By the end of 1950 I had passed my second-year exams and had  one year left to complete my training. I was in love with my dance instructor. Mama’s health was the only darkness in my life. At Cala they had treated her sore breast until it burst open. It was only then that they diagnosed breast cancer.

By now she had been living at home for more than eight months. At the beginning of December 1950, I went to Cala to visit her, my mind full of plans to organise a party for her sixtieth birthday later in the month. When I got there I was shocked to see how her condition had deteriorated. She looked tired. She tried her best to be cheerful, but not even the medication could keep the pain away for very long. She had lost a lot of weight. It was difficult to see Mama – this tall, smart woman – suffering.

My fear of being separated from her grew very real. Although I had taken care of very ill patients who had managed to recover and go home, this was different. Nothing I had been confronted with at the hospital prepared me for seeing Mama like this. I admit, I was selfish. Instead of giving her a chance to sleep when the painkillers gave her some short relief, I made her talk to me instead.

“All that happens in life today will be history tomorrow,” she said one day. “What is important is to be grateful to God for today’s moment. This can unlock the fullness of life tomorrow.” She then told me that it was important to be thankful to Mamkhulu for all that she had done for us. She told us to care for each other, Pila and myself. She made me promise to always value education.

She said all this in short bursts, her sentences broken by the drugs and the pain. I gathered up her words and thanked her for them. I thanked her for everything she had done for us children, and promised to fulfil her wishes. “I must still get you a birthday present,” I said.

She just gave a small nod and smiled.

I went back to Frere to work. Olga took leave and went home to nurse Mama. Seven days later, I was called to the matron’s office.

At Frere Hospital the managers’ offices were viewed as sacred, a place of fear. Usually, when you were summoned to the matron’s office, you were about to be warned about a serious offence or expelled.

When I got to the matron’s half-open door I rolled down my sleeves, knocked, walked in and introduced myself, as was nursing etiquette. The matron’s office had big windows with expensive curtains running from ceiling to floor; behind her was a bookshelf full of neatly arranged books and files.

Normally, the matron would straighten up and look a person in the eye when they walked in, as though she could read the truth there. This time, she sat still behind her oversized desk, frowning at the pen she was tapping against her blotting pad. “How old are you, nurse?” she asked. “When last did you see your mother?”

“I’m twenty-one years old, Matron,” I replied. “I saw my mother last week.”

Finally she looked at me, her expression a little more kind. “I’m sorry,” she said, handing over a pink telegram envelope. “Your mother died yesterday.”

I buried my face in my hands, sobbing from deep down in my belly. I thought the matron was still talking when my ward sister came in, gave me a hug and steered me out of the office. In retrospect, I think the matron had asked her to be there to get me out of her office as quickly as possible.

I had lost forever the most important piece in my puzzle of life. A sharp pain tore at my heart as I imagined Mama in the setting of death, a mound of rocky, freshly dug soil on top of a coffin with her motionless but very precious body. Never again would I hug Mama or write her a letter. I was grateful that I had been able to thank her for her selflessness after my father’s death. Were it not for her, where would I have been? How I wished she could have been given good health to witness the next step in my life, now that I had found Sol. The woman who had brought me into this world was gone. What an irreplaceable loss.

Mama’s funeral passed in a blur. Afterwards, we were told that the mourning period was to be six months, during which time we were to wear black clothes. In the first weekend in June we would gather to hold a cleansing ceremony, where we would burn black buttons from our mourning clothes. After that, we could wear normal clothes again. The loss of Mama disturbed my faith for some time – but the gain of a loving, understanding man gave me strength not to lose hope. Eventually, my grief crystallised into a burning desire to make Mama proud, even in death, and to use the talents given to me to the best of my ability.

Shortly after Mama’s death I started gaining weight. At first I thought it was because I was under less pressure from work and studies, but the worrying thing was that even since before Mama’s death I had been feeling nauseous and generally weak. I finally buckled and went to see a doctor. I was surprised when the doctor said I was four months pregnant.

When he found out, Sol held me close and said, “Don’t worry, Manse. I will never abandon you. Perhaps having a baby is not a bad idea after all.” But I worried I wasn’t ready to have a baby yet. I felt angry with him and sorry for myself. I burst into tears. Sol looked confused. “Why are you crying? We have already talked about getting married.”

That wasn’t what was upsetting me. I was devastated at the thought that I might never become a nurse, that I would never get to enjoy my independence and be able to do what I liked. I wanted to get married, but only later. Sol and I had already discussed our future but had postponed concrete plans. We wanted our path to be sturdy, but sure. Finding out I was pregnant so soon after Mama’s death was a blow.

But I trusted Sol and I believed in him, because I loved him. I thought of what my mother would have said, of what Olga would say. She would be so disappointed at our carelessness. There was so much explaining to do, but Sol was there all the time.

Culturally, pregnancy out of wedlock was a disgrace. We would have to get married to save us from the embarrassment. Sol went to arrange lobola with Uncle Elliot, who said that we would have to wait before arranging the wedding as my family was still in mourning for Mama.

I told the hospital matron about what had happened. She had a lot to say about the importance of self-respect and so on, but told me to “go ahead with my plans” and come back in three weeks’ time. I suppose she meant I had to get married, so that my pregnancy could be recognised, but with my family in mourning that could not happen. By the end of the three weeks there was nothing to report. The matron was understanding, but there was nothing she could do to help me. I was suspended from lectures and told to leave the nurses’ home until the situation changed.

We had no other choice but to find a place for me to live. I couldn’t stay with Sol because, Uncle Elliot told us, it was culturally forbidden to live together before marriage. He sounded frankly irritated at the suggestion. Cala was out of question because there were no antenatal clinics or hospitals nearby. So we turned to the person who had taken me in under difficult circumstances before.

Mamkhulu welcomed me with sympathy.  She kindly allowed Sol   to visit me at her home, provided the visits were kept private. By now I was eight months pregnant. After two weeks, Mamkhulu took me to the antenatal clinic at Butterworth Hospital. The clinic staff reprimanded me for coming late, telling me that I should be coming for weekly check-ups at this late stage in my pregnancy. When I went back a week later, they suggested I should be admitted, because Zazulwana to the hospital was a long distance for a pregnant woman to travel. Two days later, on the morning of 7 April 1951, I gave birth to our first son, Tammie. Sol came through that afternoon. We were so happy and proud of our healthy baby boy.

As was her way, Mamkhulu took charge of everything after that. She even tried to monopolise the baby, trying to fill the gap left by Mama. Being from Butterworth, she knew Sol’s mother, and set about making arrangements.