“Push,” Leleti wheezes, and Zodwa does until something finally releases like a dam wall breaking, after which she slips blessedly into unconsciousness.

When she wakes, a baby is suckling at her breast. Leleti’s dog stands close enough to Zodwa that she can feel its hot breath on her face.

“Born free,” her mother whispers from next to her, her tone one of hushed awe. “Your son is born free.”

Your son.

Zodwa cries steadily though she feels nothing at all beyond the sensation of being drained of milk and tears. She thinks of Thembeka, the object of her desire, and how this child is the price she had to pay for that, the punishment that was meted out to her for loving a girl. Her son’s penis feels like a cruel joke, just another reminder that men run the world and will never allow themselves to become obsolete.

When Zodwa feels her mother lifting the baby from her breast a short while later, she opens her eyes drowsily. Leleti looks steady on her feet, her one hand cupping the baby’s head while the other is wrapping around his thighs as she presses him against her. The last thing Zodwa sees before her mother turns away from her is the birthmark on her son’s left buttock.

Africa, she thinks. It looks like Africa.

She closes her eyes then and allows the dog’s whining to be a lullaby that carries her gently to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ruth

10 May 1994

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

Dee fiddles with the bunny ears above the television, trying for better reception, but Ma’s ancient black-and-white Telefunken remains obstinate.

“This thing is as old as Methuselah,” I say, walking up behind it and smacking it for good measure. Dee opens her mouth to object but I point at the screen, which has lost a few degrees of fuzziness. “It worked. You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t thank me but I wasn’t expecting her to. She’s gone ahead and reinstituted her power of attorney, and I’m waiting to hear back from my lawyers to see what kind of case I have considering her absence for all those years.

What it boils down to is that neither of us has anywhere else to go and so we’re stuck with each other for now. The bickering, at least, has been kept to a minimum but only because Dee locks herself away in her room most of the time. In all honesty, though, I prefer the sniping to the silence. I’m so bored and desperate for company that I’m even prepared to try to extend an olive branch for one night, if for no other reason than olives go well with martinis, and martinis are always a good idea. Also, talking to Dee will stop me from calling Vince, something I’m way too tempted to do.

“What are you watching?” I ask.

“The news.”

“God, why?”