Kwasukasukela
Once upon a time
My grandmother pulled me out of bed. My eyes were still half shut as I sleepily scrambled on the floor in search of my slippers. ‘Come.’ Before I could reach them, she yanked me from the floor and pulled me outside. I shivered, my toes numbing as my feet sank into the cold soil. ‘Lift up your nightdress,’ my grandmother ordered, clutching a broom in her hand. I tucked my fingers under my knee-high nightdress and pulled it all the way up to my chin. She took the broom and swept it over my flat chest. She brushed over each nipple with precision. I stood quietly, feeling the rough bristles on the tenderness of my chest. The full moon was still sitting pretty in the sky. Soon, its radiance would be dimmed by the rising sun. ‘It’s early – you can go back to bed. But clean your feet first.’ I headed for the bathroom and poured water into the basin. I took the greyish stone that my grandmother used to soften her calluses and scrubbed off the dirt before returning to bed.
* * *
I sank my body into the water, my head stroking the surface. Eyes shut, I drifted into nothingness. When I dried myself, my chest felt unfamiliar to my touch. I touched again. My nipples had grown larger and thicker. They were darker in colour, protruding more than they had before. When I pressed and poked them, they felt like two large nuts. She had swept over them during the last full moon. Whatever my grandmother’s intentions – to make my breasts grow or, more likely, to stop them from growing – my breasts began growing at a pace which was noticeably faster than that of the rest of the girls in my class. That morning, I was anxious to get to school. I needed to tell someone. My only friend at school was Sindiswa – Sindi, for short. I pulled her into the toilet cubicle during break-time and lifted my tunic. ‘Sheba,’ I whispered, showing her my little secret. Sindi prodded and gently squeezed my small cone-shaped nipples. ‘Ngempela ayakhula. Yoh, you actually have real breasts now, Naledi.’ She started thinking of ways to ask her mother to sweep over her flat chest.
‘It wasn’t my mother, Sindi. It was my grandmother,’ I explained.
‘Oh, so it has to be uGogo who sweeps over them?’
‘Ya, otherwise I don’t think they will grow.’
‘Yoh mara uGogo uhlala eMlazi. How and when will I get to Umlazi to my grandmother?’ ‘You’ll have to wait, I guess.’
‘Until June holidays, Naledi? Yoh haa, I can’t wait; phela I’m getting older every day. I’m older than you – nearly thirteen,’ she protested.
Sindi and I pondered for a moment before Sindi jumped up into the air in excitement, remembering what having breasts meant for a girl. ‘Hawu we ma, so you are going to start wearing bras, Naledi?’
I beamed, imagining the snug cupped material holding together my womanly assets. We ran out of the girls’ toilets giggling, to gorge on our packed lunches. In class I didn’t focus much. I was too busy dreaming about the day I would go bra shopping for the first time. What sort of panties would I get to go along with my bras? Would I buy those three-in-a-pack panties like I had always done, or would I finally get the single panties that sit pretty on a hanger? Would I start matching my bras with my panties and when was the decent age for a girl to start wearing G-strings? ‘Naledi!’ my teacher shouted. My body jolted. ‘Keng nkare o robetse! Are you listening?’ Everyone was staring at me. I was being reprimanded. I never got reprimanded. I always listened, kept quiet in class and worked diligently. When the school bell rang, I couldn’t get out of class fast enough. Sindi found me waiting for her at the gate. We would usually walk home together and part ways halfway between my house and her house. That afternoon we had an in-depth discussion about Minenhle’s hair. Minenhle was the pastor’s daughter who had the prestigious task of reading out the announcements before the close of service. Sindi and I were in awe of Minenhle’s beauty and eloquence. Even more impressive was how long her ponytail was. My little bantu knots and Sindi’s short afro were no match for Minenhle’s straight long pushback that could be tied into a phondo. Her ponytail would move in the opposite direction when she turned her head. And on those occasional Sundays when Minenhle would let her hair loose, her raven hair would flow elegantly down her nape, kissing her shoulders. ‘Ngithi, even when she walks, iphondo lakhe, it swings from side to side. And uyazi ke, a girl like that will never tell anyone what she relaxes her hair with,’ Sindi went on. She paused, then in a burst of passion said, ‘Dark and Lovely! It must be it. But the one that has uNonhle Thema on the box, not the one with the little girl.’
‘Haa, no, Sindi, it can’t be. Her head would burn if she used that. That one is for grown-ups.’
‘Oho ke wena, have you tried it?’
‘No, I still use Beautiful Beginnings, the one for kids.’
‘Uyabona ke, Naledi, that’s why your hair is growing so slow. And worse njalo, you are always plaiting and twisting your hair into these funny popcorn knots. And these things eat away your hair if you didn’t know.’
Sindi was a fine one to talk, considering that my hair was much longer than hers. I was well on my way to getting my hair to where Minenhle’s hair was – my mother was making sure of that. How could Sindi have all these facts and ideas about growing hair when her mother refused for her to put any chemical in her hair to begin with? She told me herself that chemicals made her hair fall out.
Lebohang Mazibuko’s initiation into storytelling has already started in 2003, in Grade 8, when she chose to specialise in drama at the National School of the Arts. She describes herself as a ‘student of the world of storytelling’ and hopes to grow from telling stories on stage to writing literature. Thanks to her background and having obtained her B Tech degree in the Dramatic Arts at the Tshwane University of Technology, Lebo could immerse herself in the performing arts through poetry performances, theatre plays, short films and television. She is also currently working as an acting coach.
