“Have you taken your tablets?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
Papa grunted.
That was a typical exchange between Mama and Papa. Before Mama got ill she was the one who made sure Papa went for his check-ups. Her eyes followed him around the house to make sure he followed his doctor’s instructions. We searched the internet for cures to stop Papa smoking: nicotine gum, skin patches, hypnosis. And not a day went by when she did not warn Papa about the dangers of cancer. Papa’s only concession was to smoke outside. When the doctor said Papa needed to do something about his weight, Mama stopped making fat cakes and packed him wholewheat sandwiches instead. She studied food labels and started growing her own vegetables in our little patch.
“You’ve got to stop smoking,” Mama told Papa, as she had done every time he reached for his cigarette pack since they got back from the hospital. “Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?”
Papa put down the packet of cigarettes and fiddled with the TV remote control.
“He said your lungs are those of an 80-year-old…”
“I was there.” Papa reached for the cigarette pack again. He added, apologetically, “Last one…promise.”
Mama shook her head and came into the living room where I was watching TV. “We need to get going, Naledi. Put my laptop in the car…in the boot…and don’t forget the chart…and the box with the pink scarves.” She looked back at Papa, “Are you coming with us?”
Papa took a long drag of his cigarette. “Next time.”
*****
Mama and I were first to arrive at the community hall. I taped the posters to the walls as Mama set up her table. Soon the hall started to fill up. There were mostly women, a few children, and even fewer men.
A shave-a-thon had been organised to launch Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Mama was going to have her head shaved first. I wanted to weep when I saw her hair fall to the ground – it grew so thick and long. I loved to play with it, stretch and comb it into different hair styles.
She taught women how to examine themselves for breast cancer, whether they were young or old. “Press the breast, and then go round this way, and then the other way. Do the other breast. There’s nothing difficult about it. It only takes a few minutes and it can save your life.”
A woman in the front row raised her hand. She spoke with a deep, worried voice. “I have felt a small lump. I’ve been struggling to get off from work but I haven’t found time. Maybe it’s nothing…”
“What is more important than looking after yourself?” Mama asked her.
“I’ve no-one to stay with my little one so I can go for a mammogram.”
“Bring your little one over to my house tomorrow. I will babysit. The sooner you find out what is going on, the better your chances of recovery are. You know that don’t you?”
Mama was like my English teacher. For every question she had a ready answer; for every problem she had a solution.
Long after the workshop ended, people came over to talk to Mama. I watched her smiling at everyone. Sometimes she hugged a woman close; she gave out tissues, dried tears.
Finally we were done. On the way home, I asked Mama, “Have you been?”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you been, Mama? For a mammogram? You said women over 40 need to go at least once a year, didn’t you?”
“I said 50 years. You know I’m only 42.”
“Oh…But I thought you said if you had a sister or mother who had had breast cancer you had to go sooner…and you said Grandma had it and Aunt Nomsa too.”
“I’m fine, Naledi.”
“But how do you know for sure, Mama?”
“I know.”
When we got home, Mama stumbled as she was walking to the front door. I thought she was just a little tired. After all, she knew how to take care of herself. It had been one of those long, hot October days when it felt like the sun was going to sap every last drop of energy from one’s body.
***
Tell us what you think: What might be the real reason Naledi’s mother hasn’t been for a mammogram, even though there is a family history of breast cancer?