of KwaMashu, Umlazi, Phoenix, Wentworth and Chatsworth. The government was forcing the multiracial community of Cato Manor to disband, according to race, into these new townships. They forced racial segregation on us.
‘What happened to the white family, the Fergusons?’ asks Aphiwe.
‘While we were forced to live in tiny houses in those townships, the Fergusons and other white families were given huge pieces of land in the same Cato Manor. They still own property there today, in the form of flats they rent out. Their son, who was just a baby when the removals happened, has a big property business now. He also owns FER Construction. The white families became rich from our plight,’ says Gogo.
‘I’ve never known much about Ma’s side of the family,’ says Aphiwe hesitantly.
Gogo takes the bait. ‘My father, your great-grandfather, was a direct descendant of the Ntuli clan, which had owned what is much of Cato Manor since the 1730s.’
Something wonderous is happening today, Aphiwe thinks. It feels like she is rubbing these stories out of her grandmother’s hair.
‘Mkhululi Ntuli was a good man,’ Gogo continues. ‘Ahead of his time. Our household was a place of great industry. We sold cattle, milk, eggs and chickens. We had a spaza shop.’
Gogo first smiles at this memory, looking into Aphiwe’s eyes, but she is quickly overcome with sadness.
This must be why she never speaks of her history, Aphiwe thinks. ‘I’m sorry for reminding you of those days, Gogo.’
Gogo wipes at a tear. ‘It’s been so long since I allowed myself to think about those beautiful days in Cato Manor, yet the memories are so fresh I can still smell the morning breeze. I remember the many friends I had. Reggie and Santhisha Perumal. Crazy Lucy Ferguson. The effervescent Thobile Dladla.’ Gogo sighs. ‘Yes, Aphi. This dream of a rainbow nation they talk about now is a dream we once lived. And we were not even aware, because we simply grew up with Indian, white and Coloured neighbours. It was normal to us. The Group Areas Act destroyed something beautiful.’
‘Did you keep in touch with any of them?’ Aphiwe asks as she adds the finishing touches to her grandmother’s hair.
‘We were relocated alongside the other black neighbours, so we stayed friends with them. The Fergusons became a powerful and wealthy family, so even though we did not keep in touch as friends, I am aware of them. But I don’t know what became of the Coloured and Indian families.’
‘Perhaps we can try to find some of your old friends and reunite you!’ Aphiwe suggests, clapping her hands in excitement.
She doesn’t understand why Gogo looks upset.
‘No,’ Gogo says. ‘I don’t think so. It won’t be possible. I tried long ago but …’
‘Don’t worry, Gogo, with social media today it will be much easier. Give me their names and I’ll do a search.’
‘No, I’m tired now. Tomorrow.’
‘But, Gogo …’
‘I said tomorrow,’ the old woman says sternly.
Aphiwe understands that she must give Gogo some space. They join Aphiwe’s parents in the dining room for supper. Afterwards Gogo takes her pills and retires to her room.
‘Today is my pension pay-out day,’ Gogo says to Aphiwe the next morning. ‘Will you take me on my errands?’
‘I will, Gogo.’ Her grandmother seems to be ignoring last night’s discussion about finding her childhood friends. She doesn’t give Aphiwe any details to aid a search.
Aphiwe prepares breakfast for the family and brings Gogo’s medication when the meal is finished.
‘I’ll take the pills when we get back. They make me drowsy. I can’t be asleep for my errands,’ says Gogo.
‘At least take your medication when we are on the way back. Please,’ Aphiwe pleads.
Gogo nods to this compromise. She’s in a smart, classy dress. Aphiwe is in jeans and a T-shirt. Gogo looks at her with dissatisfaction.
‘Don’t you have a nice dress, Aphi?’
‘I do. But I wear my dresses on special occasions.’
‘Today’s women.’ Gogo shakes her head. ‘In our times being a lady was a special occasion every day.’
Aphiwe ignores Gogo and puts on lipstick in front of the mirror. ‘How is this then?’
‘Much better.’ Gogo smiles. ‘Now you look like a lady.’
‘Can I put some on you?’
Gogo lets Aphiwe put lipstick on her. They look at their reflections in the mirror. Apart from their hair, they look so much alike. They have the same eyes and nose, the same wide forehead and high cheekbones. Their skin is the same dark brown.
Gogo smiles and says, ‘Now we are pretty. Now we can go.’
Aphiwe helps her into the car. ‘Where do you want us to start?’ says Aphiwe, reversing the car. ‘What do you want to do first at the shopping mall?’
‘We are not going to the mall. Take me to the hall near my house.’
‘All the way in the township? Gogo, the whole point of getting a card was to avoid those long queues in community halls.’
Gogo wears her stern look. She holds her head high and says, ‘I need to see my friends. I can’t be holed up in the suburbs like this. It is not healthy.’
‘Okay, but we can’t stay long. I also have things to do.’
‘Things like what?’
‘I need to cook and clean. You know Ma is not that young any more either, although she might seem a young sixty-two. I need to do my part while I’m still staying at home.’
‘What do you mean when you say clean? Are you talking about that tiny house?’ Gogo shakes her head. ‘When we were kids, we had a mansion, and no workers, just us and Mama to clean the house.’
Aphiwe puts the car in first gear. She secretly switches on the voice recorder on her phone to record this piece of lost family history.
‘Do you have pictures of them, Gogo? We can pass by your house and get those pictures. I want to see them and how you looked in your younger days.’
‘Do you think when those bulldozers came to tear down our houses we had time to save photo albums? I don’t have a single photo; everything I remember is all here in this old mind.’
Aphiwe glances at Gogo. She imagines herself being forced from her home. Her heart breaks thinking of what her grandmother endured.
‘Mama was a bubbly lady. My father was a sweet, hardworking man. I will always have fond memories of the childhood they made for me and my brother. Always. When the Group Areas Act came into effect, Baba was one of the many people who fought it. He organised marches with other brave men and women.’
