When my father was alive, the family made a living from farming, selling fruit and other produce. When he died, my older brother went off to war. Without my father and her eldest son, Mama struggled to work the farm. After six months of toiling through her grief, she admitted defeat and decided to seek work in Johannesburg, where her younger sister, Violet, was already working as a domestic.

What was going to become of us, now that our mother was going to work in Johannesburg? There was no way we could go with her. As a live-in domestic worker, she would have been given one small room to live in. There wouldn’t have been space for us. Even if there was space, we would not have been able to go to school as there were only white schools in the suburbs. The townships were very far away.

Staying at Cala was also not an option. By now Olga was studying to be a teacher. My oldest brother was working in the mines and would soon be going off to war. Sipho was seventeen, old enough to remain at Cala under the watchful eye of my uncles and with the help of the homeless old woman who lived in an old storeroom. But my mother didn’t want to leave me and my younger brother, Pila, with Sipho and this old lady. We had to find another place to call home.

It was eventually decided that we would join Sandie and the village orphans living with Mamkhulu in Zazulwana, near Butterworth. Two of Mamkhulu’s adult children were working away from home and one of her sons had joined the army and was stationed in Egypt, where he eventually died. Mamkhulu had the space for more children and the need for extra hands to help maintain and protect her property. After Sandie joined her, she was inspired to open her house to needy children from the village. She had enough food to offer them and at the same time she needed them around her house. It was an arrangement that benefited everyone.

Eventually the day came when we were to travel to Zazulwana. We woke before dawn, the winter grass icy with frost. As we walked along the footpath down the hill, our mother held Pila with one hand and carried an old suitcase with our clothing in the other. I had to hold on tightly to her skirt as I walked, skipping every now and then to keep up. She walked briskly, worried that we would miss the only bus for the day from Cala to Butterworth. Though it was still dark I felt safe with her close to me. She kept talking to us, saying nice words to keep our hopes up, to help us make the best out of this situation.

We had not waited long when the rickety old bus arrived. The travellers were mostly miners going back to work. They were noisy, talking and shouting and laughing among themselves. We were quiet, more anxious than unhappy. It took the bus six hours to take us from Cala to Butterworth train station, stopping to drop off and pick up passengers many times during the 125-kilometre trip. When we got to the station, it took us another two hours to walk the six kilometres to Mamkhulu’s house, Mama weighed down with our suitcase. It was only when we got there that our mother finally relaxed. At the gate of Mamkhulu’s house a big dog welcomed us, wagging its tail and sniffing at Mama’s hand. Perhaps it recognised us from our earlier Christmas visits.

Then Mamkhulu appeared, a smile on her face. “Molweni, bantakwethu,” she said, hugging her sister and shaking our hands. Tears rolled down both women’s cheeks. We went into the house and drank amasi. Mamkhulu then gathered everyone together for     a welcome prayer and introduced everyone there. There were four women, most of them Mamkhulu’s relatives, three boys and five girls. My heart smiled to see my brother Sandile among them. Young as I was, I could feel the warmth that permeated this big family.

Everyone seemed interested to meet Sandie’s brother and sister, and Sandie himself was very excited to see us. “How long are you visiting?” he asked Mama after the prayer. “Don’t go home too soon”. Mama took him aside and spoke to him. I saw him nod. She told us later that he was committed to taking care of his siblings.

Everybody asked about our journey. After a delicious meal of mutton, vegetables and dumplings we went to bed, tired but happy.  Early the following morning, after the morning prayers, Mama told the household that Pila and I were going to stay with them while she went to look for work in Johannesburg. In the bus on the way to Butterworth, the miners had been talking about how difficult their lives were in the mines. Mama had taken the opportunity to explain to us, and to me in particular, that that was why she was going to Johannesburg to work – so that she could pay for my education. I thought I understood at the time, but when she explained to everyone at Mamkhulu’s that we would be staying behind, I felt rejected and unloved. I hid my feelings and promised her that I would look after Pila, but when she left a few days later I could not hold my tears. I found a private place, so that I would not be seen, and cried. It was the first time in my life that I would be apart from her. And then she was gone. I had no choice but to embark on the difficult journey to independence.

Before she left, Mama told me it was up to me to choose to make the best of my new life, and that doing so would help me emerge the best that I could be. I listened. I understood. I agreed. I knew that actions speak louder than words and was determined to be brave and reassure Mama that I did not feel as though she was abandoning me. I wanted her to leave knowing that I was managing my emotions, managing the change.

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