Holding Up the Sky (30 page)

After spending a few minutes with Mama, we were ushered out of the house as the church ceremony was about to start. As was often the way, only the closest friends and family attended the wedding ceremony while the rest of the community joined in for the reception afterwards.

At large events such as these, I sometimes felt as though I was underwater, with the conversations happening above my head in a distorted-sounding language I could not follow. Events swirled around me but I often felt cushioned and removed, unable to connect. This day, thanks to Teboho, I felt neither cut off nor the centre of attention but, rather, part of the family. I later learnt that Teboho had taken great care to set this up for me, speaking to the family about how they might treat me, not singling me out but welcoming me into their midst. Given my experience with the Skhosanas, I wondered how this was possible. I also wondered whether he was disrespecting his mother by bringing home someone to whom he was not yet engaged. Mama later explained that the family knew Teboho marched to the beat of his own drum and they had learnt to expect the unexpected. It had been five years of silence, then one day he came home and said, ‘I've found the woman I wish to marry and she's white'.

China's wedding was a wonderful event, warm and relaxed despite the large numbers. There had been the usual wardrobe changes, from the white wedding dress and suits to the traditional African attire for the dancing and celebration. China, her husband Dan and their large wedding party, to my surprise, had more than one change of traditional clothes and I later learnt that China had made them all from rich, colourful material bought from a Ghanaian trader who passed through the area a few times a year.

This wedding also gave me the opportunity to meet China's mother, Ma Ellen, for the first time. Mother and daughter shared a calm and inclusive way about them that made old friends out of strangers. Ma Ellen was taller and broader than Mama and under her gentle demeanour, I thought I caught of glimpse of steel. While Mama had survived through her acceptance of whatever life presented, Ma Ellen, Teboho confirmed, had an underlying determination that allowed her to cut through adversity. Side by side, they presented an interesting contrast and a formidable team–Mama like the willow that bends in the wind and Ma Ellen like the immovable mountain.

All Teboho's sisters were variations on the theme of their mothers, though it was Tshidi, Silwane and China that I would get to know better than the others. Teboho's brothers were all different characters with only a few physical characteristics to bind them together. Doki reminded me the most of Teboho–a maverick like his brother, flamboyant and verbose. Caleb, or Cali as everyone called him, appeared slightly harassed as firstborn and responsible siblings often do. Having said that, it was clear Cali was a generous man who welcomed the opportunity to celebrate with his family, laying aside the burdens of providing for them for a time. Philemon, Ma Ellen and Phuti's eldest son, displayed his mother's calmness rather than his father's theatrics. Ephraim was painfully quiet and, though I felt he was happy to meet me, hardly said a word over the two days we were there. And lastly Willie–who would soon become my housemate and my dear friend–Willie reminded me, at nineteen, of a puppy who is soon to be full grown: long-legged, curious, intelligent and wonderful company, though slightly clumsy and likely to trip over himself at the most embarrassing moments. For all these reasons he was to become my favourite and in his mother's eyes and mine, could do no wrong.

We set out late Sunday afternoon for Kopela with the Church Youth Group. I didn't ask where they had all slept overnight; no doubt they had simply been absorbed into the modest homes of friends and neighbours as all the visitors had. Moss and Khumo thought it was not appropriate for me to stay with the family: allowing Teboho to live by his own rules was one thing but in some areas at least, protocol should be followed. So they had arranged for me to stay with them at Khumo's brother's house in nearby Mafikeng. Khumo's brother Sam was already one of the few successful black businessmen in the country and would go on to be a major economic force. His home in Mafikeng was beautiful, even boasting an in-ground swimming pool, perfect for defeating the summer heat. It was in many ways a strange experience for me as it was the first time I had stayed in the home of a wealthy black family in South Africa. My township experiences in 'Maritzburg did not refect the breadth of financial means in the black community across the country, even at that time.

I had been to many youth camps in my teenage years, more than I could count, and I'm not sure what I was expecting of the African equivalent–but I hadn't been expecting this. We arrived at sunset in a small, remote village, the sky glowing pink and purple against the red earth. There were only a few dozen modest homes scattered in amongst the acacia trees. We parked the kombi on the edge of the village and began to walk towards the houses. The sounds of the bush were broken only by a mother calling her child inside to eat. Suddenly, a noise cut through the air, its relative proximity making me jump. ‘A jackal', said Teboho. ‘But it won't come any closer.' As the adrenalin subsided, I couldn't help but be overcome by the beauty and tranquillity of the place. I was struck by the thought that Africa is still a wilderness. Despite the ‘speediness' of the global economy and cosmopolitan lifestyles, a village like this still exists where time is marked simply by the taking of each breath.

As we walked towards the west side of the village, I realised that our retreat would not be like any other I had been on. There was no conference centre, no cabins, no tents. I asked Teboho what the arrangements were and he told me we would be staying with Dumi's uncle who lived alone in a house on the edge of the village. Our retreat was to be like any other African holiday–spent in the home of relatives.

Dumi's uncle was delighted to have us stay, saying it gave his house some life again. We had arrived with boxes of food so as not to be a burden, including some treats that weren't available in the small village store. After a hearty meal and lively conversation, most of which was beyond my reach, moves were made to bed down for the night. Dumi's uncle's home was like many of the township homes I had stayed in before, consisting of four small rooms: two bedrooms, a lounge and a kitchen. There were twelve of us, including the old man. It soon became apparent what the arrangements would be. Dumi's uncle would sleep in his own bed, the girls in the remaining bedroom and the boys in the lounge.

I was never sure whether Teboho had failed to mention the details of our retreat for fear I wouldn't come or whether he genuinely forgot–but I suspect it was a sin of omission. I, like the other girls I would be sharing the floor space with, began unpacking every piece of clothing I had brought with me, making a mattress on which we would all sleep. The room was so small that we would need to spoon on the floor in order just to ft. I made a token effort of brushing my teeth, then lay down in the tiny space saved for me between Dumi and Nooi. They had been considerate enough to save me a spot in the middle, so that I would not freeze on the edge. While I appreciated the kind thought, I found being wedged in between two peacefully sleeping bodies as I struggled to ignore the lump in my ribcage and the cold concrete floor an additional challenge. I longed to roll over to give my bony hip a reprieve, but knew that doing so would wake the whole ensemble, so I counted the hours until dawn.

The following day the rest of the group, refreshed from a sound night's sleep away from the sounds of the city, were ready to take part in sessions. Exhausted, I slunk off to the kombi to sleep. The second night was a repeat of the flrst. As a result I have very little memory of the daytime activity of the retreat, but can still taste my frustration at trying in vain to fall asleep on the floor. When we left Kopela, I was unwashed, sleep deprived and cranky. The kombi broke down on the way back to Itsoseng, finally arriving after three hours of travel with only two gears in working order: second and reverse. I was no advertisement for a prospective wife, aid worker or even multiculturalism by the time we pulled up in front of Mama's house. There were no hysterics as I was mostly silent and withdrawn, but the message to Teboho was clear–I was completely over this adventure.

We finally made it back to Mohlakeng where I, somewhat ashamedly, kissed the ground in gratitude for a bed to myself and running water. For the next five days, life was a little more normal with trips to the movies, visiting friends and a bit of Christmas shopping. It was a relaxing hiatus for Teboho and I as we had rarely had the freedom and space to spend chunks of uninterrupted time together. I also wanted to make the most of the opportunity of getting to know him in context: where he grew up, who his friends were, the school he went to. I noticed the bush out behind Cali's house where I assumed he had spent many nights ‘sleeping rough' as a boy.

Soon Christmas was upon us. We were to go to friends of Moss and Khumo's on Christmas Day, stay the night with them and then leave in the morning for Namibia, Teboho's friend having invited us to join him on a holiday there. Twenty-two years of Christmas mornings in Australia had conditioned me for gathering under the Christmas tree in my pyjamas while gifts were given out to each member of the family to be opened in anxious anticipation.

It didn't even occur to me to check if this was a tradition followed here, though I should have twigged when Khumo said they didn't have a Christmas tree as it's just a symbol of the materialism of the west. I had bought Moss and Khumo a huge indoor pot plant and carefully arranged my presents for the family around it. I then loitered around in my pyjamas for a few hours, waiting for the gift giving to begin. Before I knew it, everyone was dressed and ready to walk out the door. When Khumo asked what on earth I was still doing in pyjamas at eleven o'clock, I described the scene I had been waiting for. She almost fell over in sympathetic laughter, apologising for not clarifying while explaining that wasn't the way Christmas was done in the township. Then she offered to pack up the gifts and take them with us while hurrying me towards the bedroom to change. To this day, Khumo can be reduced to breathless tears of laughter at the mention of that first Christmas morning.

Mohlakeng is located on the far western reaches of the sprawling metropolis of Johannesburg and we were having Christmas lunch on the far east, so it took us almost two hours to get there. Khumo's friends were part of the growing black middle class and though they still lived in a township at that time, it was purpose built for the aspirational.

Pinky is not an uncommon name for a black woman but when she introduced her husband as Winky, I found it hard to keep a straight face. Like Sam, Khumo's brother, they now formed part of the black business elite–but I couldn't help thinking it must have been that bit harder for them than most, if my reaction to their names was typical of the white business people they met.

After introductions, we were ushered through to the lounge. The house already seemed full of visitors yet it did not appear that lunch was imminent. Just as we made ourselves comfortable, Moss announced he had to go back to Soweto to see Caesar, Khumo's other brother, before he few out to London the next day. I couldn't believe Moss was intending to drive an hour and a half back in the direction from which we had just come–but I was even more astonished when he asked Teboho to go with him. Seeing the look on my face, they promised they would be back in time for lunch. Khumo assured me there was plenty of time and off they dashed. Once again I had to readjust and go with the flow.

I spent the next few hours struggling to keep up with the conversation which oscillated between Tswana and English. I was also aware that, unlike my friends in 'Maritzburg, the people I was now mixing with were not fazed by my skin colour, making no compensation, offering no special treatment. In fact, they got on with their conversations almost as though I wasn't there, expecting me to ft in as best I could.

I admit this was its own kind of culture shock. I didn't speak the language, I didn't know the people, I didn't really know what to expect. There was a strong self-assurance amongst some of Teboho's friends that I had not experienced before in the black community. Here, there was no room for paternalistic charity, nothing they needed from me but my friendship if I chose to give it. I suspect that these relationships kept me from falling into a dependency mindset that can plague aid and development work. They kept me from overestimating my own abilities and contribution, keeping me a little more grounded.

I spent a few hours in the kitchen making myself useful with lunch preparation before Moss and Teboho returned and we sat down to a wonderful Christmas lunch which lasted well into the early evening. We finally rolled away from the table and collapsed onto the couch in time to catch the Christmas screening of
Gone with the Wind
. Sitting there, I was struck by the incongruities of my township Christmas.

Once the movie finished, Pinky began allocating rooms for the many visitors to use for the night. It quickly became apparent that Teboho and I were the only people there who weren't a married couple and although we were well in our mid to late twenties, this was still a Christian household: there was no question of us sharing a room. I wasn't fazed by this as we had never spent the night together, given our living arrangements for the six months we had been dating. But Khumo and Pinky took the opportunity to tease us about being the only ones who would not be celebrating Christmas that night.

The next morning, before Teboho's friend Joe arrived to collect us for our trip to Namibia, I took Teboho outside and had a belated gift giving ceremony out of the boot of Moss and Khumo's car. Joe arrived shortly after, having already fetched the rest of the gang for our Namibian trip in his kombi. Joe and Teboho had become good friends when Teboho worked at SUCA. Joe had just completed his commerce degree and was now working in a corporate job in Pretoria. We said our goodbyes to Moss and Khumo and thanked Pinky and Winky for their hospitality before jumping into the kombi and onto the freeway for the long drive to Windhoek, some twenty hours away.