He freezes, dropping the envelope like a hot potato, and then lets out a long breath as he runs both hands through his hair. “Ruth, I’m sorry that I sent you those without any warning. It just felt like it was time, you know, since—”

“Don’t apologize. It absolutely was time.” I nod emphatically so he’ll think I mean it. I clear my throat. “Thank you for the maintenance payments you’ve included. I know I said before that I wouldn’t accept them, but now with everything with Mandla . . . Well, you’ve been more than generous and I appreciate it.”

“Please don’t thank me.” There are tears in his eyes.

There are tears in mine too.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Zodwa

3 May 1996

Rhema Bible Church, Randburg, Johannesburg

Zodwa is seated in a row with Mandla, Ruth, and Delilah on one side of her, and Mama Beauty and her white friend, Robin, on the other. Mama Beauty insisted on being there to support Zodwa despite the fact that she’d had no word yet from the commission about her own daughter.

After Zodwa introduces everyone from her side, Mama Beauty introduces Robin as her “white daughter,” which makes the both of them smile.

“It’s good to see the rainbow nation is alive and well,” Delilah says in reply. “And that we aren’t the only unusual South African family.”

“There are more of us than you might suspect,” Mama Beauty says but she’s staring distractedly at Mandla as she speaks. She seems fixated on the boy and it makes Zodwa nervous.

Zodwa is relieved when a distinguished-looking man with gray hair, seated at a long table at the front of the room, speaks into his microphone. He asks for everyone’s attention, and the buzz dies down as all heads turn to him. He identifies himself as Dr. Boraine, the deputy chair of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and then introduces the rest of the committee, including the chairman, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who sits to his left and wears the Anglican maroon skullcap and robe.

A murmur of appreciation ripples through the crowd as Desmond Tutu raises his hand in greeting and Zodwa shares everyone’s collective thrill to be in such close proximity to him. The Archbishop’s face is appropriately somber and he exudes a quiet power that belies his small stature.

“Chairperson, I call the first witness and ask him to please come to the witness stand.”

Zodwa holds her breath as Cyril Malema makes his way over and takes a seat. He’s bent over like a man four decades older and wears an ill-fitting suit, but at least he looks sober, which is a small miracle considering the state he was in when Zodwa last saw him.