he never saw her. Or if he did, he never let on.
“ Dumela, sis!”
The boy who sold newspapers to passing motorists at the corner lights called out to Rosa as she approached. His dark eyes, set deep in a pinched nut-brown face, seemed concerned. Had he seen? The road was quiet, and he was standing next to his stack of papers in a faded blue T-shirt pitted with holes.
“Dumela!” Rosa tried to smile before turning the corner.
She broke into a jog. She could no longer be seen by Trigger-boy’s gang from here, and she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. On her left, iron railings with slim black spearheads protected the stern archway entrance to Oranje Primary School. Even the yellow roses were forbidding, standing like soldiers in straight lines.
Rosa didn’t want to be late. Hennie’s mother might deduct something from the few rands she was paying her to look after the twins.
When Mevrou van Niekerk had asked Mama some months ago if Rosa could help for a few hours every day after she finished morning school, Rosa had been upset. She never wanted to go back there! She had never forgotten Hennie’s father and the words he had said all those years ago. But Mama had pointed out they would need every cent in the New Year. President Mandela’s new law might say that all government schools would be open to every child, but Mama knew the people of Oranje.
“They’ll tell us there’s this fund and that fund. But we’ll be ready. They’re not going to keep theirOranje Primary School just for their Hennies. It’s going to be for my Rosa too!”
Only a few months earlier, for the first time in her life, Mama had stood in the same long winding queue as Hennie’s parents and the other white townfolk, waiting to cast her vote for their new government. A “rainbow government,” Mama told Rosa. A government that would make sure her daughter could attend a school with enough classrooms, teachers, desks, books, and playing fields for everyone. The school that the white parents had kept just for their own children would have to become a “rainbow school.” Mama had laughed.
At first Rosa had felt excited. She and her friends talked about what it would be like to go to a school that had been “whites only.” But the nearer it got to the end of term and the start of the new school year, the more Rosa began to worry. Parents in the township were beginning to change their minds about sending their children to Oranje Primary after Christmas. Her best friend Thato’s parents wanted to “wait and see.” Maybe the new government would send extra teachers to their own school. Maybe there would be money to build new classrooms and buy books.
There were rumors of trouble. Someone’s father had overheard talk of a “White School Defense Committee.” Nearly every white home in Oranje had at least one gun locked in a safe. Rosa herself had seen burly red-faced men in town with pistols strapped to their belts. Often they dressed from head to foot in khaki. With their wide-brimmed khaki hats they appeared like characters from old war films. Mama had told her to keep well out of their way. Rosa hardly needed the warning. She had never seen Hennie’s father, Meneer van Niekerk, with a gun, but she had a vivid imagination.
Mama had worked for Mevrou van Niekerk for years, and Rosa had known Hennie since they were babies. At three they had played together. Mama used to take her every weekday. While Mama cooked, cleaned, washed, and ironed, Rosa and Hennie had scampered around the garden, built castles in the sandpit, made houses in the dry donga at the end of the long garden where the bushes grew wild.
By the time Rosa and Hennie were five, Mevrou van Niekerk no longer worried if Hennie was out of her sight for an hour or two. They always cameback as soon as they were hungry, and Mama would pour them both milk and give them cakes or scones, whatever she had freshly baked. Hennie was now a big brother, and Mevrou van
“ Dumela, sis!”
The boy who sold newspapers to passing motorists at the corner lights called out to Rosa as she approached. His dark eyes, set deep in a pinched nut-brown face, seemed concerned. Had he seen? The road was quiet, and he was standing next to his stack of papers in a faded blue T-shirt pitted with holes.
“Dumela!” Rosa tried to smile before turning the corner.
She broke into a jog. She could no longer be seen by Trigger-boy’s gang from here, and she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. On her left, iron railings with slim black spearheads protected the stern archway entrance to Oranje Primary School. Even the yellow roses were forbidding, standing like soldiers in straight lines.
Rosa didn’t want to be late. Hennie’s mother might deduct something from the few rands she was paying her to look after the twins.
When Mevrou van Niekerk had asked Mama some months ago if Rosa could help for a few hours every day after she finished morning school, Rosa had been upset. She never wanted to go back there! She had never forgotten Hennie’s father and the words he had said all those years ago. But Mama had pointed out they would need every cent in the New Year. President Mandela’s new law might say that all government schools would be open to every child, but Mama knew the people of Oranje.
“They’ll tell us there’s this fund and that fund. But we’ll be ready. They’re not going to keep theirOranje Primary School just for their Hennies. It’s going to be for my Rosa too!”
Only a few months earlier, for the first time in her life, Mama had stood in the same long winding queue as Hennie’s parents and the other white townfolk, waiting to cast her vote for their new government. A “rainbow government,” Mama told Rosa. A government that would make sure her daughter could attend a school with enough classrooms, teachers, desks, books, and playing fields for everyone. The school that the white parents had kept just for their own children would have to become a “rainbow school.” Mama had laughed.
At first Rosa had felt excited. She and her friends talked about what it would be like to go to a school that had been “whites only.” But the nearer it got to the end of term and the start of the new school year, the more Rosa began to worry. Parents in the township were beginning to change their minds about sending their children to Oranje Primary after Christmas. Her best friend Thato’s parents wanted to “wait and see.” Maybe the new government would send extra teachers to their own school. Maybe there would be money to build new classrooms and buy books.
There were rumors of trouble. Someone’s father had overheard talk of a “White School Defense Committee.” Nearly every white home in Oranje had at least one gun locked in a safe. Rosa herself had seen burly red-faced men in town with pistols strapped to their belts. Often they dressed from head to foot in khaki. With their wide-brimmed khaki hats they appeared like characters from old war films. Mama had told her to keep well out of their way. Rosa hardly needed the warning. She had never seen Hennie’s father, Meneer van Niekerk, with a gun, but she had a vivid imagination.
Mama had worked for Mevrou van Niekerk for years, and Rosa had known Hennie since they were babies. At three they had played together. Mama used to take her every weekday. While Mama cooked, cleaned, washed, and ironed, Rosa and Hennie had scampered around the garden, built castles in the sandpit, made houses in the dry donga at the end of the long garden where the bushes grew wild.
By the time Rosa and Hennie were five, Mevrou van Niekerk no longer worried if Hennie was out of her sight for an hour or two. They always cameback as soon as they were hungry, and Mama would pour them both milk and give them cakes or scones, whatever she had freshly baked. Hennie was now a big brother, and Mevrou van
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