and I don’t want her getting involved in your… activities!”
My heart plummets. He’s talking to Ntatemogolo.
“She has enough on her plate with school! She needs to focus, Lerumo – don’t you want her to be able to make the most of her education? She doesn’t need to waste her time dabbling in this sort of – of course not, you know that!”
There’s a long pause, and when Dad speaks again there’s a catch in his voice. “You can’t claim to know what Rebecca would have wanted.”
I find myself holding my breath. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Dad say my mother’s name, especially to Ntatemogolo. Although she’s the person who forced them together in the first place, she’s the one subject they never touch.
“I am her father,” Dad growls. “I will decide what is best for my daughter. You must respect that! Soon Connie will be old enough to make her own choices, and I don’t want you confusing her!” He makes an exasperated noise and then snaps, “If you refuse to listen to reason then I’m wasting my time. Goodnight!”
I sneak away, but instead of going back to bed I head for the living room. I walk over to the bookshelf and take down one of our photo albums. The first picture is of me, a chubby, beaming toddler. I skip ahead to my favourite photo of my mother. She’s barefoot on a well-kept lawn, wearing a pretty summer dress and laughing at my dad, who took the picture. I raise my gaze to the only photo of her that’s on display in the house – my parents’ wedding picture. It’s on top of the bookshelf, next to a horrible school photo of me taken not long after her death.
My mother was beautiful. I don’t know where all those genes went, because I don’t look anything like her. She had smooth dark skin and short hair, and lovely hands. I remember her hands more clearly than anything else. Her nails were short but always painted in different colours according to her mood. Dad uses the most wonderful word to describe her – luminescent. I’ve often wondered how a skinny, awkward lekgoa managed to get such a goddess to notice him. Dad has many great qualities, but you have to get him talking before you’ll see them.
I don’t realise he’s entered the room until I hear the chair creak. I turn around and there he is, sitting at the dining table and looking at me.
“Did I wake you? Sorry.”
“It’s OK.” I close the album and put it back. “So you two aren’t the best of friends yet?”
He winces. “I’m sorry darling, but if you’re waiting for your grandfather and me to get along you’ll be waiting a long time.”
I shrug. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Connie.” He looks at the chair opposite him, then at me. “A minute, please.”
My body tenses. The last thing I need is another lecture on Ntatemogolo’s “esoteric rubbish”. It’s difficult to sit and listen to Dad go on and on and not be able to contradict him. How do I tell him that the world he thinks is so orderly and practical is all in his head?
“Dad, it’s late,” I remind him. “I have school in the morning.”
“It won’t take long.” He fixes his stern I’m-the-head-of-the-house gaze on me.
With a sigh of resignation, I plonk myself onto the chair. “OK. What’s wrong?”
“Connie…” He frowns, then sighs and starts again. “Connie. We both know you’re… I mean you’re very… you’re a smart girl. I’m not talking about school. What I mean is, you’re more… insightful than most people.” He’s squirming in his seat, his thoughts running back and forth as he tries to find the right words. If he knew that I knew what he was thinking, what would he do?
“Dad –”
“Let me finish.” He clears his throat. “You’re sensitive. Intuitive! Yes, intuitive. Your mother was, too. She had a way of sensing what people were feeling, you know? Empathy. Yes, that’s the word. With you it’s a bit… somewhat… stronger.” My father, king of the understatement. “It’s a useful trait, wonderful really, but… um…” He hesitates, then flashes an uncertain smile. “But I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand it.”
“Dad, we’ve talked about this,” I point out.
“Yes, but you’re older now. I just don’t want you making the wrong decisions, or getting involved in things that are… unhealthy.”
I put on a puzzled expression. “What sorts of things?”
“Ah well, you know… there are many things that can lead a young girl astray.” He coughs and lowers his gaze to the table.
“You don’t have to worry. I don’t like parties or drinking, my friends are good kids and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He nods. “I know. But we all have our weaknesses, and yours isn’t alcohol or boys. It’s… the other thing. You know what I mean. All that… mumbo jumbo your grandfather’s always raving about. You’re so drawn to it, and it’s not good for you!”
I take a deep breath and try to come up with a way to derail this conversation. “It’s harmless, Dad. Really. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“But I do. When he has you going over there first thing in the morning, or late in the day when you should be home doing your schoolwork, then I have to worry, Connie.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So I shouldn’t spend time with him?”
“I didn’t say that.” But that’s what he’s thinking. He cracks his knuckles and frowns, wishing my grandfather had never come back to Botswana, then hating himself for wishing it. “He’s your grandfather; of course you should spend time with him. I want you to have a good relationship with him, for your mother’s sake and your own. But the man is relentless! Every chance he gets he’s planting all this crazy stuff in your head. He’s convinced that you’re some kind of… of… medium, or God knows what, and he refuses to see sense! A man with his reputation and education – I just don’t get it.”
Poor Dad. As exasperating as he is, I can understand where he’s coming from. “Dad, don’t get angry. He’s just doing what he thinks is best.”
“But he’s wrong!” he splutters.
“Well, he thinks you’re wrong, too.” I put my elbows on the table and lean forward. “I don’t want to be caught in the middle. I get it – you two don’t agree on anything. But you’re both family, and you both love me. That’s enough.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? If you can’t get along, just stay away from each other so we can keep the peace. Please!”
Dad nods. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m just worried about the sort of ideas he’s –”
I groan and bury my head in my hands. “Dad! Please. Let it go.”
He looks at me. I tune out his thoughts and focus on the fear in his eyes. “I just need you to know that this world of his is not real. It’s a mixture of culture and superstition. It’s not solid.
