this is the president speaking and this is an official call, not a personal one, so I’d appreciate it if you could address me appropriately.’
The words taste bitter in my mouth. ‘Your Excellency, I think that—’
‘Minister, the protests cannot go on any longer and the Minister of Higher Education seems unwilling to make the necessary decisions. We must take matters into our own hands.’
‘If I may offer my advice, Madam President, this is not the route to take. There are alternatives.’
‘I have not yet asked for your opinion, so you can keep your unsolicited advice to yourself. Don’t let your daughter’s activism blinker you – this is the only way to do things if we want to scare them into submission.’
Is she mentioning Sindiwe as a warning? I place the teacup back down on its saucer, my hand shaking with a combination of fear and anger.
‘Your Excellency, “taking him out”, as you call it … that is a very serious step. If you’re just looking to scare them, then perhaps we could try—’
‘Oh, I don’t mean kill him, Ray. I would never say anything like that, especially not over the telephone.’
Her chuckle sends a rush of goose bumps racing up my neck, then down my spine. She is unafraid, untouchable. This is all just a game for her; I need to beat her at it. My mind scrambles for ideas, ways to stop her.
‘Can you clarify exactly what it is you had in mind? I imagine I would need to brief the Minister of Safety and Security too, and I must be clear about what it is you are asking both of us to do, so that we can of course defend it, should Parliament ask. I assume it’s within the ambit of the law?’
‘Minister, this is not about Parliament, and they won’t be asking any questions. There’s no need to get the Minister of Security involved, either; he’s such a stickler for detail. This is just between you and me, Minister. It’s easier that way. Fewer loose ends to tie up if something goes wrong. Anyway, we women don’t need a man to validate our decisions, do we?’
Another threat, another set of goose bumps. As I listen to her instructions, I can tell it all seems simple to her, black-and-white, not hazy greys. But the lines are not as clear for me. For her, the student protests are a matter of generality. For me, they’re personal. She knows that. I take out a pen and make notes as she talks, trying to steady my hands.
‘Are you still listening, Minister?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
‘I’d prefer it if you got this done by Friday morning. Most journalists will be on their way to my zoo launch then and it will be easier to deflect from the story. Make him disappear, Ray. Use the SFs or the T-Ruths, that’s what they’re there for.’
It’s a mistake. Noné’s impatience has always got the better of her. If we kill Hector, he will move from hero to martyr. If we did this, we’d be killing a child, not a movement.
‘And, Ray, don’t make me get someone else to do it. They could, I don’t know, get the wrong student by mistake …’
I clench my shaking hands and want to scream, but instead I scratch her name into my notepad over and over again until it pushes through every leaf of paper and right onto the wood of the table. I could keep going, straight through the table and into the ground – into the molten core of the earth if it would see her finally burn like she deserves to. But she has me; not obeying her instructions means that she wins again. If I disobey her, either Sindiwe is at risk, or I am, and then Sindiwe will have lost two parents to the same woman.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Your Excellency.’
I cannot clear my words of the scorn that I feel at any thought of her supposed excellence. She hangs up and I finally let out the roar that has built inside of me. Noluthando comes rushing in, her eyes wide and her mouth open with a lifetime of unsaid worries.
‘It’s okay, Noli, sorry. It’s just …’
Noluthando shakes her head at me and takes the cup and saucer full of spilt tea away, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze on the way out. I put my head on the desk to rest for a minute, but closed eyes always mean remembering.
My lips tremble but I don’t cry. I’m done crying over Noné; I will not give in to my rage again. I want to believe that I’m better than her. Sindiwe helps me believe that I am. I will do anything to protect her from that woman, even if it means Sindi ends up hating me.
When we returned to South Africa all those years ago, I felt that I had to do so many things – stick to my political commitments, work to earn a living, and raise my daughter alone. The movement often took time from me – time that I gladly gave – but it took time from Sindiwe too. I cannot deny that.
I have tried to be a good mother, but as Sindiwe gets older, I wonder if I have spoiled her. I long for her to understand what freedom after struggle means. How it is a delicacy that melts in the mouth, a hunger filled. Freedom that you’re born with is an unpredictable beast, one that doesn’t require goodness or commitment. But who am I to try to control the freedom I fought for, like it is a gift only I can enjoy?
And with the gifts I have given her, I have taken from others, from myself, from her grandmother. I think about Chris’s mom and her life up there alone in the mountains. Not much has changed since before, except that now each morning she wakes up knowing that her son is dead and that I do not share his daughter, the only living part of him that’s left on this earth, with her. I chose protecting Sindiwe, always, over everything, even when that meant letting an old woman form icicles in her heart against me.
Despite my constant protection, Sindiwe is lightning fast in mind and speech, never faltering when she’s explaining all the reasons why I’m not doing things right; why I’m part of the problem, not the solution; why I’m an embarrassment to her. She hasn’t gone as far as to say that she wishes I wasn’t her mother, but I can feel that statement between us sometimes, cold as a gun. The important thing is that I don’t feel the same way.
She should be learning at campus today; instead, she’s there singing and chanting the same songs I sang at her age. Back then I was angry with the government too. I blamed them just like she does. It’s harder to blame them now that I’m one of them. All of us who were once protestors are the targets of the calls for change, and I don’t think any of us know how to receive the message. We channelled so much energy into being heard, we’ve forgotten how to listen.
I look at pictures of her on the front pages of newspapers and feel that same sense of pride I had when I watched her take her first steps, run her first race, take the stage for her high school graduation, yet this time I know that I don’t have anything to do with her success. I promised her an ocean of freedom and I’ve given her just a drop.
Noluthando returns with a fresh cup of tea, always ready to comfort. We’re not that far apart in age but her spirit is able to hold mine like there are generations between us. Officially, she’s our domestic worker. Unofficially, she is what holds our home together.
‘It’s all going to be okay, Ray. It has to be.’
‘Does it?’
‘Of course, baby.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We are through the darkest days now, so we can only tend towards the sunshine. God is with us.’
‘I don’t know, Noli. It’s becoming more difficult to believe that there are still enough of us on the right path to prevent the others from getting lost. What if we’re turning towards a new darkness?’
She takes a deep breath, wringing her hands and shrugging, then points to the ceiling as though her god is there in the white plaster. ‘Then we will rely on God and the good ones to lead us out again.’ She smiles a weary smile, then leaves me to my desperate thoughts.
I used to think we had fail-safes in place, some