South Africa
While I was attending University of California, Santa Cruz, I took a course called “African Women” in which we studied women’s roles in various African societies. The following short story was one of my assignments. I used things from my experience in Kenya and placed them in South Africa, using information we had learned about that particular society. The merger brings up some inconsistencies, but the story is decent.
I was four years old when we lived in South Africa. I often find it surprising how much of it I remember. My most striking memories, though, all concern Stelastina. She was our maid and my nanny. She always worked very hard. I’m surprised she put up with me — I was a really inquisitive tike.
I remember one time watching her cook her dinner in her room behind our house. I sat down on her bed. It creaked and then sagged down where I was sitting. She hummed while she cooked the rice, throwing a bit of spice for flavor. A single, uncovered light bulb hung from the cement ceiling. On the cement walls she had hung a picture of Jesus and a few snapshots of her family.
I turned to her and asked, “Is that all you’re having for dinner? Just rice?”
“Yes, Anna.” she said.
“Oh. I wish my mum would let me do that. But she always makes me eat icky vegetables.”
She just smiled at me and patted me on the head.
I noticed a picture of a little girl on the wall. Her hair was all plaited with little bits of ripped cloth on the ends of the plaits. She was smiling. She was twirling her hair with one hand and had her other thumb in her mouth.
I pointed to the picture and asked, “Who is that?”
“That is my little girl, Genni. She is your age now.”
“Where is she?”
“She is staying with my mother.”
“Can she come over and play?”
“She doesn’t have permission to come her.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t your mother going to wonder where you are? Why don’t you run along home now, don’t keep her worrying.”
* * *
Later on that week I was talking to my mummy. It was the day before Stelastina’s day off and mummy was doing her monthly inventory of the kitchen supplies.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Anna.”
“Why can’t Stelastina’s little girl, Genni, cover over and play?”
She paused at what she was doing for a moment and then said, “Don’t you have enough friends to play with from preschool?”
“Yes, but it’s always nice to meet someone new.”
She went on with what she was doing. After a moment or two I asked, “Mummy? Why don’t you want me to play with Genni?”
“Where did you get that idea, Anna? I never said that.”
“You won’t answer my question, mummy.”
“Now hush! Everyone knows that black and white people do not play with each other!”
“But I play with Stelastina, and she is black.”
“Yes, but she is your nanny and she is paid to play with you.”
“Then it is O.K. if you pay them?”
“Yes.” she said impatiently.
“Then can’t we pay Genni to play with me?”
She never answered my question, but instead sent me up to my room.
* * *
That evening I heard mummy and Stelastina talking.
“Why have you been putting bad ideas into Anna’s head?”
“What…?”
“Answer me!”
“What ideas, mum?”
“You know! About playing with your child.”
“I didn’t put that idea in her head, mum. She did, mum.”
“And how did she do that?”
“She saw her picture on my wall, mum. She asked me who it was and I told her, mum. Anna is a very smart child, mum. She asked about playing with Genni, mum.”
“Well, I don’t want her over at your quarters anymore.”
* * *
The next week I went to visit Stelastina in her room in our backyard. I came in and sat down on her bed.
“Why don’t you buy a cover for your light bulb? It would be so pretty.”
“I haven’t enough money. Anna, you shouldn’t be over here. Why don’t you go home and watch T.V.?”
“But I don’t want to watch T.V. I want to talk with you!”
“Now, no buts, run along home, child.”
She shooshed me out of her room. I ran to my mummy, crying. “Stelastina won’t let me talk to her!”
My mum just replied, “Well, you should not be over there, anyway. Go watch T.V.”
— THE END —
