“And how would I do that?” Zodwa growls. “What proof do I have that he’s my child besides that he looks just like my brother? Everyone here thinks my child is dead, so who are the police going to believe? A poor black girl from the squatter camp or rich white women?”

“I’ll tell the police about seeing Leleti with the baby and the kit bag—”

“Even if they believe you, you didn’t see where she took him. It was only a rumor that led us there. Those people have money. They will fight with their money. What do I have? Nothing. This is the only way I can be around Mandla and see him every day.”

“By working as a slave for the people who have stolen him?”

“They didn’t steal him. Leleti took him there. I have to trust my mother’s judgment. She must have had her reasons.” Thembeka snorts and Zodwa stops packing to face her. “They don’t look like bad people,” she says quietly. “He lives in a nice, big house and he has lots of food and things. Can I give him that? No. This is what I can give him.” She gestures at the shack and its meager contents. Zodwa can’t imagine that vital boy in his beautiful clothes living here with her.

Thembeka sighs. “What did Ace say?”

“I haven’t told him. He’s in Hammanskraal visiting his mother this weekend. When he comes back, I’ll be gone. Don’t tell him where I went, okay?”

“And what about the shack? You’re just going to leave it empty?”

“Mama Beauty is going to rent it out to one of the Zimbabweans or Malawians for me.”

She’s the only other person who knows where Zodwa is going though she doesn’t know Zodwa’s reasons for taking the job. Zodwa expected Mama Beauty to be judgmental about the maid’s position, but she was supportive, mysteriously saying that she herself had briefly worked as something akin to a maid. She added that living in a cottage on a farm was safer than being in the township, and Zodwa had wondered then if Mama Beauty suspected the truth of her sexuality.

When Thembeka can think of no further objections, she asks in a defeated whisper, “What about . . . what about how you said you felt . . . about me?”

Finally, it’s come to this. Finally, they’re having the conversation that Zodwa has dreamed about and played out over and over in her mind. So why does it not feel like she thought it would? Where is the euphoria and vindication?