“I’m so sorry, Zodwa. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. Not knowing what happened to him.”

“My mother died last year and that was the hardest for her. Never being able to bury her son. I’m going to apply to the commission to see if they have any information about him. I know it’s something she would have done.”

Zodwa writes away for the forms and once she submits them, there’s nothing left to do but to wait. If Dumisa’s name comes up in the thousands of interviews the TRC is conducting, they will notify her. She’s sure that Mama Beauty will know about the commission as well and that she’s done the same thing for her daughter.

The days pass quickly and while Zodwa is lonely being so far removed from her people, it’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make. Going back to the township to visit on her days off would invite questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer. She’s also nervous about running into Ace and what he might say about her disappearance. It’s better for her to stay away completely so that she doesn’t see Thembeka either.

She has her son and she tells herself it’s more than she could ever have hoped for.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Ruth

22 August 1995

Hartbeespoort Dam, Gauteng, South Africa

We’re at the Spur, a restaurant that caters more to whippersnappers than their parents. While the adults sit outside under a thatched roof, sipping beers and tucking into racks of ribs as patio heaters warm them up, their children run amok on a playground in the winter sunshine.

A futuristic-looking jungle gym, swings, and a seesaw take up one end of the playground, while sandboxes and a track with plastic motorbikes for toddlers takes up the other. It’s a good business model, judging by how busy the place is. There’s a birthday party in full swing at one of the tables, with all the kids wearing party hats that resemble Native American Indian headdresses.

The only reason we’re here is because Mandla surprised us all by starting to walk a few days ago. Without any preamble, he apparently pulled himself straight up and took a few steps, chasing after Jezebel, sure-footed as a mountain goat.

Or so I was told by Zodwa, who was the one to see it.

I came into the room a minute later and saw her with her hands clamped over her mouth, tears in her eyes. When I followed her gaze, I spotted Mandla toddling off behind the dog.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Even as I clapped for Mandla, praising him for his achievement, I was annoyed by Zodwa’s reaction. She treated my son’s milestone as if it was a private moment between the two of them.