Her first visit is to the solar well to draw some water for boiling sweet potatoes. Besides her mielie pap, that’s all Ma will eat, all she can keep down. Letu and Sofora are sitting by the well, playing upuca with a bunch of shiny stones from their father’s quarry work. Sofora throws up the larger stone, then snatches up a handful of rocks from the circle, before catching the large stone again. She puffs her chest proudly. Oh, that Sofora, she’s all knees and elbows, not a bit of meat on her, but she thinks she’s so special. She’s always showing off like that, and acting like the well belongs only to them just because they live next to it.
“The well’s broke,” Sofora says, standing up and propping her hand on her hip. She’s got attitude for days, but that doesn’t stop Nomvula from going up to the well anyway and sticking her pot under the spigot. The well is as big and round as a rondavel hut, except without the thatched roof, because there’s solar panels up on top. Nomvula has never seen them, though when she was little, she’d wanted to fly up there and take a look herself, but she’d never gotten the chance since someone or another was always around. The tank is made from wood slats and metal with a rubber sheeting inside, and on front is the little machine that does all the work, stealing water straight out of the air, real greedy, up to a thousand liters a day. It’s okay that they steal that water though, Mama Zafu says, because they can use it for crops or for cooking or bathing, and either way it’s going to wind up back in the air eventually.
So Nomvula pushes the spigot and sure enough, nothing comes out, not even a drop. Letu and Sofora laugh at her so hard, and for just a second, Nomvula thinks about knocking them both upside the head with this iron pot of hers. Instead she clucks her tongue at them, props her pot up on her head, and prepares for the long hike to the solar well on the other side of the township.
Nomvula starts down the main path, passing shack after shack, and as she comes to the top of a hill, she can see all the thousands of brightly colored tin shanties spread out across the valley below, so many they don’t even seem real. Nomvula turns left and cuts through Mr. Ojuma’s prized herd of goats, popping them on the head as they nibble at the hem of her skirt, their scratchy beards tickling at her knees. She passes some kids playing soccer with a tattered ball, pocked legs and dusty feet like her own. The whispers of teenagers slip past Nomvula’s ears as they gossip over their beadwork crafts, making pretty bracelets and necklaces. Women cook up big vats of stew or beer in cast-iron pots, and somewhere the sweet smell of bread makes her stomach crawl up, letting Nomvula know that it’s waiting.
“Soon,” she says as the rumbles get louder. She hopes no one else can hear it but her. She trots along, bare feet padding along through the dirt and gravel, faster and faster, but when she turns down the path that leads to the well, she’s met by a line at least a hundred people long.
She’s got no choice but to join them. Ma’s already so weak and can’t afford to skip meals. Nomvula’s stomach growls in agreement, loud enough to make the man in front of her turn around. It takes a second to recognize his old, ragged face, but when she does, Nomvula’s pot slips right off her head and thuds on the ground.
“Dear one, let me help you with that,” he says, bending over and reaching for her pot.
“No!” Nomvula shouts, then instantly feels foolish. Her cheeks burn. Mr. Tau is an elder, skin dull as dirt, face long and worn, and hands sharp like a vulture’s talons, and even if he had done those bad things to Ma in a dream, he still commanded respect. “I’m sorry, baba,” Nomvula says bashfully, averting her eyes. “But I can get it myself.”
Nomvula presses her lips together and picks up her pot. She wonders if she should come back later, but then the line might be even longer. No, she’ll stay put, not look at him, not talk to him, just as if he’d never turned around.
Mr. Tau sets his pot down and pulls out a piece of cloth. He carefully unwraps each corner until he exposes a piece of bread. Nomvula smells it. Fresh, and probably still warm. Her mouth gets all slippery inside, but she keeps on pretending that she’s not looking.
“Maybe you’d like a piece while we wait,” Mr. Tau says, holding the loaf in both hands and waving it right under Nomvula’s nose.
“You’re kind, but no,” Nomvula says.
“Not even a little bit? The roar your stomach made gave me a bit of a start. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not very,” Nomvula lies, but Mr. Tau doesn’t seem like the kind of man you can lie to. “It’s my mother. She says I shouldn’t talk to you.”
“Oh, I see,” Mr. Tau says. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to get you into any sort of trouble with your mother.”
Mr. Tau faces forward in line, but Nomvula can still see him shoving a big bite of bread into his mouth, enjoying every last crumb. Mr. Tau seems like a nice man. And Ma’s so far away, back in their shack. And this line is so, so long. And her stomach is getting awfully angry.
“Maybe just a little piece,” Nomvula says, tapping Mr. Tau on his back. He turns around, smiling, holding out the cloth. She snatches up a bit of bread and eats it quickly, and Mr. Tau offers her another. By the time they reach the front of the line, they’ve become good friends. It feels nice to have someone to talk to, Nomvula thinks. Nice to have someone who doesn’t cry and cry and cry. Nice to have somebody who looks her right in the eyes.
The next day, Nomvula’s heart flutters with excitement when she hears their solar well is still broken. She kisses her mother on the cheek and tells her she’s going to get water for pap and bathing, and not to worry if she’s gone for a while because the line might be long. Ma moans and blinks once and keeps staring off into the past.
Nomvula happens to pass by Mr. Tau’s shack on her way to the well, and he happens to be sitting out in his small yard, a tree stump between his legs and his tools sitting on top.
It’s amazing how things just “happen” like that.
“I see you, baba,” she giggles, her fingers eagerly clenching the worn chain links of his fence. “Are you busy?”
He turns toward her, his eyes lighting up as they meet hers. “Oh, good day, Nomvula. No, I wish I were busy. I’ve got this lovely block of wood and nothing to carve. Maybe an elephant? Those sell well. Still, it’d be a pity to use such nice wood on a bulky piece.”
Nomvula remembers the figure from her dream. She hesitates for just a second before blurting out, “You could make a woman, one with wings.”
“A woman, you say? With wings . . .” Mr. Tau scratches his chin. “Sounds complicated. I’d need to find a good model, and I haven’t got time. I’m catching the bus into town tomorrow, you see. But a giraffe, a giraffe might work quite nicely.” Mr. Tau picks up his tools and sets them into the wood.
“Wait!” Nomvula says. “Maybe . . . maybe I could be your model?”
“But you’re just a girl.”
“I’m nearly a woman. Almost as old as my mother when she had me.”
“Mmm. Come here.” He extends his hand, and Nomvula rounds the fence, careful not to step on the splinters of wood scattered around his yard. Mr. Tau looks her up and down, then tilts her chin up with his finger. “Could work. But certainly your mother would object to such a thing.”