Holding Up the Sky by Sandy Blackburn-Wright

to adapt to their more informal style. She had only ever called her previous employer ‘Master’ and was horrified when Steve told her that a condition of her employment was that she call him Steve and his wife Beth. While she was now able to shyly call Steve by his first name, I don’t know how often her confidence extended to joining the family evening meal.
    Over Mama Jenny’s stew, we took the opportunity to bring each other up to speed on programs, fundraising and the general comings and goings at Sizwe during recent months. Sizwe’s inaugural program had been for a group of nine displaced teenagers. Steve helped them think through what it means to take refuge, to be a refugee, and what support they needed to live normal lives again. By the end of the two days, they acknowledged that their lives were now characterised by alienation, dependency, demotivation and vulnerability–these were themes that our programs and support services would need to address. The time not spent on running programs had been taken up by fundraising to cover running costs. We had also sought corporate sponsorship: for example, Toyota donated a Hiace kombi and a bakkie or small truck; and A&W International donated a photocopier.
    By the time we finished dessert, my fatigue had overtaken my excitement and I was ready for bed. The whole team would be here at eight in the morning and I was eager to put faces to names. So I thanked my hosts and made my way down to the cottage where Mama Jenny had already turned in for the night. While it was strange lying in my new bed that first night, I knew that it would very quickly feel like home.
    The next morning I was back up at the house for the regular Monday morning team meeting. In Steve’s office, I found a number of chairs in a rough circle and took one next to Lee, a familiar face. Lee was quiet and .effcient in the way of many talented administrators. She had also been Steve’s secretary at the Centre for African Renewal; like me, she had been excited by the work Steve was planning to do and was quick to jump on board. Behind Lee’s reserve was an adventurous spirit: she was the only female volunteer firefghter in the city and regularly went for long rides on her motorbike on weekends.
    Also in the circle was Robbie, about the same age as me, who had the look of a black Santa Claus with a goatee. Robbie and I were to be fieldworkers together, a team. He was round, jolly and kind with a patience that rarely reached its limits. He had also been an activist in the area for many years and I learnt to trust his judgment implicitly in the many difficult situations we would face together. Robbie had been detained for eight months the year before for participating in a peace initiative between the two warring political parties in the area, the ANC and Inkatha. No charges were ever brought against him. Robbie now lived with his sister, Happy, and her husband in a small tin shack out on the outskirts of Edendale. It was a new extension to the township and was, as yet, poorly serviced. The original area had been razed of all its greenery and then a few hundred tin sheds had been dropped onto the sides of the hills, like seeds sown on a terrace. Robbie’s contented cheerfulness always stood in stark contrast to the harshness of the valley where he lived. His initial involvement had been through Sizwe’s new management committee but Steve quickly offered Robbie a job and, to our great good fortune, he accepted.
    Themba was hired to run the self-employment workshops, as well as to look after the maintenance of the property. He was taller than his peers at close to 183 centimetres, lighter skinned than most, with handsome features. He had a gentle spirit, listened often and spoke wisely when he had something to say. Themba lived in Calusa in an outside room behind someone’s home. He had no family in ’Maritzburg, having come from the rural areas to study and