Zodwa casts aside thoughts of what might have been and joins the voting line snaking out the school gates. A gogo stands in front of her; she’s gnarled like an ancient branch and hunches over her knobkerrie walking stick, which seems to be the only thing keeping her up. Her eyes are clouded with cataracts but still they shine with excitement. Through their intermittent chatting in the queue as dawn ripens into day, Zodwa discovers that the old woman is ninety-four years old and lives in a village half an hour away.

“The people from the white church in Fouriesburg came this morning to fetch us. Yoh, they had such nice vans, like taxis but white-people taxis, that even had heaters.” She hugs herself, savoring the warmth of the memory, as she smiles a gap-toothed smile. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen into crevices.

After four hours of shuffling forward in tiny increments, Zodwa sees the old woman beginning to exhibit signs of strain. “Gogo, we must find you a chair.”

“No, my child, we must find you a chair.” The old woman laughs, nodding at Zodwa’s heavily pregnant belly. “Besides,” the gogo says, attempting a lively two-step shuffle, “I want to stand so I can jive a bit. Today is the first time in all my nearly hundred years that I will get to vote for one of my people to be president. Today is the day to dance.” She throws her head back and laughs, toppling forward in the process.

“Are you all right, gogo?” Zodwa says as she reaches out just in time to steady her.

The woman looks dazed but still she smiles. “Jiving is difficult at my age. My blood pressure is not what it used to be and I didn’t take my tablets for the past few days. Too expensive.”

That helps make Zodwa’s mind up. “Come, gogo. Come with me. We will speak to someone who will take you to the front of the line or let you sit in the shade while you wait.”

With some cajoling, the old woman steps out of the line and starts walking toward the school gates with Zodwa. Despite the long wait and the predawn chill that has been burned away and replaced by biting heat, the mass of people waiting to vote are in good spirits.

If there is one thing we know how to do, it is to wait. We have had decades’ and decades’ worth of experience doing it.

It’s something her mother has told her many times.

Though their people are used to waiting, standing single file in lines isn’t something they do well. Groups gather and break into song. The deep baritone strains of the apartheid protest song “Shosholoza” rises and falls throughout the morning.