Holding Up the Sky (33 page)

I hadn't eaten or slept properly for a few days and was a shaking mess by the time we entered Steve's office to tender our resignations. In truth, I knew it would end our relationship and, despite all the unresolved questions, I dreaded the moment. There was no righteous anger in me then, only fear and loss. Once it was done, a steel shutter came down and Steve and I never spoke a word to each other again.

BEFORE
WE LEFT FOR THE WEDDING IN SYDNEY, CALEB, TEBOHO'S OLDER BROTHER, THREW A FAREWELL PARTY FOR US. THE EXTENDED FAMILY ARRIVED FROM ITSOSENG AND RUSTENBURG. MOSS AND KHUMO, MEMBERS OF THE YOUTH GROUP AND MANY OF THE NEIGHBOURS CRAMMED THEMSELVES INTO CALEB'S MODEST HOUSE TO WISH US WELL. MOSS AND KHUMO SPOKE ON BEHALF OF THE CHURCH, TEASING TEBOHO ABOUT MEETING MY PARENTS FOR THE FIRST TIME ON THE EVE OF OUR WEDDING, CLEARLY CONFIDENT THERE WOULD BE NO LAST-MINUTE CHANGE OF MIND ON MY FATHER'S PART.

Caleb spoke on behalf of the family, expressing his regret that Teboho should be making this journey alone as it is tradition for the uncles to go ahead of the young man to ask permission and negotiate a bride price or
lobola. Lobola
is the price in cattle that the bride's family ask in compensation for losing a daughter. In modern society,
lobola
increases with the education levels of the bride. Caleb joked that perhaps it was a good thing there was no
lobola
in my case, as a university degree would put me out of the family's reach. What I didn't know was that Teboho had five cows in his luggage to give my father: one wooden, one ceramic, one metal, one plastic and one stuffed toy cow.

After Caleb finished, Mama told everyone how happy she was that Teboho was finally marrying; she had been worried about him never finding a wife, crazy and outspoken as he was. She gave me my new family name, a tradition denoting the passage from girl to woman, from family to family when a woman joins her new home. She announced that my name from now onwards would be
Malerato
, meaning ‘mother of love', for she felt that I must really love Teboho to leave everything and settle here with him. I was close to tears as she had given me a beautiful and powerful name. It was an indication of her love for me and I knew it.

Teboho encouraged me to respond on behalf of the two of us and I did so in Zulu, knowing that it would please the family. I thanked them for welcoming me into their family and their community and promised them I would be a good wife and daughter, a good
makoti
, at which they all laughed. A
makoti
is a new bride who enters her husband's family and, as the least powerful adult member, is required to be a type of servant until one of the other brothers marries and replaces her with a new
makoti
, allowing her to move up the social ladder. In some families, the
makoti
can become a kind of Cinderella, but I suspected that Mama would not make me play that role, gentle hearted and fair spirited as she was. So we all laughed at the thought as Caleb offered a toast to the bride- and groom-to-be and wished us every happiness in our journey.

We were flying out the next afternoon and Caleb had hired a few taxis to take everyone to the airport to see us off. It was not lost on me that I was standing in Jan Smuts Airport, a single white woman among twenty or thirty black people, saying heartfelt goodbyes. It must have been an odd sight for white South African travellers.

Teboho stood at the front of the church in Sydney wearing the smile of a man whose dreams have just come true. The emotional storms of the past five weeks were put behind us for the moment and the long awaited day of our marriage had arrived. Whispers and giggles rippled through the packed church as Teboho began to dance to the music in his head. The Australians gathered there had no idea that spontaneous dancing is commonplace in Africa. With a nod from Terry, the minister, Teboho turned and lit the candle that held a silent vigil on the cloth-covered table next to the pulpit. Then the sedate, respectable old church in the heart of leafy Wahroonga, one of Sydney's upper class suburbs, began to throb with an African rhythm. The Zulu wedding song spilling out of its doors had passers-by stopping to speculate about what was going on at St Andrew's that day.

The congregation turned as the wedding party burst into the church, each pair dancing down the aisle in time to the wedding song, two steps forward, one step back, hips and arms counting time as they swayed backwards and forwards. After a frantic week of practising on the paving surrounding my parents' pool, my old friends Nick and Grace, my brother Jon and my dear friend Nat danced down the aisle while the congregation's clapping urged them on. They all wore traditional African outfits, though Nat and Grace dressed more adventurously than Jon and Nick. Grace and Nat wore printed African dresses, tall-shouldered and slim-waisted, with matching pill box hats they had substituted for the headcloths I brought with me from Africa. Jon and Nick wore suit trousers with white African shirts over the top, subtly embroidered around the neck.

The words of the song compel the bride to come forward and marry her groom while her mother cooks the celebration feast. With my hand on Dad's arm, I danced towards my own groom, letting the music and the joy in the faces of my family and friends carry me down the aisle. I saw Phil and Kathy, Pete, Anne, Matt and Liz, Charlie–and through them, all the faces of our friends back in 'Maritzburg shimmered as if to wish us well.

I wore a white dress made in the style of an African traditional outfit, high shoulders with the sleeves tapering at the elbows, a scooped neckline edged with blue embroidery and beading, a sash around the narrow waist and a long straight skirt falling to the floor. The long veil sat over the blue and white flowers that formed a ring around my head. As I reached the stairs leading up to the altar, I thought the blue and white of Teboho's traditional attire merged in with the colours of the stained glass window behind him as if he wore a multi-coloured cloak and crown. For a moment we locked eyes, and what passed between us were all the difficulties we had overcome to arrive at this moment, all those who would have stood in our way. Yet here we were surrounded by the delight of those who loved us as they anticipated the vows we were about to make. I felt the tears escape for a moment and seeing this, Teboho reached for my hand, bowed his head to my father in recognition and drew me forward to stand next to him.

Terry asked, ‘Who brings this woman to be married to this man?' and my mother stood up next to my father as they said, ‘We do'. I handed my flowers to Nat and looked up at Terry. I had known him for almost ten years. I joined the church when I was sixteen, though it was some distance from my home. St Andrew's had a large youth group and not enough young women to take on the leadership responsibilities. So I was ‘headhunted' from a church half an hour away to join the leadership team. It was here at St Andrew's that I had learnt about youth work, leadership and community. It was here I made my mistakes, was coached and mentored. It was this church that had supported me to work in Africa and Terry had been a driving force in all of this. In Terry's smile I saw all this history folded into the words he now spoke as he guided us towards the future.

Teboho and I turned to one another and made promises of care, love and loyalty. We exchanged rings that, once blessed, would represent the eternal element of this new relationship, and of love itself. After a kiss that sealed the vows, Teboho once more began to dance, round and round in a joyous circle as the congregation cheered and applauded. After a few words, songs and readings from friends, the wedding party made its way back down the aisle, dancing to a second wedding song, this time with friends and family joining in. We spilled out into the garden and onto the street, with Teboho and I waiting to thank each guest as they emerged dancing from the church.

The celebrations continued afterwards in the church hall. We had decided on a simple reception so that, in true African style, all those who wished to come could come. There was no formal sit-down meal, just more music, and lots of food made by the church's women's group as their wedding present to us, and served to our guests by members of the youth group. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we danced and we wished each other great happiness. For years afterwards, friends would tell me that this was the most joyful wedding they had ever been to and one that the sleepy suburb of Wahroonga would not soon forget.

Despite the happiness of our wedding, a poisonous undercurrent flowed beneath the surface, one that had followed me from South Africa. In the weeks before we left for Sydney, things had deteriorated and my reputation was under a cloud. The story around 'Maritzburg was that I had pocketed some of the Sizwe funds raised in Australia and bought myself a personal computer. The irony is, I did get a computer during my earlier visit to Sydney–but it was generously given to me by someone at my church to assist with fundraising. The kernel of truth in the lie had people wondering.

Yet despite the attacks on my integrity, I felt somehow protected through my relationship with Teboho. I imagined that marrying him put my own priorities and allegiances beyond doubt. The turn of events at Sizwe would bring into question the commitment of each of us and I felt that, for me to continue my work in South Africa, credibility in the black community was critical. I was already seeing that it was the white community who were torn over whom to believe–Robbie, Lee and I, or Steve–whereas the local black youth leadership came down in support of our version of events.

I heard that Steve was planning a fundraising trip to Australia, yet was struggling to convince any black person attached to Sizwe to accompany him. Robbie and I worked hard to ensure that any youth leaders he might approach were aware of our resignations. Steve then let it be known that he would be approaching all Sizwe's contacts in Sydney, including my church network and all the volunteers who had worked with us over the past two years.

Although I had not told anyone what was happening while I was still in South Africa, once I was back in Sydney I made it a priority. Before the wedding and honeymoon, I took the time to speak to everyone I thought Steve would visit during his fundraising trip. Each one was shocked and saddened, but deeply sympathetic to the situation that I and the rest of the team were now in. It was particularly hard to tell Terry that things had fallen apart in the way they had, as the church had put so much effort into supporting me at Sizwe.

The only person I could not speak to in time was my old friend Matt. He was still working for an aid agency and only arrived back in town the day of the wedding. I decided to send him a fax outlining all that had happened, in case Steve tried to contact him before we spoke. Given the long-term relationship Matt had with Steve, he was shaken by the contents of the fax and felt it only fair that Steve be given an opportunity to respond. With this in mind, and unbeknown to me, he sent Steve a copy of my fax. As a result, the breach between Steve and myself widened further–with disastrous results.

Had I had more perspective when this was happening, I would have contacted a lawyer and been more careful in my actions. But I had spent the last four years working in an environment that did not trust the legal system. The anti-apartheid movement worked through mobilising people around injustices and building powerful networks to drive change. This was all I knew. Steve, on the other hand, had approached his lawyer and was preparing to engage in a different kind of battle, one that I was ill prepared to flght.

After the wedding in Sydney, we had two honeymoons planned: one just for us, and one with friends so that we could say our goodbyes. Anne's parents had a holiday house at Leura in the Blue Mountains, about one and a half hours drive west from Sydney. They had offered it to us for the week after the wedding and we jumped at the opportunity.

From that week there is one distressing memory, inexplicably nestled among the happy memories that spill like favourite holiday photos across a table. On the second afternoon, after lunch at the village, I went off to take a nap. As I lay on the bed, not yet asleep, it seemed as if the earth fell away beneath me, leaving me stranded on the bed miles above the ground–which had turned to desert rock. My terrible fear of heights had me clinging to the bed for fear of falling, yet the overwhelming emotion was one of being utterly alone. It was as if there was no one left alive below: the earth was barren and I was now alone. I lay on the bed and sobbed. Teboho came in but I could not explain what had happened and would not be comforted. He tried to rock me like a child, telling me it was just a bad dream. I covered my head and continued to cry until I did finally fall asleep, fearing this was more premonition than dream.

I have thought of this many times since and wondered about the irony of such a vision on a honeymoon. It took a day or two to shake the feeling that I was now on my own, without support from anyone. While Teboho struggled to understand, I allowed the experience to break the emotional intimacy we had shared up until this point. He was not a huge believer in shamans and communication with the ancestors but he did not underestimate the power of visions and dreams. So he waited until it seemed to have drained out of my consciousness. I suspect, though, that it seeped deep into my subconscious only to resurface many years later.

Our second honeymoon was by the sea. We had booked a beach house at Avoca, an hour and a half's drive to the north of Sydney. Jon had gone back to work, but we invited friends to come and stay for as long as they could during the week that we would be there. Nat, Pete and another friend, Dion, stayed the whole week, with others coming and going as their commitments would allow. It was a week rich with friendships celebrated through shared meals, laughter and long languid days on the beach. I remember it as one of my happiest holidays.

While Teboho enjoyed our time at Leura despite the combination of my strange behaviour and our being without any other friends for the week, his gregarious nature meant that the second honeymoon was also a highlight of the trip for him. On the whole, he was deeply moved by the hospitality of my family and friends who took him to heart as if they had known him for years.

Soon it was time to leave and there was yet another tearful farewell at the airport. We had spent almost eight weeks with my family, during which time they had got to know Teboho well. Apparently my father had taken him aside the night before we left and made Teboho promise to take good care of me. Though we were sad to go and had no plans as to when we would return, our heads were already turned towards the upcoming celebrations in South Africa. We would be arriving the day before the wedding and there was much to do. After long, lingering hugs, we boarded the plane and sped back to South Africa to begin our married life there together.