the suitcase was weightless.
It was Job.
The dim sky seemed to brighten.
Sipho sat up straight. “Job! You’re back! Sawubona! Unjani? I’m pleased to see you!”
Job swung the suitcase from his shoulder and plonked himself down on the grass mat next to Sipho. “Yebo! Back to see my grandparents. I need a drink of water, Sipho,” Job said.
Sipho dipped a calabash into a large clay pot and handed it to Job.
“You’re wearing a smart coat!” Sipho felt foolish speaking about such a thing when his father had just been buried.
“Yes! For my grandfather. For next winter. It’s too warm for this weather,” Job laughed, “but it’s easier to wear it than carry it. And for you …” He opened his suitcase. “Here’s a blanket for you and one for your father. The others are for my grandparents.”
He pulled out two thick blankets and Sipho had to turn his head away and take a breath before he could speak. “Job, we buried my father today. I’ve just come from the funeral.”
“Hhayi bo! No! Sipho, I’m sorry! I thought the summer would fix your father’s cough.”
“He would not go to the hospital.”
They sat quietly.
“You must go and see your grandparents, Job,” Sipho said at last.
Job lifted the suitcase on to his shoulder, saying mildly as he went on his way, “We’ll talk tomorrow … about your plans. Keep both blankets.”
The sun had set but Sipho sat a while longer.
Job would help him make a plan, just as he had helped before.
*
Job visited his grandparents at Christmas every year, spending long summer days in the lush Natal hills. Job and Mzi made a bow and a few arrows for Sipho and taught him to hunt field mice in the long grass, and dassies amongst the rocks. Up on the hills, when Sipho was watching cattle, they would practise stick fighting or splash under small waterfalls.
At the end of one of these visits, in the days when Mzi and his mother were alive, when the cattle were fat and life was good, Job had said to Sipho, “Before I go, I want to talk to your father.”
Sipho had seen Job walk up to the dip tank, where his father had nearly finished dipping the cattle.
When Sipho’s father had noticed Job and nodded, Job had greeted him respectfully.
“Sawubona, Baba.” He’d paused. “Baba, there’s a school now, over the hill. Have you thought of letting Sipho learn to read?”
Sipho’s father had swung his long whip over his head. It had cracked like a gunshot. He’d silently watched the last cow jump into the soupy water, swim the length of the dip tank and stumble up the ramp. Job had waited. Sipho’s father then folded the whip, tucked it under his arm and turned to look silently at Job.
“School,” he’d said at last. “I did not go to school. There is nothing wrong with me. See how many cows I have. See how many cows have calves. I am a wealthy man. Sipho does not need to read. Mzi cannot read and he has good work at the coal mine. He sends us money every month. Why would Sipho need to go to school?”
In those days it was unheard of for a young man to contradict an older man. Job did so with such grace that Sipho’s father hardly noticed. They walked back to the homestead and Job asked if he knew how Mzi was getting on at the mine in Welkom. He wondered if they had heard any news. When Sipho’s father shook his head, Job said, “At the school they will also teach Sipho to write. He can write a letter to Mzi and ask how he is.”
Sipho’s father had not looked impressed. “But will the letter come back?” he wanted to know.
For a minute Job was puzzled. “Do you mean will a reply come back?” he asked. “Sipho can say in the letter that Mzi should find someone to write a letter to you, with his news.”
Sipho’s father had stood still for a minute and then given a quick nod.
*
Just before the sun rose on the first day of term, Sipho was already walking up the hill to the school that lay far down the next valley, near the great river. He was big to be starting school, almost in his teens. His feet were heavy and slow. He was not sure what a school was, but when people spoke of someone who had been to school there was a tone in their voices that made him think school was important, so he did not tell anyone he was nervous.
He reached the crest of the hill and then his feet refused to move. He turned to look back the way he had come. It was nearly milking time, and on every side of the wide valley young boys were driving herds of cattle down from the grazing land behind their homesteads. But behind his home a grown man was driving the herd. His father.
His father’s half-brothers thought it was foolish for a grown man to spend his days looking after cattle when he had a son who could do it. Sipho knew they would say so and make his father feel bad.
His hands were clammy with shame for his father, and with worry about what lay in the next valley, but then he breathed deeply, turned his back on the sight of his father doing boys’ work and hurried down to the distant small building.
*
The school was run by Miss Jabulani and an Irish nun, Sister Katherine. Miss Jabulani spoke isiZulu to her class, but Sister Katherine spoke only English. Sipho was put in Sister Katherine’s class with the big children. For the first nine weeks he sat in complete silence. He did not understand a word she said until one day, when some of the sounds started to mean something. A week later he spoke a full sentence of English.
After the winter holiday Sister Katherine brought a newspaper back from the city. On the front page was a photograph of a black man being presented with a medal.
“The fastest man in the world,” she told them. “Jessie Owens. He won four gold medals at the Olympic Games in Germany. And this man … ” She pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired man with a little black moustache. “This man, the German ruler, was very put out, very cross, because Jessie Owens is black. This is Adolf Hitler. He doesn’t like Jewish people and he doesn’t like black people. A cruel man, this! A dangerous man! And he wants to rule the world.”
Sipho asked if he could take the newspaper to show his father the picture of a black man winning a gold medal. Sipho’s father was more interested in hearing about Adolf Hitler.
After two years, Sister Katherine gave Sipho paper and an envelope and he painstakingly wrote a letter to Mzi. He ran over the far hills to Mr Aaron’s trading store to post it.
Mr Aaron spoke fluent isiZulu and sometimes, when Sipho’s father took his dried cow skins to sell to Mr Aaron, they talked about the worrying news from Germany.
Mrs Aaron was gentle and quiet-spoken. She had a long table in a back room where women customers could cut panels of blue seshoeshoe cloth and sew them into skirts on her treadle sewing machine.
Mrs Aaron was alone in the store when Sipho got there. He produced the envelope and took a copper penny
