BECOMING
CHAPTER 12
CHULUMANCO
Packing everything I knew I would need took forever. It unfolded slowly, over ten quiet days that felt both too long and too short. Every box I taped shut carried more than clothes or Hazel stock; it carried pieces of the life I had known since I moved to Entabeni with my mother after my father left us. I opened the cracked tin under the bed that held my birth certificate, Kungawo’s hospital tag from the day he was born, and the last photo of my father before he left. I took everything from it and packed it in one of the suitcases.
My mother watched most of it from her bed, leg propped on pillows, rosary moving slowly through her fingers. Part of me is glad that she encouraged this move because I think it will be beneficial for Kungawo. If she had not reassured me that she would be fine, I wouldn’t have agreed to move. She just watched, sometimes offering a small comment—“That blanket still has the lavender smell from when you were little”—and sometimes staying silent. I knew she was giving me space to feel the weight of what we were doing.
Kungawo helped in his own way. He sat on the mat while I sorted clothes, stacking his small T-shirts into neat piles before knocking them over again. Every time he said “Mama” or “Tata,” the second one still new enough to make my throat tighten, I paused and looked at him, reminding myself why the boxes were filling up.
Mesuli came every afternoon after the farm work slowed. He never arrived empty-handed, sometimes groceries for my mother, sometimes a new toy for Kungawo, sometimes just his steady presence. He carried boxes without being asked, taped them shut, labelled them in careful handwriting: “Kungawo clothes,” “Hazel stock – fragile,” “Kitchen things.” He asked before touching anything personal—“Can I pack these books?” “Is this blanket going?”—and waited for my nod.
One afternoon, while Kungawo napped, we sat on the stoep sorting through the last of my mother’s things. She had insisted on keeping only what fit in her small room, the bed, the stool, the radio, and her clothes. Everything else she said could go with us or to the church.
Mesuli lifted a small photo album from the box. He opened it carefully. The first page showed me at five or six, standing beside my mother in front of this same house, both of us smiling into the camera.
He looked at the picture for a long time. Then at me.
“You were small,” he said quietly.
“I was.”
He turned the page. Another photo, me in my matric gown, hair braided tight, eyes bright with the promise of university. Then nothing after that. The album ended abruptly.
He closed it gently and placed it back in the box.
“I wish I’d known you then,” he said.
I swallowed. “You didn’t miss much. Just a girl who thought she knew everything.”
He smiled, small, sad. “I still wish I’d been there.”
We didn’t speak for a while after that. Just packed in silence, the afternoon sun slanting across the stoep.
The hardest part was finding someone to stay with my mother.
I couldn’t leave her alone. Not with her leg the way it was, not with the house so far from the clinic, not with the village gossip that still whispered whenever I walked past. So I started asking around. I asked Zinzi to help me look because she knew everyone.
The first woman who came was Auntie Nomsa from two streets over. She was in her late fifties, widowed, with grown children in the cities. She sat on the stoep with my mother while I made tea, talking about church groups and vegetable gardens. My mother smiled politely, but when Auntie Nomsa left, she shook her head.
“She talks too much,” she said. “I’d rather be alone than listen to that every day.”
The second was a young girl, twenty-two, fresh from school, looking for piecework. She was kind, but nervous. Her hands shook when she poured tea. My mother watched her quietly, then said later, “She’s still a child herself. She needs someone to look after her, not the other way around.”
The third was different.
Her name was Thandiwe. She arrived on a Thursday afternoon, walking slowly up the path with a small handbag and a scarf tied neatly around her head. She was forty-eight, had worked as a caregiver for an old woman in town until the family moved away. She had two daughters, one married, one in nursing school, and a calm way of speaking that made the air feel lighter.
I made tea. She sat beside my mother on the stoep.
They talked for nearly an hour. About recipes. About church hymns. About how to rub lavender oil into the leg so the pain eased at night. Thandiwe listened more than she spoke, nodding, asking gentle questions. When she stood to leave, my mother reached out and touched her hand.
“You’ll come back tomorrow?” my mother asked.
Thandiwe smiled. “If you’ll have me.”
When she was gone, my mother looked at me.
“She’s the one.”
I nodded. Relief washed through me like cool water.
Thandiwe started the next day. She arrived at eight with a small bag of her own things, clothes, a Bible, and a radio. She helped me finish packing while my mother rested. She didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t offer advice unless it was asked for. She just worked, quiet, steady, kind.
Mesuli met her the same afternoon. He greeted her respectfully and asked if she needed anything for the house. She said no, but thanked him anyway.
That evening, while Thandiwe sat with my mother listening to a soap opera on the radio, Mesuli and I walked Kungawo down to the small stream behind the house. The boy ran ahead, picking up smooth stones, holding them up to show us. Mesuli took each one, examined it seriously, then handed it back.
When Kungawo was far enough ahead, Mesuli spoke quietly.
“Thandiwe seems good.”
“She is.”
“You’re sure about this?”
I looked at my son, crouching by the water, dropping stones one by one. “I’m sure about him. And about giving him a chance to grow where there are doctors, schools, space. The rest… we’ll figure out.”
Mesuli nodded. “We will.”
We walked back slowly. Kungawo held both our hands, one for each of us. He didn’t say much, but every few steps he looked up at Mesuli and said, “Tata.”
Every time, Mesuli answered, “Yes, nyana.”
The last night in Entabeni I couldn’t sleep. I sat on the stoep long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at the stars. The village was quiet except for crickets and the occasional dog barking far off. I thought about every corner of this yard, the place where I used to sit and dream about university, the spot where Kungawo took his first steps, the gate where I had watched Mesuli drive away and come back so many times.
My mother came out slowly, leaning on her stick.
“You should sleep, Chulu.”
“I can’t.”
She sat beside me. We stayed like that for a long time.
“I’m proud of you,” she said finally.
The tears came. “I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re not alone anymore.”
I leaned my head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around me.
“Thandiwe will take care of me,” she said. “And you’ll take care of him. And Mesuli… he’s trying. Give him time.”
“I will.”
She kissed my forehead. “Go sleep. Tomorrow is a new road.”
I went inside. Lay beside Kungawo. Listened to him breathe.
The next morning we loaded the bakkie. Thandiwe stood on the stoep with my mother, both waving as we pulled away. Kungawo waved back from his booster seat.
I looked in the side mirror until the yard disappeared.
The drive was long. Kungawo slept most of the way. Mesuli drove. I watched the landscape change from red dust to tar, mealie fields to green hills, hills to the first glimpse of sea.
When we reached the estate, the gate opened automatically. Mesuli pulled into the driveway.
The house waited, white walls, tiled roof, garden roses already blooming.
Mesuli killed the engine.
“This is it,” he said.
I looked at Kungawo, still asleep in the back.
I looked at Mesuli.
I took a breath.
“Okay.”
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