“All right.” I grab the spinning top and crouch on the floor. Playing with a child’s toy won’t change anything, but lying in bed with the same stupid question looping through my head won’t change anything either. I spin the top, and it falls over. I try again and get a good spin going. The painted symbols on the wood move in a blur of motion.

“What was in the letter?” Lottie asks.

“I already told you. The truth.” I spin again, faster this time.

“Which part of the truth?”

“The fire, and Darnell dying, and us being outcasts at Keziah. Also, that I’m different from the girl that she put on the bus to school.”

“Did you tell her that you met Mama Khumalo and that Mama asked after her?”

“No.” The dreidel wobbles and tumbles over, and, right then, it’s as if a hand has reached into my head and stopped my mind from spinning long enough for me to focus outside of myself. The visit with Mama Khumalo left me with questions that only my mother can answer.

If I don’t ask, I’ll never know why she abandoned her family and why she never again set foot in her village on the edge of Bosman’s farm. My hands reach for the drawer with the pen and paper, and I pull my fingers back from the metal handle, uncertain. Children who ask personal questions of adults get a slap across the head and are told to keep your nose out of my business unless you want to lose that nose, girl! Do I have the courage to challenge “the way things are” by asking Mother to share with me her reasons for leaving?

I pull open the drawer. Mother is miles away in Manzini, I reason. If my curiosity offends her, she’ll have eight weeks to cool down before I go home for the holidays. Writing another, more personal letter to Mother is a risk worth taking.

Mother,

I met your cousin Mama Khumalo the other day and I have so many questions. First and most important, why haven’t you come back to visit your cousin? I ask because the village is so full of life while our house in Manzini is neat and quiet. If I was you I’d miss the children and the stray dogs and the women singing in the fields. After all those people and closeness, I wonder if you’re lonely with just me and Rian and the porcelain angels on the sideboard for company. Also, was Granny Agnes the one who taught you the African proverbs that you like to throw into conversations at the strangest times? Two of them have crossed my mind this term. When everyone stared at Lottie and me in chapel, I remembered that “the higher the monkey climbs up the tree, the more you can see of its bum,” and when Darnell crossed the river at twilight, I knew he had to get to the shore fast because “the strength of the crocodile is in the water.” I haven’t yet had a chance to use your favorite saying, “When the ground is hard, the women dance.” The truth is, I don’t really understand why the women dance or how their dancing helps to fix the hard ground. Maybe you can explain it to me during the holidays.

Love,

Your Adele

PS: Mama Khumalo said that when you lived in the country, your eyes were always on the hills and what lay beyond. We have that in common. When Lottie and I were talking the other night I realized, for the first time, that I want to study overseas. A crazy idea, I know, but the world is big and full and I want to see it all.