A memoir by Welcome Mandla Lishivha
https://akono.de/junge-auf-der-flucht/
Chapter One
“She never had a garden, but she cared for my hair as if it were her own rose bed. She made sure my hair was just the right length, always trimmed and well moisturised. When she heard that the newest hairdresser’s shop was said to work magic, she considered it her duty to take me there and beamed when she saw my head shining in the sun. It made her proud.
It was my first day at school, and she had gone to work later than usual to help me get ready. The air was fresh and cool, as it should be in the morning. Cars and buses rushed past in waves on the main road, and the bright summer sunshine made everything seem even bigger. Sssh, sssh, they rushed past us. Ahead of me was her sweet-smelling, tree-tall figure.
In one hand she held a spray can of pomade and a comb. In the other hand she held a brush with straw bristles, which she used to work on my hair. First she brushed the flat sides of my hairstyle, then stroked the roots of my parting with her plump fingers, and finished the whole thing with a cloud of fragrance that smelled like sweets.
Next to us, in the glaring sun, Mmane rubbed her hands with camphor, which she then proudly spread on Oscar’s face. I looked over at Oscar and Mmane Joy and took a closer look – and for the first time, Oscar, always a braver lad than me, looked scared in his new school uniform, which frightened him. By stepping out into the world and starting school, we were both at the point of being left all alone.
Our mothers had to go back to work – Mmane to Mabopane station, where she sold socks, hats and snacks to commuters, and my mum to the dentist Kodi M, where she worked at reception; that’s why Oscar tried so hard not to show his fear. Ever since nursery, we had learned not to cry after our mothers. But when school started, the feeling of having to assert ourselves among strangers came back. But I told myself: we still have each other, Oscar and I. We have each other, just like our mothers had each other.
‘We’re in the same class and at least we won’t be forced to eat Mma Johny’s porridge anymore,’ I said to him. He just stared at me silently. He was never one to admit he was afraid because he was so tough, so my comment seemed to offend him. Mother Mmane came and gave each of us our first pocket money:
Two shillings and fifty pence for lunch. I saw Oscar perk up again, as if to tell himself he could do it.
When I went to fetch the teakettle and the tin with the five roses and the sugar, Mum grabbed my new grey flannel trousers, put one leg over the ironing board and started ironing.
‘If anyone scares you, you tell me, promise, Daddy?’ I just nodded as she poured water into the kettle from a dark blue plastic cup.
‘And if anyone touches you against your will or touches you in a weird way, you tell them to stop, understand?’ She put the trousers over the ironing board, spread a damp cloth over them and ironed one half.
‘If someone touches you without your consent, if they tease you, you have to tell me, right?’ I just nodded, confused. She looked me straight in the eye.
‘Tell me, Papachen.’
‘What should I say, Mum?’
‘That you’ll tell me.’
‘Yes, I will,’ I said, confused.
‘I know you’re a polite Ngwanaka, but they have to respect you too, understand?’
‘Yes, Mum, you already said I’d grow up, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, just don’t let anyone scare you away from school, Papachen.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said, taking off her blue braided sandals to put on the grey socks.
She ironed one trouser leg with steam, so vigorously that it left a sharp crease that promised to give anyone who got in my way a proper cut. Her entire focus was evident in her pursed lips, and she pressed the iron so hard onto the board that it looked as if she was about to lie down on the ironing board herself. She held the trousers up to examine them from a distance, then ironed both legs before handing them to me to put on. I put on the trousers and my brand-new all-weather shoes, then tightened my belt around my navel.
‘I completely forgot that you like to show off your figure, Ra figara,’ she said and laughed.
‘Make it one hole less, Papachen, so you can still breathe,’ she said and loosened the belt by two holes. When she looked down at me, she saw me staring helplessly at what appeared to be oversized trousers. She laughed.
‘So at least one hole, eh?’ she laughed, still shaking her head, seeming to approve of some compromise.”
Welcome Mandla Lishivha, 2022
ISBN 9781431432370
https://welcomemandla.com
ig: welcome.mandla
Images: (c) Welcome Mandla Lishivha
LIA Leipzig International Art Programme
