Holding Up the Sky (47 page)

Teboho and I were enjoying the antenatal classes despite him being the only black person there. If the other couples were surprised or put off by our presence, they worked very hard not to show it. I appreciated Teboho coming along to class, remembering the family's attitude to Tshidi's pregnancy where no one had even mentioned the fact that she was pregnant. Not only were we mentioning it, we were watching birthing videos, studying anatomy and practising breathing techniques–defnitely a departure from Teboho's own father's involvement in his birth.

After Karen returned from her trip to Kruger, we organised to have dinner with Willie, Teboho's younger brother and my favourite brother-in-law. He too was now in a relationship with a white woman, another Karen. She came from a very wealthy Afrikaaner family who did not approve of her choice in men. I remember going over to Willie and Karen's new home when they moved up to Jo'burg, a small inner city house that Karen's father had bought for her. Teboho and I went around to help them paint it. Willie, Teboho and I had popped out to buy more paint and in our absence, Karen's father arrived with the same intentions as we had. When we returned to the house, her father was up a ladder in the small entrance hall. We each filed through, introduced ourselves and shook his hand in greeting. Willie was bringing up the rear and, as he was yet to meet Karen's father, he also introduced himself. On hearing his name, Karen's father turned away and went back to his painting without a word. Change is slow when it involves your only daughter and a young black man.

We had agreed to meet Willie and Karen for dinner at a restaurant at Westgate, the largest shopping mall on the West Rand, or western suburbs of Jo'burg. By this time, the shoppers who frequented the mall were a mixture of all races, shopping side by side without a second look. However, our little party was still an oddity–two black men and three white women, one of whom was pregnant. From the perspective of the old South African mindset, there was just no way this mix could work out well. I was very accustomed to ignoring the stares, but our friend Karen was not; being the outspoken person she is, she stared right back or asked the starers if she could help them with something.

After an enjoyable dinner at an Italian restaurant, Willie and his Karen headed back towards the city while Teboho, Karen and I headed further west towards Randfontein. We were travelling along the dual carriageway between Krugersdorp and Randfontein when I noticed a police car behind us. The road was not well lit and there were no other cars along this empty stretch of road. Given my experience with police in the townships, I always felt they were as unpredictable and dangerous as wild animals so I was immediately on guard.

‘Please make sure you don't go over the speed limit. Don't give them a reason', I urged Teboho.

‘
Relax, Moratua
. We are just driving here', Teboho lulled in reply.

The police car slowly pulled up along side us, allowing each man inside to survey each of us in turn. After a few moments, they crept forward before changing lanes and settling in ahead of us.

‘I don't like this', I said as I saw the policeman in the front passenger seat speaking into the radio handset.

The police car in front then slowed down, forcing us to do 50 kilometres in an 80 kilometre zone. I kept looking behind us, fearing the worst; before long another car dropped in behind and shortly after that, a third. I was in a panic, with one hand instinctively around my stomach in a useless attempt to protect the baby.

Once we were hemmed in on three sides, the police car in front screeched to a halt, momentarily making me laugh as I imagined these men thinking they were in a
Dukes of Hazard
movie. But the lightness quickly passed as we slowed to a stop, still a few kilometres from town.

‘It will be OK. Just stay in the car, stay relaxed', Teboho said, as much to himself as to us.

The doors of the first police car opened and three policemen got out. One man came towards our car, the other two loitering behind.

‘I want to see your licence and car registration', the man said in a stony voice, thick with an Afrikaans accent.

Teboho leant across in front of me and reached into the passenger's cubby hole for the papers. He handed these and his identity document, always carried next to his wallet, to the man standing with his hand outstretched.

The policeman flicked through the documents. ‘Whose car is this?' he asked.

‘It's mine', Teboho replied.

After a long silence, the man flung the papers back in through the window. ‘Now get out of my town', he spat as he began to walk away.

I saw something in Teboho snap. He leapt out of the car, shouting at the policeman's retreating form: ‘I gave you those papers in your hand. I expect you to hand them back the same way. I'm not a dog. I don't fetch'.

I felt my stomach clench in fear. I understood that this was 1995, there was a black government in power and Teboho should no longer be treated like this. But I also knew that we were alone on a dark road, surrounded by men who didn't care who the government in Pretoria was–clearly, around here, they were the law.

As soon as Teboho left the car, the policeman in the other cars were out of theirs and moving to form a circle around him and the first policeman. Without thinking, I pocketed my wedding ring and stepped out of the car after him. Karen, many years later, said that she watched me do this and still didn't understand why. But I knew these men needed no other reason to escalate the situation further. We were in this situation because they had seen us together. I didn't want to consider what would happen next if they realised this man was my husband and I was pregnant with his child. I also knew enough of this place to understand they were incapable of making such an impossible connection immediately.

I headed towards the crowd of men, Teboho and the officer standing in the middle, toe to toe, shouting at each other.

‘This is not your town. I was born here and my father before me. This is my town and I will not be told when to come and when to go', Teboho was shouting defiantly.

‘Who do you think you are?' the officer replied in a rage.

‘The question is, who are you? I want your name and number.'

I stepped inside the circle of men, a few of whom had their hands to their guns by now. I placed myself in between Teboho and the officer, facing my husband.

‘Let's go. There is no need for this', I said, trying not to beg.

After a few moments, he caught my eye, and perhaps seeing the fear rising there, he turned to go, pushing his way through the ring of men. As he did so, the offcer called after him, ‘Go on, get out of here'. I watched his back, afraid he would turn at the goading, but he kept on and headed back towards the car.

Once we were back on the road, the three police cars tailed us right through town and to the edge of the township–I had begged Teboho not to go to the house in Finsbury. I saw that he was not afraid but angry, furious that he could still be treated this way without sanction. He resolved to lay a complaint against these men in the morning. Karen and I, on the other hand, were both left shaking and terrified. Even once we had reached Moss and Khumo's, my hands were still quivering with fear. On hearing the story Moss, like Teboho, was angry at the liberties taken and resolved to take up the issue himself. Moss, through his leadership in the black church, was a well connected advisor to the new heads of government. As we sat in the brightly lit kitchen, the dark night outside held at bay, I began to feel comfort that we at least had some recourse in 1995 that had not been available ten years before. However, I also knew we had been lucky to get away as lightly as we did, new government or not. For the next few weeks, I kept an eye out on the roads and in town for these men, but knew I would not recognise them if I saw them. I just hoped they would not recognise me.

My return to South Africa had not been as I had imagined it. I had hoped that I would see a change after the elections the previous year. In fact, change was happening, just not in the part of the country where we chose to live. But there was a visible change in our family at least. Teboho was delighted to be back home amongst old friends and all his family. It was as if his manhood was returning, having been lost along the way in Australia. Perhaps this was what the nightclub incident in Launceston was about, I don't know. Perhaps having a woman flirt and come on to him had given him a sense of manliness and power, one he chose to take advantage of when I tried to chastise him. In my seeking to rein him back in, he saw a threat to his newly affirmed manhood and he lashed out.

There is a strange and delicate balance of power when a black man marries a white women, given the inevitable social baggage of their union. I knew why I had been attracted to Teboho but I sometimes wondered what it was he saw in me. Could he separate out the colour of my skin and all it stood for and see the person beneath or is the package impossible to untangle, causing the reasonable to become suddenly unreasonable, the beloved to become the tormenter?

Back at home in the township, Teboho's happiness increased with each movement forward on the house, each milestone taking him closer to his dream. I knew he wanted a home that he could share with his extended family and friends, taking in those who needed somewhere to stay, just as he had done in his youth. He wanted to be available to the community, to help support those who were struggling, to spend time with people who needed someone to listen. And I loved and respected him for his generous, empathetic spirit. He also wanted a large family around him; with Mello, another child on the way and hopefully more to come, his life was finally coming together. As for me, I was relieved to see him so happy, glad to do whatever it took to make that happen for him. His reclaimed optimism seemed to deny the existence of that stranger in Tasmania with the cruel words and stony heart.

While I was finding the interaction in Randfontein intimidating, I was enjoying the opportunity to become part of the community in Mohlakeng. In my spare time, I was coaching some of the high school students I knew through church and had just volunteered to start a Sunday school. Upon our return to Mohlakeng we had, of course, joined Ebenezer Church where Moss was the minister. It operated out of the local school building and the congregation was continuing to grow. While I was the only white person there, I knew the vast majority of people quite well so I never felt out of place. While Karen was with us, she also came along to church and got to know the congregation.

The last weekend before Karen left, we drove up to a remote village called Bochum in the Northern Province, where there was a headstone raising for one of Mama's relatives. Mama explained that a second ceremony is held up to a year after the funeral–depending on how long it takes to raise the necessary funds–where a permanent headstone is placed above the grave of the person who has passed away. The family gathers once more and as with a wedding or funeral, a large feast is held over the weekend, culminating in the raising of the headstone on the second day. Mama, Teboho, Mello, Karen and I were to make the journey representing our branch of the family.

After many hours in the car, we arrived in Bochum just before lunch on the Saturday. The village was a mixture of traditional round rondavels made of wattle and daub with a thatched roof and corrugated iron shacks. There were also a handful of larger cement brick homes scattered throughout. These were all fat-roofed dwellings, painted white with a brown strip close to the ground so the mud that splashed up during the rain would not spoil the walls. The rondavels were similarly two-toned, with the brown strip coming almost as high as the top of the door frame. A number of family compounds were demarcated by a flimsy wire fence held in place by a collection of wooden and iron poles.

Our family's compound consisted of a white brick home with a semicircle of rondavels behind it. In the middle of the rondavels was a large concrete slab with a raised border perhaps two bricks high. I was unsure whether these were foundations for another home or built for a specific purpose but today, the area acted as an open air kitchen with five or six large pots boiling away like a cluster of witches' caldrons in one corner of the slab. There were a few thorn trees and oleander bushes scattered about the compound, but none provided much shade. The shadiest spot appeared to be on the veranda of the main house where a large pink bougainvillea had crept up the pillars like a swarm of hungry ants. It was from this cool haven that a number of female relatives emerged as we stood next to the car stretching after our long journey.

Festivities appeared to be in full swing and we were immediately whisked off to join in, the women to the open air kitchen and Teboho to where the men sat in a circle under a thorn tree across the way. I knew I would not see Teboho for a time, but ultimately he would break with tradition and make a lively appearance at the pots. Karen was keen to understand everything she was seeing and began flooding

Mama with questions. Mama had been through this process with me often enough to know that she simply needed to pass Karen on to the crowd of equally curious young women who stood shyly off to the side, allowing Mama to catch up on family gossip while Karen was shown around.

Given my late stage of pregnancy, I chose to sit with Mama while Karen disappeared with three teenagers who were to be her constant companions for the next twenty-four hours, despite speaking only patchy English. Karen re-emerged around the corner of the house forty minutes later, arms stretched out to the side, balancing a tin of water on her head. The women by the pots fell about in hysterics at the sight of her earnest concentration. I noticed the girls had been kind enough to give her a cloth ring to make the task easier (it provides a fat surface on which to balance the container). I had seen many white people attempt this feat without the benefit of the twisted cloth ring, failing miserably and wondering how black women can balance pots with such ease. Mama and the other women continued to laugh as they watched Karen inch her way past the pots, intent on learning this new skill. She eventually made it around the other corner of the house. It was another forty-five minutes before Karen returned again, this time with a baby strapped to her back. The women were cooking the traditional pap which required regular stirring, the task becoming more difficult as the pap stiffened. Karen was handed a large wooden spoon that stood as high as her armpit. Much to the delight of her fellow chefs she took the spoon and put her shoulder into it, baby still on her back.