Not Quite Middle Class
Andiswa Maqutu
Andiswa Maqutu
Asanda has locked herself in her car outside her parents’ house. She wants the baby inside her dead. She hopes it drowns at birth. She knows where the 20-inch Indian Remi weaves she sells come from. She tugs at her hair to rip off the advertising. The shiny 20-inch fiber-like black oil slides between her fingers but the wool that knits the silky hairpiece to her fluffy afro – the last part of herself she recognizes – is unrelenting.
Her mother paces outside the car, screaming teary-eyed questions and insults at her. She beats a quick rhythm on the driver’s window with her long gold-painted nails.
***
Asanda had not expected her mother to beat her. Her mother had not laid a hand on her since she was ten. Even back then, she had avoided an audience. They had just moved to their new home in Houghton from Leondale Township and Asanda had refused to take a bath after Sisi, their housekeeper.
“What will my new friends say when they find out I share a bath with her?”
Her mother sent Sisi to the kitchen before grabbing her arm and drawing painful handfuls from bottom. After a few months in the new house, her mother began to say that she did not spank children.
“Physical punishment drives a wedge between parent and child,” she said whenever her friends brought their kids to visit. Borrowed words. Most likely from Oprah or Mrs. Greenwall, the child psychologist who lived next door. The sound of a crying child in a black house in suburbia would raise questions even her educated mother did not want to answer.
“What will my new friends say when they find out I share a bath with her?”
Her mother sent Sisi to the kitchen before grabbing her arm and drawing painful handfuls from bottom. After a few months in the new house, her mother began to say that she did not spank children.
“Physical punishment drives a wedge between parent and child,” she said whenever her friends brought their kids to visit. Borrowed words. Most likely from Oprah or Mrs. Greenwall, the child psychologist who lived next door. The sound of a crying child in a black house in suburbia would raise questions even her educated mother did not want to answer.
***
“Ngamanyanla antoni la Asanda? You told us you were going to study and now you come back pregnant? With Mrs. Dikobe’s child?” Her mother had pierced the silence in their lounge and stabbed at her stomach with her nail. The first slap drew a shrill scream and threw Asanda onto her uncle’s lap. He pushed her off with his knees, throwing her back in the ring. The sting from the slap questioned her decision to drive home. Maybe if she had gone directly to the police station they would have been sympathetic. Maybe if she had just disappeared, the thought of never seeing her again would have stirred up their longing. Maybe if she had kept better contact with her mother, she would have known not to drive home for safety on the day her parents would be hosting a family Sunday lunch.
“You are embarrassing me, Asanda. You are humiliating me in front of your father’s family. In front of this whole Houghton!” Her mother’s long eyelashes stood at curved attention on the edges of her eyes. Asanda noticed that she had her large eyes but not her fine yellow skin.
“I needed the money, mama. It’s just a few months longer, mama, and then…”
“A few months longer? And then? And then what? You are bringing a curse on us.” Her mother clapped once. “You have to kill that baby.”
“I can’t kill the baby, mama. It’s not mine.” Asanda looked to her father for help but he did not look at her. He had not looked at her since she arrived.
“You are embarrassing me, Asanda. You are humiliating me in front of your father’s family. In front of this whole Houghton!” Her mother’s long eyelashes stood at curved attention on the edges of her eyes. Asanda noticed that she had her large eyes but not her fine yellow skin.
“I needed the money, mama. It’s just a few months longer, mama, and then…”
“A few months longer? And then? And then what? You are bringing a curse on us.” Her mother clapped once. “You have to kill that baby.”
“I can’t kill the baby, mama. It’s not mine.” Asanda looked to her father for help but he did not look at her. He had not looked at her since she arrived.
***
Business had been booming for her parents’ construction business when they moved from their cramped four-room house – where the kitchen and lounge took up two rooms – in Leondale Township to the six-bedroom home they bought in Houghton. They were refusing more government tenders than they were accepting. Her mother still kept a 03 September 1995 newspaper clipping of an interview her father had done about the business when it had just started. Government was talking about building black industrialists and entrepreneurs in black communities. The day they moved, her mother asked her husband if he ever imagined they would live in Houghton only five years into the business. She repeated the question to him in an excited monologue. The article used to hang framed in the lounge, but as the business failed and debts piled, it had been moved to where it now lay browned by time in her mother’s drawer. Her father looked happier and fatter in the picture. Asanda had been happier too. She had loved the newfound luxury, especially riding to school in either her father’s BMW or her mother’s Mercedes. She loved the way pedestrians and drivers stared at them – this peculiar, rich black family in an expensive car. Her eyes would search for theirs, and when they looked at her, she would proudly look away.
Eight years in Houghton and quiet nights usually spent eating supper in the sunroom turned into bouts of arguments about why government was not paying for construction work on time.
“It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s this bullshit economy. Everyone is suffering.” That was the first time Asanda heard her father swear.
“I don’t care if everyone is suffering. My children should not suffer. We are suffering,” her mother would retort.
Her mother started playing the lottery every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. She would send Sisi to play for her so that the neighbors would not see her queuing with house and garden workers.
Property agents were arriving unannounced to show their clients the house.
“But we saw it would be on auction next month,” they would say as her mother threw them out and told Sisi not to answer the door or sign for anything. Her father hid his BMW at Uncle Themba’s in Tembisa. The Mercedes was parked at a family friend’s in Leondale.
Her parents’ arguments became about her father looking for work at a construction firm.
“Some of these firms are still looking for black directors. You might not even have to put in any work. Just be black,” her mother would encourage him. She had already gone back to being a nurse.
“I can never work for a white man again, Nompilo.”
Eight years in Houghton and quiet nights usually spent eating supper in the sunroom turned into bouts of arguments about why government was not paying for construction work on time.
“It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s this bullshit economy. Everyone is suffering.” That was the first time Asanda heard her father swear.
“I don’t care if everyone is suffering. My children should not suffer. We are suffering,” her mother would retort.
Her mother started playing the lottery every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. She would send Sisi to play for her so that the neighbors would not see her queuing with house and garden workers.
Property agents were arriving unannounced to show their clients the house.
“But we saw it would be on auction next month,” they would say as her mother threw them out and told Sisi not to answer the door or sign for anything. Her father hid his BMW at Uncle Themba’s in Tembisa. The Mercedes was parked at a family friend’s in Leondale.
Her parents’ arguments became about her father looking for work at a construction firm.
“Some of these firms are still looking for black directors. You might not even have to put in any work. Just be black,” her mother would encourage him. She had already gone back to being a nurse.
“I can never work for a white man again, Nompilo.”
***
The cars were repossessed the year before Asanda started university. Her father took up a job at a small construction firm where he was appointed a director, given a BMW as a company car and paid a salary he said would not be paid to a white man in his position.
“Your father has been working at the construction firm since you started university but it’s hard because we are still trying to pay off the debts we accumulated when we had the business,” her mother explained the day they told Asanda she could not go back to university for her third try at third year. Her parents wanted to use the money they would borrow for her fees to pay off the water bill on the house. They could not sell the house if it was not settled. If they sold the house, they could pay off their debt and move to a smaller house. They would pay for her to finish studying again some years later, they said.
Asanda felt the same indignation she had felt when, five years ago, on the day her cousins came to visit, her mother switched off the water’s main switch and told them the house had a water pipe problem. She had bought small plastic baths for the family to bathe in, filled a 100-litre container with water and told them to use it sparingly for the weekend.
“Having all your cousins here playing with the water will run up the bill,” she said.
“Playing? They will just be bathing, mama.”
“Do you know how much we are paying for water? Can I show you the bill? Do you have 80 thousand so your cousins can bathe this weekend? No? Okay, then don’t tell me you will just be bathing.”
Asanda felt the same embarrassment as when her best friend, Zenande, graduated two years ago. She felt the shame when again she failed third year and the last of her classmates graduated.
“Water is a separator,” the Registrar had said to Asanda as she appealed to him for more time to complete her degree because her parents could not afford her fees anymore. “It’s freely available to the poor and affordable to the rich. But for those in the middle…” he shrugged. “The poor leave their taps running all day and the rich are having their babies in it. The middle can’t go to school because of it.”
Her mother said she did not want to take her out of school, but they had too much debt. Her parents explained that her brother would also be taken out of private school and to a school in Leondale to finish off Grade 11 and matric. On that day, the school principal had made him stand up in front of class to account for why his parents had not paid his fees. After school he had been involved in a fight because one of his peers asked him, “How come your father drives a big car but you don’t pay school fees?”
Her father did not speak. He sat on the couch and hung his head.
“Things would be easier if you had finished university,” her mother added. “If you were this accountant you are studying to be, you could at least help us pay off the house or pay off your brother’s school fees.”
Just like Olwethu, her chartered accountant cousin, had done, her mother added. There was a photo of Olwethu sitting on the mantelpiece in their home even though she never visited or called.
“Olwethu is going on secondment to Washington,” her mother would say, “Olwethu met the president. Olwethu is renting a bigger flat. Olwethu just bought another car. Olwethu is engaged. Olwethu is getting married in a game park. Olwethu is on a cruise in Switzerland with her husband. Olwethu, Olwethu, Olwethu. Don’t you want to be like Olwethu? If only you would finish this accounting degree like Olwethu.
Asanda would base her scalp with coconut oil as she listened to her mother praying to the church of Olwethu. Until one day, she burst out, “Well, if you love it so much, why don’t you become a chartered accountant and then you and Olwethu can actually have something to talk about?” Guilt forced her to vow never to speak again during her mother’s monologues. But she could not speak about much with her mother since then. Everything the woman said was wrong. When she said Asanda looked beautiful in her new coat, she wanted to take it off. Everything the woman did was wrong. If her mother bought her favourite chocolate, Asanda worried about breaking out. When her mother would go days without speaking to her, Asanda would spark a conversation and then her mother’s attention would make the woman wrong again.
“Your father has been working at the construction firm since you started university but it’s hard because we are still trying to pay off the debts we accumulated when we had the business,” her mother explained the day they told Asanda she could not go back to university for her third try at third year. Her parents wanted to use the money they would borrow for her fees to pay off the water bill on the house. They could not sell the house if it was not settled. If they sold the house, they could pay off their debt and move to a smaller house. They would pay for her to finish studying again some years later, they said.
Asanda felt the same indignation she had felt when, five years ago, on the day her cousins came to visit, her mother switched off the water’s main switch and told them the house had a water pipe problem. She had bought small plastic baths for the family to bathe in, filled a 100-litre container with water and told them to use it sparingly for the weekend.
“Having all your cousins here playing with the water will run up the bill,” she said.
“Playing? They will just be bathing, mama.”
“Do you know how much we are paying for water? Can I show you the bill? Do you have 80 thousand so your cousins can bathe this weekend? No? Okay, then don’t tell me you will just be bathing.”
Asanda felt the same embarrassment as when her best friend, Zenande, graduated two years ago. She felt the shame when again she failed third year and the last of her classmates graduated.
“Water is a separator,” the Registrar had said to Asanda as she appealed to him for more time to complete her degree because her parents could not afford her fees anymore. “It’s freely available to the poor and affordable to the rich. But for those in the middle…” he shrugged. “The poor leave their taps running all day and the rich are having their babies in it. The middle can’t go to school because of it.”
Her mother said she did not want to take her out of school, but they had too much debt. Her parents explained that her brother would also be taken out of private school and to a school in Leondale to finish off Grade 11 and matric. On that day, the school principal had made him stand up in front of class to account for why his parents had not paid his fees. After school he had been involved in a fight because one of his peers asked him, “How come your father drives a big car but you don’t pay school fees?”
Her father did not speak. He sat on the couch and hung his head.
“Things would be easier if you had finished university,” her mother added. “If you were this accountant you are studying to be, you could at least help us pay off the house or pay off your brother’s school fees.”
Just like Olwethu, her chartered accountant cousin, had done, her mother added. There was a photo of Olwethu sitting on the mantelpiece in their home even though she never visited or called.
“Olwethu is going on secondment to Washington,” her mother would say, “Olwethu met the president. Olwethu is renting a bigger flat. Olwethu just bought another car. Olwethu is engaged. Olwethu is getting married in a game park. Olwethu is on a cruise in Switzerland with her husband. Olwethu, Olwethu, Olwethu. Don’t you want to be like Olwethu? If only you would finish this accounting degree like Olwethu.
Asanda would base her scalp with coconut oil as she listened to her mother praying to the church of Olwethu. Until one day, she burst out, “Well, if you love it so much, why don’t you become a chartered accountant and then you and Olwethu can actually have something to talk about?” Guilt forced her to vow never to speak again during her mother’s monologues. But she could not speak about much with her mother since then. Everything the woman said was wrong. When she said Asanda looked beautiful in her new coat, she wanted to take it off. Everything the woman did was wrong. If her mother bought her favourite chocolate, Asanda worried about breaking out. When her mother would go days without speaking to her, Asanda would spark a conversation and then her mother’s attention would make the woman wrong again.
***
But Asanda could tell Mrs. Dikobe anything. They met through Tumi, her former colleague when she worked a summer job as a bookkeeper. Tumi told Asanda that Mrs. Dikobe needed girls to sell hair for a commission. The usual commission was R200 but she let Asanda keep R300 so she could save faster for her fees if her exclusion appeal was accepted. When she told Mrs. Dikobe that her parents had decided she wouldn’t return to university the following year, she understood. She did not ask why it was taking Asanda six years to complete a three-year undergrad degree. When a letter from the Registrar arrived saying the university would only give her one more year to complete her studies, Mrs. Dikobe did not say she deserved to be excluded.
“Times are tough,” she said instead, seated under her chandelier of crystal tulips encasing crystal candles, which hung high enough to avoid human touch but low enough for the details to be admired.
When she told Mrs. Dikobe that she had been studying accounting for six years without graduating because she hated it and really wanted to study filmmaking, Mrs. Dikobe listened and asked questions about the African epics she saw herself making, and how she wanted to study at the New York Film Academy but would be based in Los Angeles because that’s where the film students are based.
She did not laugh when Asanda told her about Olwethu, her cousin who was 25, the same age, and a chartered accountant. She did not laugh when Asanda confessed that secretly she wanted to be like Olwethu. She wanted to have a degree, own a car, buy beautiful clothes and rent a big apartment. She wanted to have her old friends again and prove to them that she was not a failure. Most of all, she wanted to hear her mother speak her name with pride, the way she did Olwethu’s.
“It sounds like she is more proud of Olwethu than she is of you.”
“Yes, that is exactly how I feel.”
“What kind of mother does that? Nxa!”
Asanda frowned at the words and slowly removed her hand from the woman’s warm palms. She vowed not to discuss her mother with Mrs. Dikobe again. Because you can’t wash the blood flowing in you; you can’t wash it, even with soap, her aunt would say when she and her brother refused her wet kisses.
“Times are tough,” she said instead, seated under her chandelier of crystal tulips encasing crystal candles, which hung high enough to avoid human touch but low enough for the details to be admired.
When she told Mrs. Dikobe that she had been studying accounting for six years without graduating because she hated it and really wanted to study filmmaking, Mrs. Dikobe listened and asked questions about the African epics she saw herself making, and how she wanted to study at the New York Film Academy but would be based in Los Angeles because that’s where the film students are based.
She did not laugh when Asanda told her about Olwethu, her cousin who was 25, the same age, and a chartered accountant. She did not laugh when Asanda confessed that secretly she wanted to be like Olwethu. She wanted to have a degree, own a car, buy beautiful clothes and rent a big apartment. She wanted to have her old friends again and prove to them that she was not a failure. Most of all, she wanted to hear her mother speak her name with pride, the way she did Olwethu’s.
“It sounds like she is more proud of Olwethu than she is of you.”
“Yes, that is exactly how I feel.”
“What kind of mother does that? Nxa!”
Asanda frowned at the words and slowly removed her hand from the woman’s warm palms. She vowed not to discuss her mother with Mrs. Dikobe again. Because you can’t wash the blood flowing in you; you can’t wash it, even with soap, her aunt would say when she and her brother refused her wet kisses.
***
When Mrs. Dikobe told Asanda she had lost count of the number of babies she had lost, there was a long pause that seemed to call her bluff. She sighed and raised her palm towards Asanda, spreading the fingers wide apart from each other and breathing the word five with a tremor in her voice. Asanda noticed her neatly filed nails and was surprised by how white the palms of the woman’s hands were, even for a woman with yellow skin. Asanda felt guilty for being distracted by nails and fingers and not having words to speak.
Whether they were sitting at the Dikobes’ dining table where they had most of their chats or out by the pool like they were in that moment, Mrs. Dikobe always insisted Asanda sit right next to her. That way, she could lean close to Asanda with the smile she always wore, even during the uncomfortable conversations.
Mrs. Dikobe said they had tried adoption but did not qualify because she was too depressed at the time. Mr. Dikobe’s family had told him to get a second wife or have a baby by another woman on the side. They had no children, and if they were to have any, they would have them together, that was their agreement, she said.
Whether they were sitting at the Dikobes’ dining table where they had most of their chats or out by the pool like they were in that moment, Mrs. Dikobe always insisted Asanda sit right next to her. That way, she could lean close to Asanda with the smile she always wore, even during the uncomfortable conversations.
Mrs. Dikobe said they had tried adoption but did not qualify because she was too depressed at the time. Mr. Dikobe’s family had told him to get a second wife or have a baby by another woman on the side. They had no children, and if they were to have any, they would have them together, that was their agreement, she said.
***
And now, locked in her car and bound by her agreement with the Dikobes, Asanda stares at her huge belly. When she had asked Mrs. Dikobe how she managed to stock Indian Remi at only two-thirds of the price of retailers, the woman had smiled and said it was because she sourced her hair straight from the supplier.
Asanda hopes that Mrs. Dikobe’s baby will die, yet she mines her memories for the reasons she agreed to have it.
Asanda hopes that Mrs. Dikobe’s baby will die, yet she mines her memories for the reasons she agreed to have it.
***
“If you agree, it will be a water birth,” Mrs. Dikobe had said. “A water birth makes it less painful. Babies are natural swimmers, so it’s natural for them to be in water first. I would have had a water birth myself if I could have children, but maybe God wants me to keep my figure. You young girls bounce back quickly. Me, in my forties, I will balloon. I don’t know what I would do with all that extra me.” She rushed the words out and laughed.
“So it would just be for nine months? I wouldn’t have to breastfeed?”
“Just nine months.”
“So it would just be for nine months? I wouldn’t have to breastfeed?”
“Just nine months.”
***
Asanda knows where the 20-inch Indian Remi weaves she sold came from because when the driver picked her up from university that day, he asked if he could make a quick stop to collect some of Mrs. Dikobe’s stock. She had gotten into the habit of going to campus during the weekend so that she could read without the distractions in Mrs. Dikobe’s house. They drove downtown to the city and stopped outside a large block of apartments. The baby was sitting on Asanda’s bladder but she didn’t want to disturb the driver so she held it in.
***
“Just think about all you could do with the money. You don’t have to stop going to school, until it’s time for your three-month maternity leave. So if we time things right, we can make it so you conceive in May, so you are in school from January to November and you can spend the December to February holidays here with us,” Mrs. Dikobe had proposed as she pulled her chair closer to Asanda’s and placed a cold hand on her thigh.
“Are you not worried about your child if I still study?”
“No, why should we be? You will live here with us and drive to school or the driver will take you to classes and back.”
“Are you not worried about your child if I still study?”
“No, why should we be? You will live here with us and drive to school or the driver will take you to classes and back.”
***
The apartment block was newly painted, but only darkness could be seen through the broken windows. The baby moved and Asanda felt like her bladder was going to burst on the left side.
***
“Have you thought about it, sisi? We will pay for your studies, even if you want to start over in New York. That is the next four years of your life, and all we need is nine months of it,” Mrs. Dikobe had turned her oval face sideways to view Asanda from a different angle. Her mouth was shrinking into a thin smile and her small eyes locked on Asanda’s as if to hypnotize her. Her skin was flawless and yellow.
“Think about the car we will buy you; a Mercedes A-class, better than your cousin Olwethu’s Polo.” A smile had crossed Asanda’s lips at that, and Mrs. Dikobe had laughed at her own joke. “The clothes you can buy… more than you ever could with the R300 cut you are getting from selling my weaves. I can just see you in your new apartment, drinking that chai tea you love so much and flipping through your many clothes for your outfit.” Mrs. Dikobe’s lips widened into an outright smile and Asanda found herself excited.
“Think about the car we will buy you; a Mercedes A-class, better than your cousin Olwethu’s Polo.” A smile had crossed Asanda’s lips at that, and Mrs. Dikobe had laughed at her own joke. “The clothes you can buy… more than you ever could with the R300 cut you are getting from selling my weaves. I can just see you in your new apartment, drinking that chai tea you love so much and flipping through your many clothes for your outfit.” Mrs. Dikobe’s lips widened into an outright smile and Asanda found herself excited.
***
Broken windows made Asanda think of the haunted house near their house in Houghton. When she was in high school, she would take the long route home because there was a rumor that some children had played glassy-glassy and awoken a ghost that broke all the windows.
When the driver was not back after ten minutes, Asanda stepped out of the car and walked towards the haunted-looking building. There was a guard at the door.
“I’m with Mzwandile,” she pointed at the empty car, “and I also live with Mrs. Dikobe,” she said to the guard.
“Oh, so you’re also here for stock. We have stock on all floors, hundreds and thousands of stock,” he laughed and winked at her.
“I really just want to pee.”
He motioned that the toilet was upstairs. The lighting in the building upstairs was poor but oddly comforting. Asanda heard someone crying, and then a number of people screaming. It sounded like children. It sounded like women.
When the driver was not back after ten minutes, Asanda stepped out of the car and walked towards the haunted-looking building. There was a guard at the door.
“I’m with Mzwandile,” she pointed at the empty car, “and I also live with Mrs. Dikobe,” she said to the guard.
“Oh, so you’re also here for stock. We have stock on all floors, hundreds and thousands of stock,” he laughed and winked at her.
“I really just want to pee.”
He motioned that the toilet was upstairs. The lighting in the building upstairs was poor but oddly comforting. Asanda heard someone crying, and then a number of people screaming. It sounded like children. It sounded like women.
***
“And your family, they can sell their house, move to something they can afford and not worry about one of their four children. You would be doing this for them. We can even pay for your brother’s studies. He is in Grade 11, right? Pretty soon he will need to study in university. You don’t want him to be selling hair like you do you, Asanda?” She squeezed Asanda’s thigh and smiled. “Think about it. You know I already think of you as a daughter.”
***
She followed the faint light and saw figures hunched on the floor. They went as far as her eyes could make out. The few men in the hall were standing over the women and children menacingly. A scream rose through her chest but she caught it with her palm and it fell back inside her throat, sending out a tiny squeal. There had to be hundreds of Indian women and children nestled closely. Some of them were bald while others had short hair, but they all looked dirty and malnourished. As Asanda’s eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the other end of the room, where the screams came from. Some of the woman and children were getting their hair cut in hasty jerks by men who shoved them aside once they were done and threw the hair onto piles. To the other side, the hair was being dried and sewn together by the fingers of small children.
She jerked when she saw the driver dragging a bag overflowing with hair. She slipped out the door to inhale the stale breath of the security guard. His belly kissed her belly. Her bladder had lost interest in emptying its contents.
“You happy with the stock?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said hastily, rushing to the toilet.
She leaned into the toilet bowl and vomit flew out of her mouth. Her bladder was beginning to empty and she quickly turned to release her liquids on top of the vomit.
She slipped in the backseat and sat quietly all the way to the house. Mrs. Dikobe was in bed nursing a headache, her maid said. “Madam says we must not disturb her.”
The adrenaline Asanda had been suppressing surged and she ran to her room for the key to the A-Class that had been parked in the garage since she started showing and Mrs. Dikobe said it would be too stressful for her to drive herself to school. She raced to her parents’ house, hoping Mrs. Dikobe would not first think to find her there. She did not see her father’s car when she drove in. She crashed into it from the side.
She jerked when she saw the driver dragging a bag overflowing with hair. She slipped out the door to inhale the stale breath of the security guard. His belly kissed her belly. Her bladder had lost interest in emptying its contents.
“You happy with the stock?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said hastily, rushing to the toilet.
She leaned into the toilet bowl and vomit flew out of her mouth. Her bladder was beginning to empty and she quickly turned to release her liquids on top of the vomit.
She slipped in the backseat and sat quietly all the way to the house. Mrs. Dikobe was in bed nursing a headache, her maid said. “Madam says we must not disturb her.”
The adrenaline Asanda had been suppressing surged and she ran to her room for the key to the A-Class that had been parked in the garage since she started showing and Mrs. Dikobe said it would be too stressful for her to drive herself to school. She raced to her parents’ house, hoping Mrs. Dikobe would not first think to find her there. She did not see her father’s car when she drove in. She crashed into it from the side.
***
When Asanda agreed to be Mrs. Dikobe’s surrogate, the woman had told her that she was not the first girl who had agreed to carry a child for them.
“The first was Thuli. Four months into the pregnancy, Thuli’s family said their ancestors were rejecting the family and Thuli because she was a surrogate.”
Mrs. Dikobe told Asanda the girl had had a secret abortion. It was not even legal, Mrs Dikobe recounted. The gentleness with which she usually spoke was gone. It was the first time Asanda had seen her angry, but then she had quickly smiled.
“Where is Thuli now?”
“You don’t have to worry about that, because you won’t kill my baby.”
“The first was Thuli. Four months into the pregnancy, Thuli’s family said their ancestors were rejecting the family and Thuli because she was a surrogate.”
Mrs. Dikobe told Asanda the girl had had a secret abortion. It was not even legal, Mrs Dikobe recounted. The gentleness with which she usually spoke was gone. It was the first time Asanda had seen her angry, but then she had quickly smiled.
“Where is Thuli now?”
“You don’t have to worry about that, because you won’t kill my baby.”
***
Asanda searches the car for her pack of razors. The wounded skin on her cheek is open and swallowing salty stinging tears. Her mother’s words are sitting heavy in her throat, stacked on each other, taking their time to drop painfully into her heart. She can taste her own blood. In the safety of cold leather seats her fear turns to indignation. Her mother’s screams are a faraway Xhosa chant coming from a nearby face. She takes out a razor and feels for the texture of her natural hair, tracing the thin wool between it and the synthetic fiber. She begins to make small cuts at the wool. She can’t kill the baby.
Andiswa Onke Maqutu is a writer and journalist from South Africa. Her creative writing has appeared in ELLE Magazine, The African Roar Anthology, Storymoja, Storymondo and the Vanguard/Dibookeng Summer Anthology. Her work is forthcoming in the Killens Review of Arts and Letters, a literary journal published by the Center for Black Literature at Medgar Evers College of the University of New York. Andiswa is passionate about the stories of black African women living on the continent. She is curator of #FinishtheStoryFriday, a partnership with Storymoja, where different black women from various countries across the African continent contribute to a continuing story every second Friday. She is also founder of Black Women Be Like Podcast, a Pan-African feminist podcast where black women on the continent and diaspora connect to discuss issues of colourism, sexuality, African feminism, pursuing ambitions, stories and their creative talents.