found him sitting at the foot of his bed. The curtains were drawn on all of the windows but one. I found the stillness of the room hard to absorb; I’d grown used to his rasping.
“I have your medication,” I told him.
Raising his left palm, Tata motioned me toward his bedside table, where I put the plastic bag next to a sealed box of menthols and an empty tumbler. I filled the water glass from the faucet in his bathroom and set it back on the table.
On my way out, Tata cleared his throat and asked me to wait. He was bending down to undo his laces, taking his time to liberate each foot. “How much better do you think this is,” he said, waving a hand at the table, “than the tonics I got in Ginsberg?”
“The tonics?”
“From the out-of-towner.”
I knew which tonics he meant, but I’d wanted more time to think of an answer. I didn’t know what to tell him. I’d never shared his belief in herbal medicine.
“I don’t know, Tata,” I said, and I didn’t.
RTR: 008 / Date of Recollection: 05.30.2002 / 5.5 min
My aunt’s engine stalls this morning just before we reach the school turn-off, which shouldn’t be embarrassing, but is. Through her windshield, I watch the scholar-patrol team holding up rusting steel beams, shifting old traffic cones through the drizzle.
“This again,” I say.
“Quiet.” Doris sighs. “This car has its problems and that’s not a new thing. You know that. Dumisani said he’d look at it, of course, but does he ever listen when a woman talks?”
“I don’t know.”
“He never listens when a woman talks.”
I pick up a newspaper lying near my feet. The Eastern Cape Premier’s office wants credit for the release of 33 political prisoners, says the front page, but the national government’s refusing. Most of the inmates were attached to the ANC. I turn the page, and see a headline about how the police are still seeking help with the missing girls.
My aunt clears her throat. “Don’t bother reading about the premier,” she says, twisting the ignition and causing the car to cough. “Even if it was Stofile and not Mbeki who released those men, what difference does it make? He’s still building the biggest house we’ve seen for blacks in this town.”
“Is it true that 57 percent of them were convicted of murder?”
“I don’t know. They would’ve done what they had to do.”
“Tony Leon says they’re criminals.”
“How would he know?” My aunt laughs and shakes her head. “You know, I never understood what it was about these Model C schools that we have to send all our children to, except for the wonderful accents we hear from the learners.”
I nod, since it’s true. When she speaks English, my aunt’s vowels are wider than mine and her r’s are rough, etching out her enunciation. It was the same with Mom and Dad.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s school.”
Then the car starts and we cross the intersection, parking opposite the school entrance. Most of my grade’s still milling outside, sharing homework and waiting for the bell to ring. I look for Lerato.
“I’m driving to Port Elizabeth,” Doris says. “I won’t be back until late.”
“Today?”
“It’s for a regional meeting,” she sighs. “It won’t be long”
“I thought you were on leave.”
“I also did. Make sure to keep safe.”
“I will.”
“I’m serious. No strangers and keep the doors locked.”
“I will.”
I walk through the front gate as the bell rings, and join the others as we chart a line toward the chapel. My socks have started to fray, and I can feel the cold through the thin leather of my Toughees. Taking a seat at the back, I take out two pills from my bag and hold them in my palm, Celexa and Paxil, thinking about last night. Then I swallow them and spend the rest of chapel half-asleep.
My phone vibrates on the way back to class, and I don’t have to open it to know what it is or who it’s from. Last night, the three of us agreed to try and meet at the park; Part said she’d text me if she’d managed to cut class. I sit through three classes and wait until we’ve had our first break, before I ask to be excused from geography and walk up to the sick bay.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mrs Linden asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Let me have a look.” She sits me down on the cot and takes my temperature with her palm and a thermometer. “How’s the head?”
“Dull and painful.”
“It isn’t a concussion, but you had a hard knock.”
“I also feel nauseated.” I look at the clock and remember to lie about eating. “I had a bowl of cereal this morning and now it wants to come up.”
“I see.” Mrs Linden creases her brow. “Listen. This is what we’ll do. I’ll write you a note to spend the rest of the afternoon at home, but only if you promise me you’ll go to the doctor before coming in tomorrow. That you’ll go tonight at the latest.”
I promise.
I walk home, watch a rerun of Cavegirl, and then meet Litha and Part at the Munchies in Metlife Mall, the weather too damp for the park. Litha places three orders of hot chocolate and I take out Kiran’s package.
Part leans forward. “Is that it?”
“I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Part nods. “Kiran used to be your idea of a thing, right?”
“Please kill yourself.”
“I’ll consider it. Did something happen?”
“I’m not sure. The teachers think he’s on acid.”
Part points at the box on the table. “I have to see what’s inside that thing.”
“I also do.”
As the server lowers the tray with our hot chocolates on it, I get up for a closer look at the newspapers on the counter next to the pies and pizzas. I bring one back to our table to show Litha and Part. The front page says there’s no progress on the missing girls. There’s also an article about where my aunt works. I tell them about it—how 15 computers were stolen from HR at the Department of Education in Port Elizabeth, interrupting an ongoing investigation on the director. How my aunt might lose her job.
Then
