
Nthabiseng lets out a deep sigh. “There’s nothing I can do, Mama, when you feel like that. But I have to tell you that it’s wrong. You’re wrong. Ncumisa deserves to learn like the others. And it’s her right to learn.”
She gets up. There is nothing more she can do here right now to convince the girls’ mother.
“Mthobeli, let’s go give your mother the good news, shall we?” She puts a hand on his shoulder.
*****
The excitement is flowing through his body, from his lungs to his head, back to his heart again. Phandulwazi High School, Mthobeli is back! The house felt too small. He’s had to get outside, see his garden, think, smile – celebrate!
His mother is still in a warm embrace with Sis’ Nthabiseng. Beware, Sis’ Nthabiseng. Mama is a strong hugger.
“I have good news, Ma’ka Mthobeli. I went to the Principal and fought with him. He agreed that Mthobeli should be allowed back into the school,” she had said.
He’ll never forget her words. It’s like they’ve given him wings to fly – to take off from his garden right into the big sky above…
***
Tell us what you think: Is Ncumisa’s mother right about her daughter’s options? What is the child’s future? What is challenging for parents of children with disabilities?