When Mama and Papa got back from the hospital I had swopped textbooks for a recipe book. I thought Mama would like blueberry muffins. I heard the car in the driveway, and I ran outside. Mama was smiling and seemed like she was fine, but she still went straight to her bedroom.

“Don’t worry, my girl. The doctor says all I need to do is rest.”

“But what’s wrong, Mama?”

I saw my parents exchange a look when they thought I wasn’t looking and I felt my palms get a little sweaty, and I rubbed them dry on my dress. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

We were sitting on the edge of Mama’s bed.

“I will know for sure when I get the results back.”

“Results? For what? Why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong?”

“The doctor found a lump…here.” She pointed to her left armpit.

“But lots of women find lumps in their breasts. They can be removed and then the person is okay again…” I echoed the words I had heard Mama speak so many times before. “And you’ve been doing these breast exams since you were my age, right, Ma?”

“It will be okay, Naledi,” she said. I thought that that wasn’t really an answer.

I dreamed in pink that night. There were pink ribbons and pink motorbikes. Mama was riding a pink motorbike. She was laughing and smiling and then when she turned the corner, wind blew a little and the wig Mama was wearing flew off and I watched it fly and then roll in the dust. And then Mama was sitting in a cloud of smoke.

I woke up feeling like I had been running, and went straight to Mama’s room. I found her sitting on a chair, looking outside into the garden.

“Mama, aren’t you going to work today?”

“Not today. I’m going to rest.”

I could not remember Mama ever needing to rest.

The following morning, I smelled burning coming from the kitchen. Papa was in there. I watched him open and close the kitchen cabinets. Then he opened the fridge, peered inside and closed it again.

“What are you looking for, Papa?”

“Milk.”

I took a bottle of milk out of the fridge and set it on the table.

“Ah…I’m making your mother the muffins she likes,” he said.

Papa had never made muffins before. In fact, Papa rarely went into the kitchen. When I took out the rubbish, I found an empty can of blueberries, Papa’s failed attempt at muffin baking, and a packet of cigarettes, still full, crushed into small pieces.

***

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