What We Lose(22)

Her head lolled back, she sniffed, and then she laughed deeply. Too drunk to sit up, I watched her from the hotel bed.

“You should have some,” she said. “It’ll perk you up.”

I licked my finger and dabbed some of the coke on my teeth.

Soon, I was wired, telling stupid jokes, singing to the Kwaito music the boys had put on their iPod speakers. The musicians were them. Apparently they were here for a gig and radio spot. They were famous.

“It’s boss, yeah?”

“No,” I said, and flopped back down on the bed.

“She’s not used to such strong stuff,” Lyndall said.

I saw her take the boy with the hat by the hand and lead him into the bathroom. I heard her heels click on the bathroom linoleum, the boy’s voice echoing from behind the door, then Lyndall’s laugh, tinkling like rocks in a glass.

I felt the boy without the hat stick his tongue in my mouth. He darted it around like he was searching for something, his hands riffling through my clothing, over my breasts, under my pants . . . Oh god, is this really happening? I heard voices from the bathroom laughing, distracted, ecstatic. I was so drunk, I had to tell myself what was going on. I was being kissed, groped, aggressively and unwanted. I told myself to kiss back. I don’t know why.

“Wait!” I pulled away from the boy. I was too scared to tell him to stop. If he was capable of doing this, he was capable of anything.

“What?”

“Is there somewhere else we can go?”

“No.”

He took his penis out of his pants. It was semihard. He rubbed it furiously in his right hand and started groaning. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Just then we heard the bathroom door unlatch, and Lyndall’s voice.

“You’re so naughty, I can tell!”

He stuffed it back in his pants, then covered his crotch with the tail of his shirt.

“What are you getting up to?” Lyndall’s voice was unnervingly high. I ran over to her, grabbed her by the hand, and ran out of the room. At the front desk, we called a cab.

As we flew along the highway back toward the suburbs, only lit-up billboards and the distant lights of the city were visible. I thought about how similar Johannesburg looked to where I lived. Save for the occasional pedestrian walking on the side of the highway, we could have been in New York or Los Angeles. I thought about how every place on Earth contained its tragedies, love stories, people surviving and others falling, and for this reason, from far enough of a distance and under enough darkness, they were all essentially the same.





Winnie Mandela bore a strong physical resemblance to my mother: They had the same complexion, same nose, same warm, unassuming smile. When I first heard the accusations against Mrs. Mandela, I weighed the brutality of the charges against her physical appearance. She could appear stern sometimes, as my mother could—no-nonsense, the kind of woman you wouldn’t want to encounter after sneaking home past curfew. But the dissonance between what she represented to the country (her nickname is “Mother of the Nation”) and what she is alleged to have done is almost impossible to reconcile.

Almost impossible to reconcile if you believe that motherhood and brutality are diametrically opposed. The truth is that motherhood is stained with blood, tainted with suffering and the potential for tragedy. Why are we surprised when a mother—a real mother, someone who takes care of her children and loves them—commits atrocious crimes? These are questions I wrestle with in the days and weeks that I consider my own pregnancy.





From the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa’s report, volume two

The Mandela United Football Club (MUFC) was the source of considerable violence and controversy between 1987 and 1989. Whilst Ms Madikizela-Mandela denied this, both the liberation movement externally and the MDM [Mass Democratic Movement] internally recognized it and stated so clearly in their statements of 16 February 1989. In the face of criticism and concerns raised by senior leaders of the liberation movement both at home and in exile, as well as the outrage of the local community, it is difficult to understand why she failed to recognise the threat that the club was posing and how damaging this was to herself. Her reluctance to disband the club is inexplicable.

Ms Madikizela-Mandela denied in her testimony that there was a close relationship between her and the youths who lived on or frequented her property. However, the testimony of former MUFC members, and of individuals who tried to dissuade her from this association, indicates that Madikizela-Mandela took a much more active interest than she has admitted. The MDM statement affirms this: Not only is Mrs Mandela associated with the team, in fact the team is her own creation.



The effects of racial and economic oppression figure largely in the structure and functioning of Black families. Black women play integral roles in the family and frequently it is immaterial whether they are biological mothers, sisters, or members of the extended family. From the standpoint of many Black daughters it could be: my sister, my mother; my aunt, my mother; my grandmother, my mother. They are daughters all and they frequently “mother” their sisters, nieces, nephews, or cousins as well as their own children.





Mr Sono testified that on Sunday 13 November, Mr Michael Siyakamela, Ms Madikizela-Mandela’s temporary driver, came to his house. He was told that someone wanted to see him. When he went out, he saw Lolo sitting in the back of the minibus, with Madikizela-Mandela in the front seat. Lolo’s face was swollen and bruised. Sono testified that Madikizela-Mandela informed him that Lolo was a police spy and that the MK cadres at Jerry Richardson’s house had been killed because of him. Despite his pleas to Madikizela-Mandela to release his son, Lolo was taken away. Madikizela-Mandela allegedly told him: “I am taking this dog away. The movement will see what to do to him.”