Black & White

- 01-

C H A P T E R O N E

February 28 1976
Soweto

Another tourist bus drove past us. The crunching sound of tires on the unpaved road enraged some of the white tourists in the bus, probably because our sharp and jagged roads were preventing them from capturing perfect photographs of our prison.

Only five houses on our street had electricity. Twenty percent of homes had cold running water and two houses had inside bathrooms. My family and I were just one of the lucky families who had minimal access to these needs, some where still on the waiting list for their houses.

Although they called our township a prison, we called it home. It was our home. Every Monday we read on Johannesburg Newspapers Soweto Murders Of The Weekend. Soweto was a place where black people murdered one another, but it was still home. Living in Soweto was a privilege.

As much as it was our home, no black person had a permanent right of residence. No black person was allowed to rent a plot of land and build his own house. For millions of blacks, getting to Soweto was not easy. They had to get approval from the Government and a job to go to.

"Ayize?" A small voice interrupted my thoughts.

I looked down at her, "Mmh?"

"Is Mama going to be okay?"

We stopped walking for a minute and I took her hand in a warm, firm grasp as if to assure her that everything was going to be okay. "Mama is going to be okay soon. She just needs to rest that's all."

Our mother was a domestic worker. She worked for a white family in Parktown, a suburb 27 km away from our home.

As much as it pained Mama to leave us and go take care of another family, her job allowed her to provide for us. Thanks to Mama's job, my sister and I were able to attend school and not once did we go to bed hungry. When Mama was abandoned by her own mother at a very young age, she made a vow to give her children the unconditional love she never got.

"I'll fetch you when school is over and remember not-

"Not to talk to strangers, I know." My little sister cuts me off.

Kneeling down to my sister's height, I spoke, "I love you Zenande."

One thing Mama taught us was to tell the people we love and care about that we love them every single day, cause you never know what could happen tomorrow.

"I love you too." I pulled her into an embrace and we stayed like that for a few minutes. When the school bell rang, I knew it was time to let her go.

One thing I got from Mama was her love for children. When Mama adopted Zenande, it was a dream come true. I have always wanted to have a little sister.

Zenande's parents died while fighting for freedom. Mama had no choice but to take her in, making her an additional member to our little family.

Zenande and I did have one thing in common, we shared the same kind of pain.

~*~