Holding Up the Sky (48 page)

Not long after, the drums started. Mama explained that this singing and dancing would continue through the night and into the morning until we everybody across to the family graveyard where the gravestone was to be raised. Passing the sleeping baby to one of its relatives, Karen and I went to see what was happening. Out in front of the house on an open piece of ground was a circle of older women. Two sat and a third stood next to three forty-four gallon drums with animal skin stretched over one end. One woman played with her hands and the other two held thick sticks with more skin wrapped around the ends. Moving in a relentless circle around the three were fifteen other women, each wearing a long string of rattles around each ankle. They appeared to be made from a type of grass or reed folded into triangles with a small rock or seed inside that shook when the wearer stamped her feet.

As the drums throbbed, the women shuffled forward, striking their heels into the ground as they went. In their hands were multicoloured beaded sticks with what looked like white raffia attached at the end. With each drum stroke, each step, they flicked the sticks and seemed to implore the heavens with moans rather than lyrics. Most of the women wore aqua garments over the clothes they had worn for cooking. Their arms and wrists were also thickly decorated with beaded bracelets and their heads wrapped in navy blue cloth. As this was not something I had seen before, Karen and I sat watching as if hypnotised by the rhythm and movement.

As the darkness closed in, the smells of roasting meat wafted across from where the men had gathered some hours before. Though I had not seen any slaughtering, no doubt a number of animals were required to feed this large crowd. I explained the routine to Karen and we soon had our plates on our laps piled high with lamb, pap and cooked vegetables. As we were in the middle of the bush, with the only light coming from paraffin lamps inside the houses, the stars pressed down on our heads, dense, heavy and glorious. I sat listening to the conversations around us and to the night sounds of the bush beyond, grateful as always for the chance to experience something that has been done for hundreds of years beyond the notice of the western world.

Around midnight, Karen and I were given a double bed to share. After finally managing to extract Mello from her distant cousins, the three of us retired for the night, the sounds of drums and shuffling feet pounding outside and echoing into my dreams. Teboho, like most of the other adults, stayed awake through the night talking, dancing and singing at intervals as the vigil continued until dawn.

I woke at first light with only a few hours of sleep under my belt. I had lost the ability to sleep through the night about a month before and now the baby's movements and my need for the toilet had me up a few times a night. Given the circumstances, I had ignored the call of nature but could not ignore my baby's acrobatics. I rolled over towards Karen and Mello to see if they had fared any better. Mello had, as usual, assumed the sleep position and was in possession of the majority of the bed. Karen was clinging onto what was left on the far side. Hearing me move, she opened her bloodshot eyes and stared at me with a pleading look.

‘Between Mello and the drums, I don't think I slept a wink', she whispered over Mello's head.

I was under no illusion that Mello would wake anytime soon, so replied in a normal voice, ‘Do you want to get up and see about breakfast?'

‘Sounds like a plan.'

Breakfast was porridge that was already bubbling away in a few of the large three-legged pots in the open-air kitchen. We greeted all the women who were working there, including Karen's young friends from the day before, unsure if they had grabbed a few hours sleep or had kept the vigil all night. Karen was happy to stay and give the porridge a try but I went off in search of bread.

After breakfast, we popped in on Mello who was still fast asleep, before heading out to see the dancers. The same women were circling the drums, though they had all changed into matching purple outfits with blue and white trim creating geometrical designs on the bottom of the dress. Each woman was now wearing a white headscarf and carried two raffia sticks instead of one. I noticed a man emerge from behind the drums, wearing the same purple material made into a shirt and a white baseball cap in place of the headcloth. He stayed inside the circle rather than joining the line of women. As before, there was a crowd of onlookers, mostly boys and men. After a time, the crowd had grown to include many of the women who had been watching over the pots, giving me the impression that something was about to happen.

I began hunting around for Teboho who I was yet to see from the night before. Eventually I found him sitting a little way off under a tree with the older men. After the greetings and compulsory introductions that described in a long, complicated manner the relationship of each of these old men to us, I was able to ask what was about to happen. Teboho explained that we would soon be moving across to the graveyard to see the unveiling of the headstone. When the drumming changed and the dancers headed off, that would be a sign to follow.

As I made my way back to the circle, I spotted Karen on the veranda with yet another baby on her back and Mello by her side, looking like something the river had swept up after a storm. I went across and took Mello inside to wash her face and change. I had long since handed over the care of her hair to professionals and it was in need of some serious attention now. Mello has very tightly curled hair and lots of it, so the process of relaxing it to make it more manageable is a painful one. For the purposes of this trip, I had tied her hair into two little bunches and popped an Alice band over the front to keep the loose ends in place. On more than one occasion, a black woman would walk past her and ‘tut tut' on seeing the condition of her hair. I braced myself for such condemnation today.

Once Mello was a little more respectable, we rejoined Karen on the veranda where we had a good view of the proceedings. Before long, the time had arrived: the dancers peeled off into a straight line and we joined the large crowd of relatives and neighbours who fell in behind. I was by now well used to the dancing motion that even the smallest child adopted as they made their way towards the fence line, though Karen kept her eyes on the feet of the person in front of her and attempted to copy the steps without tripping over. Soon a long line had formed and was snaking its way along the fence, down the dirt road and towards the open veld where the local graveyard lay. When Karen and I arrived, the minister was already in position by the headstone, along with the immediate family of the man who had passed away. After a long speech by the minister–I did my best to translate for Karen from northern Sotho, a language I did not understand beyond its similarity to Southern Sotho–the cloth that had been covering the headstone was removed.

The ornately carved granite headstone stood as high as the minister's shoulder and displayed the name of the deceased and his relationship to those he had left behind. It was also decorated with a wreath. The size of the stone and the nature of the carving communicated the respect the family felt for the departed; such stones cost many thousands of rands and all branches of the family, including our own, had been required to make a contribution towards it. After a short prayer and a song, the crowd broke up and quietly made its way back to the compound in groups of threes and fours.

We left Bochum after lunch as the heat and my pregnancy were making the day uncomfortable. Even with such an obvious excuse to depart early, it still took us over an hour to move around saying our appropriate goodbyes. Though we were all exhausted from lack of sleep, sweaty and dusty, I was so glad that this event had happened during Karen's stay and she was able to be a part of it.

Two days later, Karen was gone. As always, it was hard to see an old friend depart. She had been my constant companion for many weeks, one with whom nuances were understood, jokes shared and Australian sarcasm and slang did not require translation. Lonely days stretched out before me once Teboho was at work and Mello at school. As if sensing this, Mama sent word to say that she would be coming to stay, worried that I should not be left alone without a phone so close to my due date. Though I did not know it at the time, this would be a permanent arrangement and one that was to provide me with much companionship and support as I came to feel more isolated in our new home.

BY
THE BEGINNING OF DECEMBER, OUR NEW HOUSE WAS AS FINISHED AS IT WAS GOING TO BE. THE WALLS STILL NEEDED PAINTING, THE BATHROOMS TILING AND THE WOODEN FLOOR STAINING BUT WE HAD RUN OUT OF MONEY AND TIME. WE HAD DESIGNED THE HOUSE IN THREE SECTIONS, THE FIRST CONTAINING TWO BEDROOMS, A PLAYROOM AND A SMALL BATHROOM; THE SECOND, AN OPEN PLAN KITCHEN, LOUNGE AND DINING ROOM WHICH HAD DOUBLE FRENCH DOORS THAT OPENED OUT ONTO WHAT WOULD ONE DAY BE OUR GARDEN.; THE THIRD SECTION CONTAINED THE MAIN BEDROOM, A STUDY AND A BATHROOM THAT AT THIS STAGE HAD NOT PROGRESSED BEYOND HAVING A TOILET. WE HAD ATTEMPTED TO BE AS ENERGY EFFICIENT AS WE COULD, THE HOUSE BEING NORTH FACING AND WITH CROSS VENTILATION IN EACH SECTION. IN FACT, IT TURNED OUT TO BE DELICIOUSLY WARM IN WINTER AND BLISSFULLY COOL IN SUMMER, NEVER REQUIRING THE EXPENSE OF HEATING OR AIR CONDITIONING.

When we moved in at the end of the first week of December, the house resembled our rental in Finsbury in that it was really just a house on a piece of land. There were a few wattle trees in the northeast corner but other than that, the land was covered in brittle tufts of grass, the same kind that is used to thatch roofs. As we had opted for tiles over thatch, the grass would remain untouched until I turned my attention to building a garden.

One of the reasons we had been interested in this property, outside its proximity to Mohlakeng, was the powerful bore hole that it reportedly contained. With the last of our money, we had paid a local contractor to erect a five metre water tower on which was perched a large water tank. A small pump drew the water from beneath the ground and up into the tank, then it was largely gravity that gave us water pressure in the adjacent house. True to predictions, the water was clean and strong and soon we had a plentiful supply of water for the house and garden.

The day of the move was an exciting one for all of us. I had packed up the Finsbury house many days ahead of schedule in anticipation. Though Mama didn't like to see me exerting myself so close to the birth, predicted to be less than four weeks away, I wanted no delays in getting us out of this mean little house and into our own home. Moss and Khumo and other friends from church were there to help, as well as Mello's oldest brother Joseph who was up in Jo'burg for the university holidays. So many hands made the move a quick one, though in reality we had very little to move: a couch, a double bed, a bunk bed which we had split into two single beds for Mama and Mello, two chests of drawers, a desk, a few prints for the walls and a rug for the floor. The rest of our possessions were packed into boxes: clothes, plates, pots, cutlery and Mello's toys. Moss and Khumo gave us their old dining room table and chairs as a gift, making our new home complete.

I had stayed at the Finsbury house to direct traffic until the last box was loaded, then squeezed myself into the front seat of our car next to Teboho for the short drive to the new house. As we pulled into the yard, I was overcome by the feeling of finally arriving after a long journey. I had a place to call home, a place where my child could be born. As I let my eyes run over the house and the surrounding trees, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head in time to see the water tower buckle and surrender the tank's load onto the grass at the side of the house, spraying water in a huge arc as if some giant had just thrown a bucket of dirty water into our backyard. The water tank had cracked like an enormous egg and now lay in two pieces in the dirt.

Teboho screeched to a halt and leapt out of the car to assess the damage. I sat for a few minutes unable to move, pushing aside thoughts of what dreadful deeds I could have done to deserve this. Finally, I hauled my cumbersome body out of the car and went to join the crowd that had gathered as if around a grave to look at what was left of our water tower. It certainly felt like a grave to me. What would we do without water in the house? The tower and tank had been expensive and we had nothing left to pay for their replacement. I stood next to the pieces, willing myself not to cry.

A few days before, Teboho had driven me to the hospital with what I thought was the onset of labour, only to be told that it was Braxton Hicks contractions and that my body was merely doing a dress rehearsal. After checking the baby's vital signs and determining that all was well, they sent us home. I was afraid this disaster might send me back to the midwives if I didn't keep my emotions under control. So I left everyone else at the site of the crime and slipped into the house to begin unpacking. Twenty minutes later, Teboho found me in Mello's room to tell me that the foundations of the tower appeared only to be half a metre deep, set in poorly made concrete. The contractor must have been cutting corners to increase his profits. We would later sue him through the small claims court. After he was ordered to pay damages, he fed Randfontein but was discovered four months later in a small town a few hours to the west, claiming bankruptcy and therefore unable to pay. But as I sat amongst a jumble of boxes and toys, it wasn't justice I wanted–only water.

Thankfully the pump was still working and litres of fresh water could be sent cascading into waiting buckets with the flick of a switch. For the next five months, we joined the millions of South African households whose daily water supply was met by two large plastic water containers by the kitchen door.

By the following morning we were settled in. Joseph, Beans and Solly were all staying over to help paint the inside walls so that at least that would be done before the baby was born. The children's section was painted a practical white that could easily be touched up if necessary; the living room transformed to a cheery yellow; and lastly, our bedroom was painted a peaceful blue. These colours gave the house life and warmth that transformed it from house to home.

So we began our life in this new home in the way it would continue, surrounded by friends and relatives living in an extended family unit, not the small nuclear family arrangement that I had grown up with. This made our home vibrant and welcoming but it also meant that if I needed privacy, my bedroom was the only sanctuary. Thankfully the room was large and sunny and therefore a pleasant place into which I could withdraw.

In the week of the move, we had another late night false alarm. I felt for Teboho as he dragged himself off to work the next day, exhausted from a night at the hospital and the long drive home. Unbeknown to us, the midwives were now running a tab on the chances of me requiring a caesarean as I appeared to be tiring myself out even before the race had begun.

My waters broke in the morning, two weeks before the Christmas due date. Teboho had been up most of the night working on a document that needed to be submitted the following day. At about five o'clock, he woke me to come and edit his work, correcting the grammar in what was admittedly his fifth language, as we had done throughout his university career. I finished the edits and printed the document just as Teboho's lift arrived to take him to the city.

After seeing him off I was on my way to the bathroom, clearly misreading my body's signs, when my waters broke. Once I realised what had happened, I knew this would be no false alarm and was both relieved and slightly nervous. We had planned for this eventuality– going into labour when Teboho wasn't around. I phoned to tell him what had happened, grabbed my bag, and drove to the township where my brother-in-law's neighbour, Ma Phiri, was primed and ready. Ma Phiri was Caleb's only neighbour who knew how to drive a car and was usually at home. With these two essential attributes, she was signed up as part of the birthing back-up team, in case of just such an emergency.

Mama would accompany me to the hospital and we would leave Mello at Caleb's house where Nooi would watch her. Mama took Mello inside while I waited in the car taking deep breaths to keep me calm, though the contractions were yet to begin. Mama called Ma Phiri and the three of us headed into Johannesburg.

As we exited Mohlakeng we passed Toekomsrus, another township outside Randfontein, its tiny houses looking like strings of coloured popcorn as they laced around its dusty roads. Past Toekomsrus, a long road stretched towards the city, passing gold mines, fat empty fields and towering mine dumps as we travelled east. Eventually the road became a dual carriageway and veered left to skim the outskirts of Soweto. We passed the whole range of Soweto homes–rich and poor, permanent and transient, areas dominated by one tribal group or another–as we skirted around its southern border. With Soweto behind us, Gold Reef City loomed on the left. What was once a working gold mine had now been converted to a theme park. Like the now booming tourist industry in Soweto, this new icon of change drew all kinds of people to it, as if it has always been like this. Even I had been in the country long enough to remember that it used to be so different. Then we were on the freeway, driving beneath the skyline of Jo'burg. At the city's eastern edge, we took the off ramp towards the stadium and then to the hospital behind it–finally.

As we pulled into the parking lot outside the emergency entrance, I realised I urgently needed the toilet after such a long drive. I shuffled straight past reception, being chased by a panicked nurse who assumed I was confusing the need for the toilet with the need to push, and was actually about to deliver. I yelled at her over my shoulder that my waters had broken–again. Apparently the gait of a woman thirty-eight weeks pregnant and incontinent looks surprisingly like the gait of one who is crowning in the final stages of labour. Crisis over, we headed upstairs to the birthing suite with Ma Phiri, Mama and a midwife in tow. Once we settled into the room, the midwife on duty, Sue, explained how things would go.

We began with a quick check to see how the baby and I were progressing. We were doing well. My body, on the other hand, was yet to spring into action despite earlier positive signs. Sue decided to get things moving with the insertion of a small tablet and then we waited. It was just after ten o'clock.

Mona, the head midwife, popped in to see me while I was waiting for things to begin. She asked me if she could write an article on us for her magazine, the combination of a mixed race couple and a labouring in water being too good to miss. She asked me, as people often do, how I got here. I knew she meant: what is an Australian doing living in South Africa? as the reverse is the stronger trend. But even thinking about how I got there that day, the long drive past townships and mine dumps, tells its own story of how different my life has been from those of my childhood friends in Sydney.

At midday, the pains began. Mama and Ma Phiri were still patiently keeping me company while I was silently wondering where the bloody hell Teboho was. I had phoned him just after 8.30 and his office was only a short drive from the hospital. Mama sat by me and held my hand as the contractions ebbed and flowed over the next two hours. While I was reassured by her presence, since she had birthed six babies herself, I was a little embarrassed sharing these moments with Ma Phiri whom I hardly knew. While she was selected as part of the back-up team, I would not have described us as friends. She, however, found nothing odd in the arrangement. I suspected that this would make a good story for her friends back in Mohlakeng where Teboho and I were second-rate celebrities. (First-rate celebrities were successful soccer players and those with connections in the entertainment industry.) We had the distinction of being one of two mixed race couples in the area; the other couple split their time between South Africa and Canada. Attending the birth of our first child would no doubt keep Ma Phiri in demand for some time. I laid this cynical thought aside, knowing it was my husband who was the deserving target of my labour crankiness.

Mama looked up with a sigh of relief as Teboho entered the room just after two o'clock. Avoiding my eye, he was full of smiles and jokes, thanking the two women for doing a wonderful job in his absence. This was their cue, so they rose, hugged me and issued words of encouragement before they left for the long drive back to the township. As they left, Sue entered the room–my questions for Teboho would have to wait. Sue checked me again and told me I could jump into and out of the tub anytime I wanted. As I started to say that I was coping well, the first big contraction hit. I clung onto Teboho as it swamped me, taking my breath away. When it had passed, I stepped as quickly as I could into the tub. Sue had told me that the water acts as a pain reliever, and if that was the case, I wanted to have the next contraction floating in pain reliever up to my neck.

Sue settled me in and left again. I knew Teboho would have a story to tell me, one of people needing his help. I always found it so hard to stay angry with him once I'd heard where he had been, but not today. Our world was filled with people who needed help. He was hardwired to respond to them but he was not always hardwired to meet my needs, it seemed. As the pregnancy had reached its third trimester, I felt increasingly vulnerable and exposed. I had always been able to look after myself and everyone else and was not comfortable with needing other people as much as I did in this state. But today I had no problem with the neediness I felt, only with his lack of response to it. He told me that he had been scheduled to run a workshop in Pretoria that day, about an hour's drive from Johannesburg. In an effort to keep his commitments, he had gone without telling me, knowing I was in good hands with his mother until he could get away. It was only at lunchtime that someone in the workshop enquired about my health and he told them I was in labour. They chased him out of the workshop, saying they didn't need him that much.

His explanation cut me but as I had a rush of contractions to contend with, I decided to put the words away until later. I tucked the hurt and disappointment down, where it had good company with many other hurts hidden there. Being in a mixed marriage, I had tried so hard to be understanding of the cultural differences between us. I had learnt the language, embraced his family and their traditions, lived in a traditional extended family household and generally tried to be a good wife. Ideologically, I believed in the possibilities of the ‘rainbow nation', and making our marriage work was part of my contribution. So I tucked it down. I tucked many things down for him, but one day, it would all have to come back out for me.