THANDI’S MOTHER’S BELLY is shaking. Her chin is wobbling. Her mouth is trembling. Her cheeks are streaming. ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
She takes her apron to wipe her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘I’m not crying. I’m laughing.’
‘OK. So what are you laughing about.’
She opens the door and invites me inside the tiny township house with a gesture. ‘That Thandi, that boy of mine,’ she says as I sit down on the big old sofa. ‘He’ll be the death of me.’
She sinks down next to me, and the sofa tips with her weight. ‘You know I hate heavy household chores, so he’s gone and helped me. Dragged the washing out of the bath and spread it all out to dry. The only thing is, he can’t reach the line, so he’s spread it all over the fence and the dog kennel and everything else in the yard. Can’t say anything in front of that boy!’
Thandi’s two at the time. He does only try to help. So, we go outside and collect the washing and dump it all in the bath again. She runs water and adds Omo washing powder and we go to the kitchen to make tea.
Thandi comes toddling in to join us, grinning all over his shining, dimpled face. ‘I hanged out the clo’es!’ he says. His clothes are still soaked from his efforts.
His mother laughs and kisses and thanks him. She sends him off to ‘get out of those wet things.’
Thandi emerges from the only other room in the house, stark naked, dragging his bundle of wet clothes behind him. ‘I hang up,’ he grins proudly at us as he and his bundle half-stagger, half-tumble out the back door.
Thandi’s mum just sighs and proceeds to drink her tea and down another doughnut. Her boy is such a good little boy. No trouble at all. She’d rather have him smiling than crying over a bit – or even a lot – of a mess.
Some years later, I’m visiting again. Thandi’s mother’s belly is shaking again. Her chin is wobbling. Her mouth is trembling and her cheeks are streaming. Forgetting last time I saw her like this, I ask, ‘What’s the matter?’
She takes her apron to wipe her eyes. ‘Oh, you know. It’s that Thandi, that boy of mine again. I swear, he’ll be the death of me.’ She opens the garden gate and waves at me to sit down on one of the porch benches. She goes inside to fetch cold drinks and when she’s handed me one and sat down alongside me, she says, ‘I hate kids starving, scratching for food in bins. I give them bread or a plate of food when I can. I had a nap this afternoon and woke up to find what looks like every stray child in the township sitting out here on the porch, eating.’
I gape. She’s generous to a fault, but rich she’s not. What the hell?
‘That Thandi,’ she laughs again, ‘He’s taken every scrap of food he could find in the house, all my tins and jars, emptied out the fridge. Fed every stray infant in sight. There’s nothing left in the house for my family to eat. You can’t say anything in front of that boy!’
Thandi’s six at the time. So we sit on the porch in the sunshine, and we laugh together at Thandi, playing marbles with his mates in the dusty street, grinning all over his grubby little face. I reach into my purse and, against her protests, leave a little something towards restocking her cupboards.
I see Thandi’s mother crying today. It’s been some years but I remember she looks like she’s crying when really she’s laughing. Only thing is, her belly’s not shaking, her chin’s not wobbling, her mouth’s not trembling. Her cheeks are just silently streaming, tears dripping down in the dust in front of the porch, where Thandi used to toddle and play. But I laugh in readiness as I ask, ‘What’s he gone and done this time?’
She doesn’t try to wipe her eyes. Tears and snot run unheeded through all the dust on her face. ‘That Thandi, that boy of mine. I’ve been the death of him,’ she cries, lumbering down the garden path to the gate where I am waiting. She leans on the shut gate, looking out on the street, not inviting me in.
I wait. The sobs don’t cease. I reach into my bag and hand her a pack of tissues. She looks at it, unseeing. I take one out, shake it, and reach over to wipe her face.
The story comes out then. ‘So often I’ve said I hate the soldiers and shooting, the police, chasing our people night and day. That Thandi, that boy of mine, he took some mates and went to chase them away, with just stones in their hands, trying to chase away the dogs, and tanks, and guns.
Thandi’s just twelve at the time. I push at the gate, and she moves her bulk. I walk up the path into the sunless sitting room. We sink to our knees, sighing together over Thandi, lying dead on the sofa with a bullet inside him. He still looks pleased with himself.
He’s been such a good boy for his mum. Always. Such a good boy.
‘OK. So what are you laughing about.’
She opens the door and invites me inside the tiny township house with a gesture. ‘That Thandi, that boy of mine,’ she says as I sit down on the big old sofa. ‘He’ll be the death of me.’
She sinks down next to me, and the sofa tips with her weight. ‘You know I hate heavy household chores, so he’s gone and helped me. Dragged the washing out of the bath and spread it all out to dry. The only thing is, he can’t reach the line, so he’s spread it all over the fence and the dog kennel and everything else in the yard. Can’t say anything in front of that boy!’
Thandi’s two at the time. He does only try to help. So, we go outside and collect the washing and dump it all in the bath again. She runs water and adds Omo washing powder and we go to the kitchen to make tea.
Thandi comes toddling in to join us, grinning all over his shining, dimpled face. ‘I hanged out the clo’es!’ he says. His clothes are still soaked from his efforts.
His mother laughs and kisses and thanks him. She sends him off to ‘get out of those wet things.’
Thandi emerges from the only other room in the house, stark naked, dragging his bundle of wet clothes behind him. ‘I hang up,’ he grins proudly at us as he and his bundle half-stagger, half-tumble out the back door.
Thandi’s mum just sighs and proceeds to drink her tea and down another doughnut. Her boy is such a good little boy. No trouble at all. She’d rather have him smiling than crying over a bit – or even a lot – of a mess.
Some years later, I’m visiting again. Thandi’s mother’s belly is shaking again. Her chin is wobbling. Her mouth is trembling and her cheeks are streaming. Forgetting last time I saw her like this, I ask, ‘What’s the matter?’
She takes her apron to wipe her eyes. ‘Oh, you know. It’s that Thandi, that boy of mine again. I swear, he’ll be the death of me.’ She opens the garden gate and waves at me to sit down on one of the porch benches. She goes inside to fetch cold drinks and when she’s handed me one and sat down alongside me, she says, ‘I hate kids starving, scratching for food in bins. I give them bread or a plate of food when I can. I had a nap this afternoon and woke up to find what looks like every stray child in the township sitting out here on the porch, eating.’
I gape. She’s generous to a fault, but rich she’s not. What the hell?
‘That Thandi,’ she laughs again, ‘He’s taken every scrap of food he could find in the house, all my tins and jars, emptied out the fridge. Fed every stray infant in sight. There’s nothing left in the house for my family to eat. You can’t say anything in front of that boy!’
Thandi’s six at the time. So we sit on the porch in the sunshine, and we laugh together at Thandi, playing marbles with his mates in the dusty street, grinning all over his grubby little face. I reach into my purse and, against her protests, leave a little something towards restocking her cupboards.
I see Thandi’s mother crying today. It’s been some years but I remember she looks like she’s crying when really she’s laughing. Only thing is, her belly’s not shaking, her chin’s not wobbling, her mouth’s not trembling. Her cheeks are just silently streaming, tears dripping down in the dust in front of the porch, where Thandi used to toddle and play. But I laugh in readiness as I ask, ‘What’s he gone and done this time?’
She doesn’t try to wipe her eyes. Tears and snot run unheeded through all the dust on her face. ‘That Thandi, that boy of mine. I’ve been the death of him,’ she cries, lumbering down the garden path to the gate where I am waiting. She leans on the shut gate, looking out on the street, not inviting me in.
I wait. The sobs don’t cease. I reach into my bag and hand her a pack of tissues. She looks at it, unseeing. I take one out, shake it, and reach over to wipe her face.
The story comes out then. ‘So often I’ve said I hate the soldiers and shooting, the police, chasing our people night and day. That Thandi, that boy of mine, he took some mates and went to chase them away, with just stones in their hands, trying to chase away the dogs, and tanks, and guns.
Thandi’s just twelve at the time. I push at the gate, and she moves her bulk. I walk up the path into the sunless sitting room. We sink to our knees, sighing together over Thandi, lying dead on the sofa with a bullet inside him. He still looks pleased with himself.
He’s been such a good boy for his mum. Always. Such a good boy.
Born in apartheid South Africa, Shereen Pandit became a lawyer, lecturer, political activist and trade unionist. Exiled in the UK, she completed a PhD in law, contin- ued her activism and began writing. Much of Shereen’s current political activity revolves around the Palestinian cause. She is a volunteer English teacher for young Palestinians. Her work has been widely published. She has won and been shortlisted for several prizes. Her work has been on stage and radio in the USA and is used in European schools.
|
supported by
|
awarded
|