BECOMING
CHAPTER 15
Sponsored by Florence Nyirongo
CHULUMANCO
This morning, the rain starts softly, tapping the roof like fingers drumming a slow rhythm. I wake to it, eyes opening to the grey light filtering through the curtains. Kungawo is already beside me on the bed; he must have climbed in during the night. His small hand rests on my arm, warm and still. He isn’t asleep; he’s staring up at the ceiling fan, watching the blades turn even though they’re off. When he feels me move, he turns his head.
“Mama.”
I pull him closer, breathing in the top of his head. “Morning, baby.”
He points to the window. “Rain.”
“Yes. Rain is falling.”
We lie like that for a while, listening to the drops hit the glass. The sound is different here, no metal roof to make it loud and sharp, just a gentle patter that makes the whole house feel wrapped in cotton. Eventually, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“Come. Let’s go downstairs.”
He follows me, feet bare on the cool tiles, holding my hand the whole way. In the kitchen, Mesuli is already moving the kettle on, the coffee machine humming, fruit sliced on the counter. He turns when he hears us.
“Morning,” he says, voice low and warm. His eyes go straight to Kungawo. “You’re up early, nyana.”
Kungawo lets go of my hand and walks to him. “Tata.”
Mesuli lifts him without hesitation and settles him on his hip. “Want to help with breakfast?”
Kungawo nods. Mesuli hands him a small spoon to stir the oats he’s warming on the stove. I make the tea, three mugs, mine with two spoons of sugar, Mesuli’s black, Kungawo’s warm milk with a drop of honey. We eat at the island, with Kungawo between us on his booster seat. He pokes at the oats, says “Hot” when he touches the bowl, then “Cool” after I blow on it.
After breakfast, I take him upstairs to change. He picks the yellow raincoat his paternal grandmother bought for him, bright, with little frog boots. When he’s dressed, he stands in front of the hallway mirror, turning side to side, admiring himself.
“Frog,” he says, pointing to his rain boots.
“Yes, frog boots. Good for puddles.”
He looks at me, eyes bright. “Puddle?”
I smile. “We’ll see.”
Mesuli comes down the hall with his phone in hand. “Mrs. Petersen just texted, she’s ready for us at eleven. The slot is still open.”
My stomach does a small flip. Today is the first proper therapy session after the assessment. “Okay. We’ll be ready.”
The rain has eased to a drizzle by the time we leave. Mesuli drives, wipers moving in slow arcs. I sit in the back with Kungawo, holding his hand while he looks out at the wet streets, the palm trees bending slightly in the wind. He clutches the squeeze ball Mrs. Petersen gave him last time, and colours shift when he presses it.
The therapy centre is quiet when we arrive. The waiting room smells faintly of lavender from the diffuser on the shelf. Kungawo goes straight to the basket of fidget toys, pulls out a soft ring that lights up when squeezed. He sits on the rug and watches the colours change.
Mrs. Petersen appears, smiling. “Good morning, everyone. Ready to play?”
We follow her into the therapy room. Today she has a small table set up with picture cards, a few toys, and a simple communication board, pictures of common items and actions: eat, drink, more, stop, help. She kneels to Kungawo’s level.
“Hi, Kungawo. Remember me? Mrs. P. We’re going to look at pictures again. You can say the word, point, or show me with your hands. Whatever you like.”
She starts with food pictures: apple, bread, milk. Kungawo names two—“Apple,” “Milk”—and points to the third. When she shows a picture of a swing, he says “Swing” immediately, then makes a pushing motion with his hands.
Mrs. Petersen smiles. “Yes, push swing. Good remembering.”
She introduces a few signs next, simple ones: more (fingers tapping together), help (fist rubbing on open palm), all done (hands out, palms down). Kungawo watches her do them, then copies “more” perfectly when she holds up the squeeze ball again.
By the end of the hour, he has used four new signs and named nine pictures. He doesn’t speak in full sentences yet, but the flow is smoother, less halting. When we finish, Mrs. Petersen looks at us.
“He’s making connections quickly. The understanding is strong—he just needs more ways to get the words out. We’ll keep building vocabulary, add more signs, maybe introduce a tablet with pictures if he responds to screens. Weekly for now, then we assess.”
I feel the knot in my chest loosen. “Thank you.”
She nods. “You’re giving him exactly what he needs, consistency and safety. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
In the car on the way home Kungawo squeezes the ball rhythmically, saying “More” every time the colours change. Mesuli glances at me in the rearview mirror.
“He signed ‘more’,” he says quietly.
I smile, tears pricking. “He did.”
Back at the house, Lindiwe has lunch waiting, vegetable soup with fresh bread. Kungawo eats hungrily, saying “Soup” when he sees the bowl. After lunch, Mesuli takes him to the garden despite the lingering drizzle. They wear raincoats, Kungawo’s yellow frog one, Mesuli’s dark green, and splash in the shallow puddles on the patio. I watch from the kitchen window, with my phone already in hand.
I dial my mother.
She answers quickly. “Mntanam. I was just thinking of you.”
I laugh softly. “I can feel it. How are you?”
“Fine. Thandiwe made scones this morning; they had too much butter, but they were delicious. We sat on the stoep and ate them with tea. Now tell me about my grandson.”
I settle at the kitchen table, watching Mesuli and Kungawo through the glass. “This morning we had therapy with Mrs. Petersen. She showed him picture cards, an apple, bread, a swing, and a dog. He named most of them and made animal sounds for some. Then she taught him signs: ‘more,’ ‘help,’ ‘all done.’ He copied ‘more’ perfectly when she held up his squeeze ball. He’s… he’s really starting to connect things. Words come more easily. Signs too.”
My mother exhales, a sound full of wonder. “Oh, Chulu. The ancestors did a big one with this. He’s opening up.”
“He is. And Mama… I’m so grateful we’re here. Grateful Mesuli is his father. Back in Entabeni I couldn’t afford these sessions. I couldn’t even get him properly tested for autism; the clinic just said ‘maybe’ and sent us home. I had no plan and no financial support. Now he has Mrs. Petersen every week, schools waiting for trials, and a house where he can splash in puddles without worrying about mud on someone else’s floor. He has access. Real help. Doctors who know what they’re doing, therapists who don’t rush him. I couldn’t give him that alone. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t.”
My voice cracks. Kungawo looks up from the patio and waves at me through the window. I wave back.
My mother is quiet for a moment. When she speaks her voice is steady but thick. “Mntanam, you gave him life. You gave him love when no one else was there. You carried him through nights I know were long and scary. Mesuli brings the rest, money, appointments, and space, but you were the one who kept his heart beating strong. Be grateful, yes. But don’t carry guilt. You did everything right.”
Tears slip down my cheeks. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. But I see you on the calls. I see Kungawo waving, saying ‘Makhulu.’ That keeps me warm.”
We talk longer, about Thandiwe’s garden, how the spinach is growing, how the village still talks about “Chulu in the big city.” I laugh when she tells me Auntie Nomsa now claims she “always knew” I’d rise up. When Kungawo runs inside, dripping and giggling, I hold the phone so she can hear him.
“Makhulu!”
She laughs. “My boy! Give Mama a kiss from me.”
I do. Then we say goodbye.
In the evening, after Kungawo is bathed and in pyjamas, Mesuli reads him a story on the couch, a book about a lost duck who finds his family. Kungawo listens, head on Mesuli’s chest, eyes heavy. When he falls asleep, Mesuli carries him upstairs. I follow, tucking the blanket around him, kissing his forehead.
Downstairs, we sit on the patio. The rain has stopped; the air smells of wet roses and clean earth. Mesuli pours two glasses of red wine.
“To new signs,” he says, raising his glass.
“To new signs.”
We clink softly.
After a while I say, “I spoke to Mama today. Told her about therapy. How grateful I am for all of this. For you being his father. For him having access now.”
Mesuli looks at me, eyes soft. “I’m grateful too. For you trusting me enough to bring him here. For letting me be part of it.”
I nod. “We’re doing okay.”
“We are.”
We sit in the quiet, watching the garden lights glow. Kungawo sleeps upstairs. The house breathes around us.
And in that stillness, I feel something settle, not all the way, not yet, but enough to breathe easier.
Enough to believe this might really be home.
********
Target: 100 likes and 25 comments.