Mother left this closeness behind and I wonder if she’s tried to reproduce it in her own small way with Rian and me. When I’m home for the holidays, she combs and braids my hair every morning and tucks Rian and me into our beds every night. The tips of her fingers trace the line of an eyebrow and the tip of a nose before she kisses us good night. And when Father visits, she straightens his collar and keeps a hand on his knee or brushed lightly against his shoulder— always in physical contact.

In the morning, Rian and I bring them breakfast in bed and climb under the warm sheets with them. Our clumsy movements lap the milk tea over the sides of the mugs and spill sugar from the bowl. Mother says that Father loves the way we all squash in together, with crumbs on the blankets and jammy fingerprints on the cutlery.

Now, sitting in Mama Khumalo’s crowded yard, I realize that our family breakfasts in bed might be the closest thing that mother has to being back in her village.

In Manzini, she has Rian and me and the weekly sound of Father’s voice on the end of the long-distance telephone line. Here, in the bush, she was part of a tribe.

But it’s the wrong tribe if you live in Swaziland.

22

Deep Valley

Covered in curious children and filled with fat cakes and oranges, I momentarily forget about Darnell and the shotgun blast on a strange man’s farm. This is my first proper visit to a Swazi village, and Mother would die to see my glorious backslide from an almost-European girl to a very-nearly-Swazi girl. I imagine Mother sprawled in the shade of the lean-to. My mother . . . who ate cold porridge with her fingers and washed in rivers. My mother . . . who now brings light into our house with the flick of a switch.

“We can go now,” Lottie says when the last piece of orange is gone and the afternoon sun is high overhead. “If we get into trouble, we’ll say that we got lost.”

“All right.” No one will believe that Lottie Diamond got lost in the bush, but they’ll believe it of Adele Joubert, who hates flies and mud, and always stays on the path.

The children run to their games, and Mama holds both my hands in hers. I look at where we touch, her skin dark and mine lighter.

“Hamba kahle.” Go well, she says in Zulu, and I mumble, “Sala kahle, Mama,” which means “Stay well,” and is one of the few non-English expressions that I’m able to speak with any confidence.

Lottie takes us on a different path out of the village, and steep hills bank against the horizon in every direction. I swear that we came from the far side of the cornfields.

“School’s the other way, isn’t it?”