It was Shoane who was the biggest symbol of disappointment. Her mother had died first. Her father is said to have died on the streets in Johannesburg before Ame returned home on her back. Shoane’s grandmother looked at her with worry for the day her own demons would come out to destroy them all. She was a widow then, with a divorced daughter, two widows and eight grandchildren who were all estranged from their fathers in one way or another. Even after the rest of her children had died, it was still Shoane’s face that had the power to turn her mood foul at any point. Shoane was too young to understand why that was. Even when the other orphans ostracized her, calling her Ngoana Letekatsi , she could do no more than find chores out of everyone’s way and be so quiet she was sometimes only remembered during dinner, when her grandmother served porridge and gravy in the eighth plastic plate. “Sha!” she would yawp, as if saying her whole name was bothersome. She would pull her nose and squint at Shoane’s face, then throw her the plate when she was barely close enough to catch it without diving to it. “Get out of my way Sha ‘nake, get out of my sight!’ she would shout thereafter, “I cannot deal with all of you orphan bastards.” Shoane would walk out steadily, only to break into a run when she had left everyone’s penetrating eyes behind. She would get to the tree at the bottom of the toilet and sit quietly under the safety of its wings to eat. Her eyes would water when she tried to picture life in the care of her mother and father.
For the longest time, Shoane had nothing but that tree and the big, wide sky in which she threw wishes as a ritual. Until one day a social worker came by her grandmother’s house and warned her about keeping Shoane out of school. 122
a HOLAAfrica publication
I
Q-zine
Her grandmother’s young friend Mosele had gone to see the social worker about providing education for all the children in her care except Shoane, and the social worker had come within two days to see her. “She has to get an education. Every child in this country should have access to education, do you understand ‘MaLefa?” she had said. Shoane was sitting in a classroom the very next Monday, smiling anxiously at the odd-looking, stammering girl beside her per the social worker’s order to make friends with your classmates; smiling is a good way to declare your interest in someone, so smile and invite them to sit with you during lunch break. By the end of that week, Shoane knew every corner of Haoa’s house, the pale-white kitchen with its four-plate gas stove, its beige plastic tiles, the rectangular table on metal legs, its matching chairs, the Hart pots, colourful tableware, and white organza curtains. She knew the living room, its pink walls, brown sofas, 52-inch round-screen television – the black and white motion pictures on the television, the dark oak room divider, the radio in its spot on the divider, the record player next to the door. Haoa’s father’s records were stacked close to her mother’s sewing machine, which sat next to the large window. There was a pink carpet on which sat the coffee table, carrying books. Haoa’s paintings decorated the walls like prized art. They were so stunning and brilliant in Shoane’s eyes that she needed to know all there was about them – who the painted boys were, how often Haoa saw them, where they lived, what language they spoke, where Haoa had learned to paint like that – and Haoa, not being too modest to talk about her work, poured out their names without failure or stutter. “This is Motse,” she said boastfully, pointing at the face of the tall boy, “and this short one is Tlatsi! He is a painter like me!” They were not allowed into Haoa’s parents’ bedroom, but they found themselves there enough times for Shoane to note the tall oak wardrobe, the maroon velvet headboard, the red bedspread, the maroon carpet, the black bucket hanging on a nail on the side of the wall, the window and its white organza curtains, Haoa’s mother’s shoes tucked beneath the bed. She could find Haoa’s room blindfolded, and