Sarie is standing by with the cake knife I had specially engraved with Mandla’s name and date of birth to mark the occasion. His last name is officially Nkosi, which is Lindiwe’s surname. That’s how they legally name the children who come into the orphanage: by picking a first name and then assigning one of the care workers’ or social workers’ last names to them.

I didn’t include this on the engraving.

Sarie puts some cake in a bowl for Mandla, who I’ve put into his high chair. By some miracle, the sight of the cake stops his crying. I give him a spoon and he uses it to attack the bowl with a few karate chops before setting it down and reaching for the cake with both hands. Everyone laughs, grateful that the screeching has stopped, and I reach for my camera to commemorate not only Mandla’s first birthday, but his first taste of cake. Sugar is a no-no for HIV-positive children but you only turn one once. I’m willing to make an exception.

His fingers sink into the lowest tier of the cake and he grabs two chunks of it, one in each hand. As he brings one up to his lips, I start snapping pictures, wanting to get the expression on his face as he gets his first taste. It’s not what I expected. Mandla curls his lip up in disgust and spits the cake out.

“Look at that. He isn’t a big fan of sugar,” I say proudly. My boy is already setting himself apart from the pack.

“I actually think he isn’t a big fan of lemon–cream cheese frosting,” Dee says dryly. “What with his being a baby and not having the most discerning palate.” She walks to the kitchen and pulls out a plate of chocolate cupcakes that are covered with enough blue icing to sink a battleship. “Sarie was kind enough to bake these and bring them with her. I have a feeling they’ll be more to Mandla’s liking.”

I’m annoyed that Sarie has stolen my thunder by bringing baked goods I didn’t ask for, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Once the plate is in front of Mandla, he eyes it skeptically before grabbing one of the cupcakes, which he shoves straight at his face. Everything is quiet for a moment and I’m waiting for him to react the exact same way so I can say, I told you so.

Instead, the traitorous little bugger squeals with delight. He tries cramming even more of the cupcake in his mouth and smears so much blue icing all over his face that he looks like a Smurf. The only thing that’s made him happy all day came from the efforts of a black woman.

I refuse to take that as a sign.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Delilah

15–22 May 1995

Van Tonder Farm, Magaliesburg, South Africa