“It’s different for everyone. It can happen a year after infection or as long as seven years later.”

“I’ve heard about medication. HAART therapy,” Zodwa says, testing out the words she’s heard Ruth use now that Mandla is about to start taking his cocktail of drugs.

The nurse looks impressed at Zodwa’s knowledge but then frowns. “It’s not available here and even if it was, it costs many thousands of rands a month. It’s a drug for the rich. I’m sorry.”

It’s as Ruth said.

Zodwa thanks her for her time and leaves. She thinks of all the times she was tempted to grab Mandla and run, the plans she had of disappearing into KwaZulu with her son so that they’d never be found. Had she done that, she would have signed Mandla’s death warrant.

There’s no chance for Zodwa now. She thinks back to Gertie in the squatter camp and how quickly she deteriorated. The last time Zodwa saw her she was covered in cancerous growths and you could see every one of her bones. She’d opened her mouth to cough and Zodwa had cringed at the sight of the white thrush that coated her tongue.

That’s the fate that awaits Zodwa. She will die from the disease, or at least from complications that arise because of it, but her son stands a fighting chance. As long as he stays with the sisters who have the money and resources to fight for his life, he has a shot at living.

That was Leleti’s gift to her grandson when she left him on those women’s doorstep. She may not have known it then, but that single act took away her grandson’s death sentence.

Thank you, Mama. Thank you.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Ruth

3 February 1996

Palace of the Lost City, Rustenburg, South Africa

Are you sure I can’t tempt you with something sweet?” Vince asks.

We’re having lunch at the sprawling Sun City resort because Vince is staying at the Palace of the Lost City hotel while he’s in town for work. At least, that’s what he says. I suspect he’s here just for me.

“No dessert,” I say. “But thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can tempt you with?” He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively because it’s been that kind of lunch, just like old times except I’m not three sheets to the wind.

I laugh in response. “Don’t think I’m not tempted. A good old roll in the hay is probably just what the doctor ordered.”

“Whoever this doctor is, I like him or her. And don’t forget that the hay you’ll be rolling in is an enormous bed with Egyptian-cotton sheets in the Royal Suite,” he says, playing to my weakness for opulent hotel rooms and high thread counts.

“Damn you. You’re not making it easy to say no.”