“And live in a hut with a blind old man? Even if he’s white . . . Even if we were white? I’ll pass.”

Lottie grins. “I already live in a hut, so we have to do what my mother says: we have to take care of ourselves and make money that we can leave to whoever we want.”

I tuck Jane Eyre under my pillow and stretch out on the floor where we read books. Jane’s uncle sailed to Madeira to make his fortune. Jane was stuck in England in the cold in the same way that we’re stuck in Swaziland in our brown-girl bodies. Does Lottie really believe that we’ll make enough money for her to buy a farm and for me to travel overseas? How? It’s an unreal dream of an idea, and she’s cracked in the head to say it. Even so . . .

“That would be nice,” I say.

27

Echoes from Outside

“Sandi Cardoza. Mary Lewis. Claire Naidoo. Alison Carter.” I grit my teeth as the Elephant calls out the names of students with parcels and letters in the afternoon postbag. I grind the toe of my right shoe into the dirt, hoping to hear my name boomed out and praying to God that it won’t be. The bag empties, and my breath hitches in my chest. Six days have passed since the Go Lucky Boy took my second letter to Manzini, and I have to finally accept that Mother will not reply to either of my letters.

Lottie makes excuses for her, but I feel in my heart that I’ve let Mother down. She prefers the old Adele, who was part of the top girls’ circle. New Adele slaps former friends across the face. New Adele reads till the grace candle burns down and dreams of living in a faraway country—any country—where things are different.

“Adele Joubert.” The Elephant calls my name, and panic grips me. Mother has replied, and I’m not ready to read what she’s written. The second letter was meant to change “how things are.” Maybe it worked, but not like I wanted. Maybe things have changed—but for the worse.

“Quick sticks.” The Elephant holds up a thin piece of cardboard. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Thank you, Matron.” I take my mail. It’s a postcard with a photograph of a traditional Swazi maiden, wearing a beaded skirt and not much else, on the front and Rian’s scrawled handwriting on the back.

Adele,

Father came to visit last Saturday and he and Mother talked about you in low voices. When they went to bed, I heard Mother crying. Did Mother lie when she said that the fire didn’t burn you? If you are hurt, you can come back to Manzini and I’ll show you how to make wood-block puzzles in the lean-to.

Your brother,

Rian