“The soup is ready, Zweli, come let’s have some,” Mam Dikeledi calls as she gestures for Zweli to come to into the kitchen. “I made it just the way I know you like it. You have the same tastes in food as me, nyana, you like a bit of spice in it. Just take a break hleng; you have been working since morning.”

“Eish,” Zweli says as he takes off his muddy boots and comes inside. “The smell mara Maoledi. Hai mara wena o sekgwari yoh. (You are a good cook, Mother.)” He rubs his hands together to warm them up as he sits down. “You know Mam Dikeledi, this soup you cooked for me reminds me of the soup my mother used to cook for us in the winter – even the flavours. It was really special. Ohh, my dad used to come back with a box of potatoes just so she could make his favourite soup. Those were the olden, good days when I was a boy in the village nearby,” Zweli sighs.

Hai wena, go wash your hands first. I tell you every day about hygiene! Hah, your girlfriend will be highly disappointed yaz. Don’t you know that ‘cleanliness is next to Godliness’?” Mam Dikeledi lectures, waving her wooden spoon at him.

He stands up and goes to the sink, washes his hands and comes back to the table. “Eish mara Maoledi, that girl is my dream come true. Serious.”

“Stop dreaming, my dear. Start drinking your soup before it gets cold.”

Maoledi, I didn’t tell you the whole story about my Princess Cinderella. There is someone standing in my way, you see, a guy who thinks he is everything. He wants to take her away from me. He is more of a, umm, aaah … you know those people who make you feel so small, really small, small like an insect, Maoledi? My Cinderella thinks she loves this person, but I say no! No man, that ne is the lady of my dreams.”

“Hee,” Mam Dikeledi stops him, “that doesn’t sound good my son. No, she knows you love her, you have shown her the signs, and yet she goes after another. She is not the one for you, my son.”

Then when she sees his face fall, she adds, “The one will come, at the right time. You must be patient. I remember with my husband, Lota – it took him a lot of time to actually get me. He didn’t give up on me; he gave me time to actually come to him.

“He was so young and naive, didn’t care who thinks what of him. Finding love was the most important mission of his life, and actually, finding me is what kept him sane. I remember one day he came to my house.” Mam Dikeledi shakes her head and laughs. “He had a some stones in his hand. Stones! But the stones were so pretty and they looked really special. He gave me one and he ran away. Ohh, how romantic, how special, it was the best day of my life. He knew how to take me out of my miseries. I knew that if I saw him on a day when I was very sad, thinking of my darling boy, my little baby, I would forget about all that is happening in my heart. His love and affection took my mind to a very different place. Oh, how wonderful is that. Zweli ngwanaka (My son), you remind me of him, and my sweet, old memories.”

Then Mam Dikeledi starts crying again, “Ohh, but why do you bring such memories to me?”

Zweli looks at her. “You have lost two children Ma. There is a lot of sadness in your life.”

Mam Dikeledi wipes her eyes. “I am so sorry, my child. I try to be happy, but on days like this the sorrow will not go away.”

“But I think your children brought you joy too, didn’t they?” Zwele says gently.

“Oh, they did – they do – and my grandchild, Lesedi. She is such a sweet and pretty girl.”

“Do you ever think of finding your son?” Zweli asks. “Perhaps he is a handsome man by now. Perhaps he has a wife and children of his own – your grandchildren. Do you ever think of going to find him?”

Mam Dikeledi shakes her head. She sighs. “They took him away from me,” she repeats. “They said I was too young, that I had no-one to help me. I did not want to let him go, I cried …

“My cruel husband stood in the doorway and he watched as the women of his family filled the room. I knew why they were there. I flew to pick up my child. I held him so close to me. But it was just me against all of them and a husband who would not come to help me, even when I screamed his name. Even when I said he could hit me every night and every day. I begged him. I said I would be the best wife he could ever have, I would submit to him in the bedroom, because that is what he said a good wife should do, even if he hurt me as he always did, every night. I would do anything. I begged. I begged him so hard, Zweli, but he stood like a stone and watched while the women tore my child from me. Somehow they managed to take him.

“Just before they left the room, I asked for two small favours. One of the women turned to face me. I rushed to the box under my bed and I took out a photograph of my baby, one from a special set that my husband had taken when he was still proud to be a father, before his wife melted into nothing. I hunted for a pen and my husband got impatient.

“‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Let us finish with this for once and for all.’ I found a pen, and I rushed to write on the back of the photograph.

“I ran over to the woman who had stopped to listen to me. She had a kind face and I said that to her: ‘You seem kind. Please, make sure he gets this photograph from me.’ I pointed to the chain around his neck, the one I had put there on the day he was born. ‘Please, tell him that this gift was my mother’s and that she loved me as much as I love him.’

“She nodded and I could see that she wasn’t happy about what they were doing to me. ‘And please, please,’ I begged her, ‘tell my most beloved child that I will think of him every day.’”

***

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