Love's courage. Mokopi Shale

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      Dedications

      For my parents, from whom I inherited the gift of words,

      for my sunshine Atlegang and my angel Tshenolo,

      for Sam – the man whose love gives me courage.

      Thank God and my ancestors for these people and my gifts.

      Chapter 1

      1

      In a house in the middle of Melville in Johannesburg, 29-year-old Lesego Khumoetsile wakes up to the sound of birds singing in the tree-lined streets of the bohemian-chic neighbourhood. She turns her head towards the curtains in her bedroom and releases a deep breath, instantly besieged by thoughts about the upcoming funding presentation for the Batshweneng cultural village, wondering if she has gone to enough trouble with her proposal.

      Lesego gazes into the distance, thinking of her target market: young, trendy black people who love going to resorts but also would like to know more about their culture. Would the Batshweneng cultural village meet all these requirements? She sits up, props herself against the bright yellow-and-white pillows, grabs the laptop off her bedside table and opens the PowerPoint presentation while wishing she had someone to talk it through with. Even though she roped in her father when she started this new business venture, he can’t really help her, and her sister, Tshepiso, is in the middle of year-end exams, so she too is unavailable.

      Lesego reads through her presentation and makes the odd change, saving the document compulsively. She feels the loneliness build up within her and sighs, wishing Tshepiso had already completed her degree in accounting so that she could help her look through the financials, which she is sure are not as solid as they should be. She has used her common sense, but who knows if her projections will be acceptable?

      When the alarm goes off, Lesego realises she has been staring into space for the last fifteen minutes. She packs up her computer, makes her bed and heads into the en suite bathroom for her morning shower. She tucks her luxurious braids under a shower cap and jumps in for her daily pamper ritual – soap, then body scrub, then relaxing and rejuvenating shower gel.

      After the shower, she goes to the mirror, applies the usual creams and does her face. Then she steps back into the bedroom, switches on the radio and listens to some old-school soul as she puts on a pair of stretch jeans and a conservative shirt and flats.

      In her modern kitchen with its yellowwood floor, Lesego makes herself a breakfast of muesli and yoghurt in a bowl. As she starts to munch, her phone rings – the screen reads Papa. Her eyebrows furrow a bit; a call at six-thirty in the morning can only mean trouble. She takes a nervous breath, hopes that she’s wrong, and answers.

      “Hello, Papa.”

      “Hello, Ngwana’ka. Are you well?”

      “Very well, thanks; just preparing for the presentation. I wish you were here to help me look through it.”

      “Ao, Ngwana’ka, what can an old man like me contribute? The things they want these days are so complicated, I don’t think I would be of much use.”

      “How can you say that? Your wisdom in such matters is still highly appreciated, Papa. You were and still are a great brain, and you’re an integral part of the success of this project.”

      “When is the presentation again?”

      “Next week Tuesday, and I am getting more and more nervous every day.”

      “Ah, I know you’ll do well. I will send up a prayer for guidance for you.” Her father takes what to Lesego sounds like a nervous breath and continues, “Hhayi, Ngwana’ka. I just got off the phone with Tshepiso . . . She was crying bitterly. Says she needs money for food and hasn’t eaten in three days. My money will still take seven days to clear. Please say there is something you can do to help out? If you can’t, then I don’t know. She says none of her friends can help; she has already asked.”

      “Eish, my car’s on less than a quarter tank now, and I was going to use my money for petrol to get to work. Can you see if there’s another plan, Papa? I can’t afford to miss work, not in the current climate. How much does Tshepiso need?”

      “Hhayi! She says about R250. Can you make that much?”

      “I’ll check when I get to the office, then I’ll call you. I think I can give her about R100 without too much pressure, but R250 is what’s left of my petrol allowance.”

      “All right, I just thought to phone you and see. I’ll also try something else and let you know if I succeeded.”

      “Okay, Papa, bye.”

      “Bye, Ngwana’ka.”

      Lesego looks into her bowl of muesli guiltily, and even though she has lost her appetite, the thought of her sister starving and alone in another province forces her to knuckle down and eat. She wishes that Tshepiso had at least listened to her and gone to university in Johannesburg; they could be living together and half of these problems would never crop up.

      She picks up her phone, opens her contacts and goes to her sister’s name, but then chickens out of calling. She’d better get her facts straight first.

      * * *

      Lesego is one of the first to arrive at work. She heads straight for her computer and immediately logs on to internet banking. The screen on her banking page reads: Balance R400,00 and Available R350,00. She sighs and puts her head in her hands, wondering what to do. She worriedly picks at her lips. Her mind races and she starts juggling figures to see whether she can do all the things she needs to do with what she’s got. After a few minutes she calls her father.

      “Hello, Papa. Did you manage?”

      “Eish, Ngwana’ka, I tried, but the bank won’t give me a loan against the money. And there’s no one else to ask. What about you?”

      “Well, I had a look at my budget. I can give Tshepiso R150 to tide her over until your money clears, and still put petrol in my car and get to work for the rest of this week. At least Friday is a public holiday, so I can stay home.”

      “Ijoo, Ngwana’ka, that would be wonderful! I promise I will give it back to you by Tuesday next week.”

      “Okay, that’s fine then. I’ll deposit it right now.”

      “Thank you, Lesego. Bye.”

      “Bye, Papa.”

      Lesego logs on again and makes the transfer. Then she heads into a story meeting, knowing that as head writer she has to keep track of all of the storylines to ensure that the different writers are on the same page, so to speak.

      * * *

      The Tumaoles have a sprawling brick farmhouse in the mountains of the Bojanala district, in the small village of Borakalalo. Here 38-year-old Kenneth Tumaole, a man in blue overalls, is being teased endlessly by a group of men. Kenneth is tall, chocolate brown, gorgeous, and he strikes an imposing figure – to whom no one is paying much respect right now.

      “Ao, monna . . . Have you not been watching when we slaughter? You have to make sure the goat is tied down before you even attempt to slit its throat. Man, living with white people has spoiled you. How will you run a household? That niece of yours is in trouble. And what about your poor wife, if you ever get one? Maybe you should marry a white woman, or one of your exile buddies!”

      The men laugh and pass around the calabash of sorghum beer, making comments about Kenneth chasing the goat around the yard and kissing the dust. These are met with raucous guffaws from the gathering of young and old men.

      “Is it my fault that I grew up in London and don’t know these things? Malome Tshepo, don’t you think you should try and teach me these things, rather than laugh at me?” a fuming Kenneth asks in a decidedly British accent. His uncle looks him in the eyes and realises how deeply offended Kenneth is.

      “When