BECOMING
CHAPTER 14
Sponsored by Florence Nyirongo
CHULUMAMNCO
The third week in Port Serenity felt less like settling in and more like learning to breathe underwater, slow, deliberate inhales, every movement measured so I didn’t panic and sink.
Kungawo adapted faster than I did.
He still woke up early, still climbed into my bed and said “Mama” like it was the first word he’d ever learned, but now he followed it with “Tata?” if Mesuli wasn’t already in the room. He knew the sound of the front door opening meant Mesuli was home, and he would toddle toward the hallway with purpose, small feet slapping the tiles. When Mesuli crouched to greet him, Kungawo would pat his face and say “Tata” again, softer, as if confirming he was real.
I watched those moments from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug warm in my hands, feeling something between gratitude and a quiet ache. Gratitude because my son was speaking more every day, simple words, mostly commands or names, but words. Ache because each new syllable reminded me how many years had passed without them.
Mesuli never made a show of it. He didn’t clap or cheer too loudly when Kungawo spoke. He just answered, calm and steady: “Yes, nyana. Tata’s here.” Then he would lift him onto his hip and carry him to the kitchen table, where breakfast waited.
That morning, he had made oats with banana slices arranged in a smiley face. Kungawo stared at it for a long time, then poked the banana eyes with his finger.
“Eyes,” he said.
Mesuli and I both froze.
Mesuli recovered first. “Yes, eyes. Two eyes. Good job.”
Kungawo looked at me, waiting.
“Eyes,” I echoed, voice thick. “Very good, baby.”
He smiled, small, proud, and started eating.
After breakfast Mesuli cleared the table while I got Kungawo dressed. Today was the first school visit.
We had narrowed it down to three options from the list Mesuli had compiled. The first was a mainstream primary with a small inclusion unit, only six children with additional needs, one dedicated aide per class of twelve. The second was a private special-needs school with smaller classes and on-site therapists. The third was a Montessori-inspired place that emphasized sensory play and individual pacing; they didn’t have a formal autism programme, but the principal had told Mesuli over the phone that they welcomed neurodiverse learners.
We decided to start with the inclusion unit at ParkWest Primary. It was the closest, eight minutes by car, and had the earliest opening for a tour.
Mesuli drove. I sat in the back with Kungawo, holding his hand while he looked out the window at the passing palm trees and glass buildings. The estate gave way to suburbs, then to the school gates, red brick, tall iron fence, a playground visible through the bars with colourful climbing frames and a sandpit.
The principal, Mrs. Kumar, met us at the reception. She was short, warm-eyed, and wearing a bright yellow cardigan over a navy dress. She greeted Mesuli first, he had made the appointment, then turned to me with a gentle smile.
“Maam, welcome. And this must be Kungawo.”
Kungawo hid his face against my leg. I crouched down.
“It’s okay, baby. This is a nice place.”
Mrs. Kumar didn’t push. She simply said, “We can walk slowly. No rush.”
We followed her through the corridors. The walls were covered in children’s artwork, bright finger paintings, handprints turned into flowers, alphabet posters in isiXhosa and English. Classrooms had low tables, soft lighting, and noise-cancelling headphones hanging on hooks near the quiet corner. In one room, a teacher was reading to a small group; another child sat alone at a sensory table filled with rice and scoops, rocking gently.
Kungawo watched everything with wide eyes. When we passed the sensory table, he stopped walking and stared.
Mrs. Kumar noticed. “That’s our calm-down station. Some children like the texture. Others prefer the weighted blankets or the noise-cancelling headphones. We let them choose.”
Mesuli looked at me. I nodded slightly.
We continued to the inclusion classroom, Grade R. Fifteen children total, four with additional support. The teacher, Miss Patel, was young, calm, kneeling beside a boy who was lining up blocks in perfect rows. She stood when we entered.
“These are the new friends I told you about,” she said to the class. “Say hello quietly.”
A soft chorus of “Hello.”
Kungawo clung to my leg again. Miss Patel smiled at him.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just look around if you want.”
We stayed for twenty minutes. Kungawo eventually let go of me and walked to the block corner. He sat on the mat, picked up a red block, then a blue one, and placed them side by side. Miss Patel didn’t interrupt. She just observed.
When we left the classroom, Mrs. Kumar asked, “What did you think?”
I took a breath. “It feels… kind. Not overwhelming.”
Mesuli added, “The sensory area seems helpful. And the class size.”
Mrs. Kumar nodded. “We can do a trial morning next week if you’re interested. Just him and one of you. No pressure to enrol right away.”
We thanked her and walked back to the car in silence.
In the parking lot, Mesuli opened the back door for Kungawo.
“What did you think, Kunga?”
Kungawo looked up at him, then at me, then said one word: “Blocks.”
Mesuli laughed softly. “Blocks. That’s a good answer.”
We drove home. Kungawo fell asleep in the car seat, cheek against the window.
Back at the house, I carried him upstairs and laid him down for his nap. When I came back down, Mesuli was in the kitchen, making fresh coffee.
He handed me a mug without asking.
“Talk?” he asked.
I nodded.
We sat at the island.
“I liked it,” I said. “The teacher didn’t push him. The space felt safe. But I’m scared he’ll get lost in a bigger group. Even fifteen feels big after just us.”
Mesuli listened without interrupting.
“I want to see the Montessori place tomorrow,” I continued. “And maybe the special-needs school on Friday. I don’t want to decide too fast.”
“Agreed.”
He reached across the counter and touched my wrist lightly, just a brush of fingers.
“You’re doing this right,” he said. “You’re asking questions. You’re watching him. That’s what matters.”
I looked at his hand on mine. I didn’t pull away.
“Thank you for not rushing me.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
We sat like that until Kungawo woke.
The next morning, we visited the Montessori school.
It was smaller, only sixty children total, mixed ages from three to six in one open-plan room. No desks. Low shelves with wooden materials, trays of beads for counting, sand trays for letter formation, a peace corner with cushions, and a small fountain that made white noise. The guide, Ms. Olerato, spoke softly and moved slowly.
Kungawo loved the sand tray. He ran his fingers through it for ten minutes straight, watching the grains fall. When another child came to join he didn’t move away, he just kept tracing, and the other child sat beside him quietly.
Ms. Lerato watched with me.
“He’s very focused,” she said. “That’s a gift. We follow the child’s interest here. If he wants to stay at the sand for an hour, he can.”
I felt something loosen in my chest.
On Friday we saw the special-needs school.
It was purpose-built: wide hallways, soft flooring, visual schedules on every wall, therapy rooms with swings and crash mats, a hydrotherapy pool for sensory regulation. Classes were tiny, six children maximum, two adults per room. The principal, Mr. Khumalo, had worked with autistic children for twenty years. He spoke directly to Kungawo, crouching to his level.
“Hello, Kungawo. I’m Mr. Khumalo. Do you like cars?”
Kungawo looked at him, then pointed to a toy car on the shelf.
Mr. Khumalo smiled. “You can play with it.”
Kungawo took the car and rolled it back and forth on the mat. Mr. Khumalo didn’t hover—just sat nearby, narrating softly: “Vroom. The red car is going fast.”
We stayed for forty minutes. Kungawo didn’t speak, but he didn’t cry or hide either.
In the car on the way home, Mesuli asked, “Any favourite so far?”
I thought about it.
“The Montessori felt calm. The special-needs one felt safe, like they really know how to meet him where he is. ParkWest felt kind, but maybe too mainstream for now.”
Mesuli nodded. “We can do trial mornings at all three. Let him choose in his own way.”
“Yes.”
That afternoon, we booked the trials.
While Kungawo napped, Mesuli and I sat on the patio with laptops open. He had printed therapist profiles, six in total. We read them together.
Dr. Ndlovu: paediatric neurologist, special interest in epilepsy and developmental delays. First appointment available in three weeks.
Mrs. Petersen: speech and language therapist, twenty years experience with non-verbal children, uses PECS and AAC devices. Waitlist two months, but she had a cancellation next Thursday.
Mr. Daniels: occupational therapist, sensory integration specialist. Saw children at home or school. Could start in ten days.
We booked Mrs. Petersen first.
When Kungawo woke, we took him to the garden. Mesuli pushed him on the swing. I sat on the blanket and watched them.
Kungawo said “Higher” three times.
Mesuli laughed every time he pushed.
Later, when the sun was low, Mesuli came to sit beside me.
“He’s going to be okay,” he said quietly.
I looked at him. “I know.”
He reached for my hand, slow, asking permission with his eyes. I turned my palm up. Our fingers laced together.
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