Deepest Springs: A Story of Love During the Apartheid Years

By NMM Duman

The story centres around Dikeledi, a young girl in the independent
homeland of Transkei, one of the Bantustans of the former apartheid
era in South Africa. The Sotho tribe is in the minority in this area and
culture still plays a very big role in the villages. Education is not a priority
for most of the people there, so when Dikeledi meets and falls in love with
a youth in high school, she is confused by his ambitions to study further
and go to university.
They marry despite the fact that her husbands mother hates her, mainly
due to the fact that Dikeledi is not traditionally considered beautiful,
comes from a poor home and her family is not known in the village, neither
is she a relative.
Apartheid laws ensure that, even when Dikeledis husband wants to take her
with him to Johannesburg, without valid documents, it is near impossible
for her to live with him, and she has to endure her mother-in-laws abuse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Feb 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456860363

NMM Duman

Nondumiso Makhanya Mutambala Duman began writing at the age of nine. When she was fifteen her mother entered her in a Maskew Miller Writing Competition in South Africa in 1980. She qualified in the top ten. She went on to do a Bachelor of Science degree which left very little time for writing and this was shelved until 1996. “Deepest Springs” was begun in that year and was originally called “The Mountain Song.” “Deepest Springs” is her first full length novel.

Book preview

Deepest Springs

A Story of Love During

the Apartheid Years

NMM Duman

Copyright © 2011 by NMM Duman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011901389

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4568-6035-6

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-6034-9

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4568-6036-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

301476

Contents

Prologue: 1959

1   Mystic Heights

2   A Gourd of Water

3   Bohadi: The Bride-price

4   Courtship Days

5   The Departure

6   The Makoti

7   Building the New Hut

8   The Wedding Day

9   Judgement of the Fleece

10   Journey to a Funeral

11   The Barren One

12   After the Rain

13   A Visit to the University

14   The Check Suit

15   The Lakeside Wedding

16   The Roadblock

17   Drumbeats

18   The Veritable Housemaid

19   Rebuilding Bridges

20   Crescendo

21   The Whistle

Glossary of Words and Phrases

To Thembi

We will always remember you

Acknowledgments

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The beginnings of the story were ignited during the year I spent in Transkei, in 1987, seeing the young girls from initiation dressed in their wonderfully tanned and dyed traditional dresses that they wore with pride; and the young woman, with the beautifully plastered hut, who longed for her husband to return from the mines . . . I wrote the book to engrave in words the memories of these experiences.

The author wishes to thank all who have been instrumental in bringing about the fruitition of this project.

• Senne Bogatsu who proof read and edited the original work despite a very busy schedule and gave constructive criticism;

• Mr. Michael Mahase for the time and effort put into the editing of the glossary, (back page), as well as assisting with Sotho names and terminology;

• For the research that Tshediso Porota embarked on to the find out about the names and meanings of some of the more archaic names such as setsiba and all the phone calls he made to me to verify whether we had at last found what I was looking for.

• Alina Monari for being so willing to assist me with more information for Sotho names and terminology.

• Catherine Manyo for assistance in research and Sotho perspective from the Lesotho point of view.

• Malolo Lebaka for the many trips we took together during which she enriched my knowledge of the Sotho culture, thanks, not forgetting all those whom I conversed with and who added to the knowledge that I used in this book; Johan Van der Vyver, Ditau Noge, Peter Theron;

• Pontšo Lepoqo, the first person who actually read the book apart from my editor and gave me the hope that it really was something to get excited about as well as for the critical input on the current cover

• Subsequently all my friends who read the book and thought it worthwhile; Ntshidiseng Caka, Agnes Maphutha, Fanele Khambule . . .

• Mrs. H Prinsloo SA Media Centre at for going the extra mile in providing me with information on the apartheid years;

• I would like to acknowledge the insight I gained on the Apartheid Years from the book: Women Under Apartheid, by the London International Defence and Aid Fund for South Africa.

• Officers of the South African National Defence Force (SANDF) for useful information and the chart on army ranks and uniforms.

• My sister, Mathabo Makhanya Angura, for the encouraging comments and proofreading of the draft; and to Peter, her husband, for sneaking a peak at the book and giving very positive feedback to my mother;

• Eric Jumaa—your comments were invaluable and played a part in shaping the final product;

• Maretha Maartens, many thanks for your article that encouraged me to take a second look at deleted scenes. They do actually make for a better transition. Thanks you.

• Jacob Uwe from Erfurth and Partner; thanks so much for your support;

• To those who subsequently assisted in getting the book launched, most notably Mathabo, Mkhululi Dlamini and Sonja Schutte as well as Mary Paine for assistance in getting printers.

• Titus Kubyane, your assistance with computer programmes and Lisa-Clare Le Breton, your critical comments on the book were invaluable.

• Free State Writers, for your enormous boost and support, your generous reviews and encouragement;

• My brother Tšepo Makhanya, for promising to buy a copy of the book;

• My father and mother, Prof. and Mrs. Makhanya, for the financial and moral support;

• My children and husband for acting as a sounding board when they would rather be elsewhere;

• For Charmaine Mwrebi at the Bloemfontein Library who provided me with the way forward;

• Thabo Mafike, author and publisher who helped to put professional finishing touches.

• Reverend Johan Botha, the first to actually get the book into print finally—thank you;

• To the little girl with the wonderful ideas, Mammuso Manyo who designed the cover page;

• For the support and encouragement of so many others whose names will probably not make into it into the finished print;

• Most importantly, grateful thanks to our creator who ensured that the sandpaper of life polished and refined the work.

Many waters cannot quench love neither can floods drown it . . .

Song of Songs 8:7

Foreword by Omoseye Bolaji

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African Black Literature has a distinguished history of creative female writing which continues to hold its head high around the world. The irony of it is that for decades, nay centuries, African women have been essentially suppressed. But this has not blunted the literary fecundity of the assorted writers.

Revered names like Buchi Emecheta, Bessie Head, Ama Ata Aidoo, Helen Oyeyemi and Tsitsi Dangaremgba are already recognised as among the best in the world. Others have carved a niche for themselves in other ways—for example in Nigeria, Flora Nwapa has gone down in history as the first woman to churn out novels from that country. In South Africa, the same applies to Miriam Tlali, who never looked back after her initial masterpiece, Muriel at Metropolitan.

South Africa indeed boasts a coterie of excellent black female writers over the decades. From Tlali, Lauretta Ngcobo, Bessie Head herself, Sindiwe Magona, Ellen Kuzwayo, to recent wordsmiths like Angela Makholwa. NMM Duman is taking her rightful place among the literary pantheon too.

The first time I read Duman’s Deepest Springs, I could not believe how brilliant and well written the book was. It was like reading the classics of feminine literature; and I was happy that other perceptive local writers in South Africa agreed with my assessment. Deepest Springs on a simplistic level is a superb love story, firmly entrenched on authentic African soil.

The novel is fluently written in an evocative manner, as convincing as any fictional work can be. It has a number of African themes that resonate hauntingly, yet the overall impression is positive and exhilarating. I have no doubt in my mind that this work will go down in history as one of the all-time great love stories in Black African literature.

The character of Dikeledi, the main female protagonist in this work is so well rounded and convincing that the reader can not help but to affirm what a fine, stoical young lady she is. She is in a sense lucky as her pristine love is reciprocated, despite the diabolic antics of her mother-in-law.

The novel is set against the awe-inspiring background of the Drakensberg Mountains, but the scope, range and breadth is much more expansive than this. The realistic background, characters, mores, shifting perspectives provide for an unforgettable literary repast.

Years ago, prominent African female writer Ama Ata Aidoo stated that as an African woman she could not see herself writing about topics like love—but she later changed her mindset and admitted that there was nothing wrong with this genre. Many of the classics in world literature are about romantic love, one way or the other.

Deepest Springs is a celebration; it invokes what millions refer to as "jabulani" in South African parlance! I wish this work all the success it deserves.

•   Omoseye Bolaji, a writer of Mystery stories, was conferred with the Chancellor’s Medal by the University of the Free State in recognition of his contributions to grassroots literacy and literature. He lives in Bloemfontein, Free State (South Africa)

Prologue

1959

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Rametse was restless and tense as he walked across the bare wintry fields where the broken stalks of long-harvested maize stood dried up, awaiting the ploughing season. The blustery winds that blew down from the mountains still had an icy edge to them, holding back the dry, dusty August weather. The man, in his early thirties, tall and slim, sighed deeply, his dark handsome face ravaged with worry lines; the pregnancy of his wife, Naledi, had given him many a sleepless night. Knowing that his wife was close to her time, he had returned home on a month-long furlough from the mines, but he could as well have remained there, so far was he kept from her. She was in labour and in tremendous pain; the midwife was called and he had been chased away from the vicinity.

He decided to go out into the fields to await the birth of his child on his own. Ten years they had been waiting for this baby, but it had not brought the joy and fulfilment that they had hoped for; instead there was so much suffering.

He longed to be with Naledi, to let her know that he shared her pain, to comfort her, but he was not allowed anywhere near that hut. He tried hard not to listen to the screams but, as they continued, found his footsteps taking him closer and closer to the homestead until he was standing outside the hut where his wife was in labour. The midwife, emerging from time to time from the hut carrying out buckets of bloody water to discard outside, tolerated his presence and answered his questions as to the progress and well-being of his wife with encouraging words. But why such heart-rending screams? Was the midwife telling him the truth or just putting him off to be rid of him?

When the midwife finally announced that he had a daughter, he rushed inside, ignoring her shocked screams and admonitions, and gathered his wife into his arms. His worst fears were realised as he saw her slipping away from him.

Naledi, stay, please stay with me. He wept, holding her close to him and hoping against hope that she would live. Please don’t leave me.

Take . . . good care of . . . our baby, she whispered to him. Look after her . . . for me . . . Her voice, even though dying, radiated the excitement that the new birth had brought her. Please . . . don’t take her back . . . to your village . . . They will hate her . . . because she is . . . mine . . . Please, Rametse . . . ?

He nodded and promised, telling her that he would ask Matokollo, Naledi’s younger sister, to take care of the baby when he went back to work, and he promised that, as long as he had breath, he would look after their baby.

Thank . . . you, she whispered, struggling to get out the words, love . . . you . . . and she closed her eyes.

Rametse gave a wail of anguish as he ascertained that Naledi had ceased to breathe and hugged her lifeless body to himself. How long he was there he had no recollection except that his next vivid memory was standing at the graveyard, his wife having been laid to rest, their little baby in his arms. Matokollo had taken good care of the baby, nourishing it with her body that still awaited her own little one that had so untimely left.

He was oblivious to the whisperings and the shocked words that swirled around him—a baby, a newborn infant, at a funeral? What was this? The baby was not even supposed to be out of the house at all, let alone around death. Rametse placed his baby daughter on the grave of her mother, as though the deceased had been her twin, and then handed the baby over, in full view of the relatives, to Matokollo.

You are her mother now, he said solemnly. Phororo is her father. This child has brought much sorrow to my heart, but her mother loved her fiercely. Please, take good care of her. Love her as you would your own, for I am leaving soon. I will not be with you much longer . . .

His mother, present at the funeral and watching her son’s strange behaviour, came over to him. Son, she said, surely I should raise your child for you? Mamahlomola is also here, your wife, who can raise your child.

A look of horror crossed Rametse’s face as he remembered his second wife and knew for a fact that his baby could never, ever be happy in her care.

The child belongs to Matokollo and will take the name of Matokollo’s husband, Phororo, he said, asserting himself in a way that he seldom had in the past. She is her child now.

The relatives were shocked into silence and fell back. Rametse turned and blessed the child. Her name . . . is Dikeledi . . . as a reminder of the tears . . . the heartache . . . she has brought me.

In the few days between the birth of his child and the burial of the child’s mother, he had aged. He trembled like an old man as he leaned over to bestow a kiss on the forehead of his infant, now safely held in the arms of her surrogate mother. Stay well, my child, and make your mother proud of you. He looked for a moment or two at Matokollo, and then he bowed his head slightly towards her before turning around and walking away.

1

Mystic Heights

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There was something magical about the mountainous terrain in which she walked; sheer breathtaking drops, dizzying heights and, in the distance, as far as the eye could see, spectacular views of row upon row of mountain peaks lined in ranges. The crisp, clear mountain air refreshed her mind and, in those early hours of dawn, she could hear the awakening sounds of the birds as they prepared to leave their roosts.

Dikeledi[1] Phororo revelled in the freedom that she felt, conscious that she was one of the very few beings to be found roaming the mountains at such an early hour, the only other people usually up and about at this time being the odd shepherd or herd boy. Springing agilely up the mountain path, the long stems of sweet grass swishing lightly around her legs, she was as sprightly as the kids and lambs she encountered.

To say that she was beautiful was debatable. She had none of the features that were considered traditionally beautiful. Her long nose dominated her face and she hated her lips which, to her, looked bigger and broader than anyone else’s that she knew. Her smooth, chocolate-brown skin was unblemished. She had large brown, expressive eyes framed by long, thick lashes above which were sooty black silken eyebrows, thick and surprisingly straight, and the lips she so hated provided a well-balanced and proportionate look to her face. Her hair, thick and black, was cut very short and greased with Vaseline that would, as the day progressed, be melted by the heat, causing the hair to glisten in the sun.

Dikeledi was tall for her sixteen years and extremely slender, with a hint of hips outlined by a soft, red-dyed bovine leather skirt, the setea, which she had graduated to wear after initiation school. Had she been rounder at the hips, had more flesh on her bones and her skin several shades lighter, then she could quite easily have been the most desirable girl in the village, if not for miles around.

The setea[2] swung softly from side to side as she gracefully made her way up the mountainside; her bare chest decorated with strings of clay beads and pert breasts. It was early summer and she enjoyed the feel of the morning breeze on her body.

She was, for the moment, without a care in the world, her bare feet seemingly knowing every step of the path they traversed, a large clay pot balanced expertly on her head.

She sang joyfully, purposefully making her way towards a narrow gorge:

Little hammerhead sing

About why your nest is so big

Why your eyes are so bright

In the early morning light

Oh, hear me and help me

To appreciate and see

Your wonder as you sing.

About why your nest is so big

A little way up was a natural spring, covered by an overhang of grasses, and water slowly seeped into the hollow beneath. The water was sweet and cool, and Dikeledi drank several draughts of it before filling the clay pot using a small gourd, the mohope. When it was full, she lifted the clay pot carefully onto her head, placing the gourd inside it to float on the water. She was less sprightly on her way back due to her fragile load, but still she swayed to an inner rhythm. Occasionally, she would break out into her song, but sometimes she would listen to the sounds of the birds and the awakening life around her. It was a good three kilometres or so to the village, and she enjoyed every minute of her walk back.

She had awoken very early that morning, before dawn, to give herself time to go up to the spring in the mountains after first collecting water from the village well, rushing it home and pouring it into the large clay urn in the visitors’ hut. Normally she would only need to make one trip, but today extra water was needed in the homestead since her aunt was going to wash some clothes at home as her father, Ntate Phororo, was ill; usually they washed clothes at the river, particularly if there were blankets.

Going up the mountain was like a drug to her, something she had to do from time to time, something that made her feel so alive! The village well, she thought with some disgust, plucking a stem of the tall grass along the pathway and sucking the sweetness within, nothing much to excite anyone about going to the village well, just the usual homesteads.

The homesteads were made up of clusters of mud-plastered rondavels with thatched roofing and the occasional corrugated iron roof where families lived, usually with grandparents, uncles, aunts, grandchildren, and even newlyweds, each occupying their own hut within the homestead while the cooking and feeding of the homestead was done centrally. Some of the homesteads had reeded enclosures, others barbed wire while yet others had only the tall grass to indicate their perimeters.

The occasional cow could often be seen grazing just beyond the homesteads, and then a little way over the hill was the water pump that served as the well.

The village well, she thought. Pooh! Anyway, the water there was brackish while the spring water was so sweet!

She was late; as she neared the village, she met with the other young maidens who had been to the well, a leisurely fifteen-minute walk from the village. Had she arrived home earlier than they, then they would have assumed that she had just risen as early as she always did each morning and beaten them to the well. She was not really allowed to go up to the mountain spring by herself for fear that she would be kidnapped by the wild rascally youths that sometimes would be found prowling around looking for girls for precisely that purpose, known as tjhobediso, because they either did not want to enter into the negotiations of marriage and wanted a cheap way of owning a wife, or else a greedy father had made a bargain with them, cutting off all the uncles from any share in the bride-price.

Dikeledi could usually count on her best friend Palesa to accompany her to the mountain spring, but Palesa was not always willing or allowed to go and Dikeledi, a wildly rebellious longing in her heart for the freedom and freshness of the mountains, would break free like a young wild colt, regardless of the consequences. Should Matokollo find out, she would be in for a hiding, but the pain would be nothing compared to the break.

Dikeledi, called one short plump girl mockingly, let us exchange pots. You take my village water and give me your mountain spring water.

You are making fun of me, Mampho, she countered good-naturedly. "Your mother would kill you if you came home with a clay pot belonging to Mmè Matokollo."

There was laughter from the other girls at this while Mampho turned her shaved head slightly, away from Dikeledi. She was the only one who was clean-shaven of the girls and also the only one with prominent pimples.

Most of the girls wore the traditional setea and thethana, but Mampho and Palesa wore faded, thin cotton dresses. All the girls were barefooted.

"Your mother will kill you for going up those mountains alone. Why did you leave Palesa behind?"

This was bad, and the question had to be asked by Mampho’s cousin, Selloane, a cheerful, stockily built girl who was quite short in stature.

I got permission this time, Dikeledi replied, thinking fast and trying hard to speak calmly. Father is not well and dearly wanted the water from the mountain spring. He likes the taste of it.

So does half the village. Reitumetsi giggled. Reitumetsi was a prim girl of medium height with very short hair. "Haven’t you noticed how our fathers tend to visit Ntate Phororo or Ntate Letsikana on a really hot day? And they always ask for water."

You have to admit though, it is very nice water. This was said by Palesa. She was the closest to Dikeledi in age and height but still a good two inches shorter; a fair-complexioned girl with a pleasing disposition. Ntate Letsikana was her father.

The conversation of the spring water absorbed them, and they chatted amiably along the dusty cattle track, the rising sun quickly dispelling the shadows of the early morning. Before they knew it, they had arrived at the village.

Mampho, who very clearly did not like Dikeledi, could not resist a final barb before they parted. It still hasn’t gotten you a husband, though, all your hard work and getting up early, has it? she spat and with that ran as fast as her clay pot and plump legs would allow towards her family compound, leaving the group restless and squirming with embarrassment.

At sixteen, Dikeledi was close to a year or two older than most of the girls there, her own age group having been married off already. Secretly, Dikeledi was quite happy to be at home looking after her guardians, but the barb was not without its poison: to have nobody interested in courting you must surely mean that the elders did not want their sons married to you. Therefore there must be something wrong with you. Despite herself, tears sprang to her eyes.

Don’t mind her, Keledi, said Palesa, looking after Mampho in disgust. If you ask me, you are better off without the troubles of a mother-in-law. Unfortunately, she said, sighing, I shall soon have to face up to it.

They walked on slowly, causing the hens and cocks to reluctantly flap off the cattle track, squawking in protest. The group fast diminished in size as each girl moved off to her compound, until only Dikeledi and Palesa were left.

Palesa turned to Dikeledi conspiratorially and whispered, How could you go there again by yourself? And it’s not as if I could not have come with you today.

Dikeledi sighed. Oh, Palesa, you wouldn’t understand. Sometimes . . . sometimes I just feel a yearning to be in those mountains, to run along the mountain paths, to feel the wind in my face . . . Oh, don’t you ever miss it?

Hmm. I don’t know. It is nice sometimes but . . . She paused, it’s very lonely out there. Oh, Keledi, I hope you don’t get into trouble for all this. And that Mampho might just find a way to cause it.

Don’t remind me! Dikeledi grimaced.

The two girls stopped in front of Dikeledi’s family compound made up of two large huts, one for her parents and the second for visitors, a medium-sized one where Dikeledi slept and a small one where all the indoor cooking was done. Palesa’s homestead was the farthest of the five girls.

Will you accompany me for the rest of the week? Dikeledi put on a mock-pleading expression on her face. Just in case she does tell on me, then everyone else can vouch for me that I was with you. I know that our friends will support me. Will you please, Palesa?

Palesa smiled indulgently at her friend. Of course I will, Keledi, of course I will. I’ll see you tomorrow then.

With a quick wave to her friend, Palesa left to complete the rest of the journey home alone.

Dikeledi could tell that Matokollo, her aunt, was already up and about when she arrived home since there was smoke billowing out of the mokhorong. Dikeledi deposited the pot of water on the dung-plastered floor in the large visitors’ hut adjacent to the mokhorong and then ran to the smoke-filled hut, which was already cleaned and swept, to see her aunt, a tall, light-complexioned woman with the same build as her niece but with a little more flesh on her bones.

Matokollo was dressed in a faded blue seshoeshoe dress and a matching headdress with an equally faded and worn blue scotch travelling shawl, the tjale, wrapped tight around her waist. Her Vaseline moistened feet were bare except for the clay beads decorating her ankles; she had similar beads on her wrists. The water her husband would use to wash and the porridge for breakfast were already on the boil.

The older woman and her surrogate daughter exchanged greetings, each inquiring as to how the other had slept, Dikeledi also enquiring about the health of her father who was getting much better, her aunt informed her with a smile. Dikeledi tried hard to keep her guilt over this morning’s adventure out of her face and voice, but somehow her aunt caught on to it.

What is the matter this morning, Dikeledi? asked her aunt, her concerned eyes raised in query. Have you been fighting with Mampho again?

Dikeledi went from being panic-stricken to feeling relief and inwardly sighed as she remembered how, earlier on that morning, Mampho had once more dug her barbs into her. She smiled shyly, suddenly embarrassed at what had transpired.

What is it this time? her aunt had accurately interpreted her niece’s look.

She said I should have a husband by now. Dikeledi was flushed with embarrassment. She busied herself arranging the woven grass mat on the floor. Getting no immediate response, Dikeledi turned to find her aunt’s slim, lithe form looking mock-sternly at her, her hands resting on her waist.

So, you want a husband now?

"No, Mmaane." Mmaane was an affectionate term Dikeledi had used from childhood when Mmangoane, meaning aunt, was still too difficult a word to put her tongue around. But I felt embarrassed in front of the other girls.

Mmè Matokollo smiled kindly, her round cheeks showing only a hint of wrinkles. I told your father he should have let you marry the first suitor that came along, but he felt that you were too young. That was two years ago.

I had a suitor? Dikeledi’s eyes widened in surprise and relief, and she clapped her hands with glee, wrapping her arms around her Mmaane who sternly rebuked her, smoothing out the creases of her heavy cotton dress.

You had three to be exact! What kind of spectacle are you making of yourself, child? I think I should tell him to marry you off to the next suitor that comes along! She laughed at the horrified look on Dikeledi’s face who clung tighter to her Mmaane. Matokollo responded by giving Dikeledi a quick squeeze and turned to stir the porridge pot.

Although she called her aunt, Matokollo was a mother to Dikeledi in almost every respect. Matokollo herself had suffered two miscarriages in the early years of her marriage and then had no more pregnancies and, with her last miscarriage still fresh in her mind, had taken her deceased sister’s newborn infant to her breast and nursed it, assuaging her own grief at the loss of her son, and both she and her husband loved Dikeledi as their own and doted on her.

Dikeledi took the broom to sweep the dusty compound, and as she went out, her aunt called her and Dikeledi paused in the doorway, turning back.

You will get married someday. Your father does want you to be well-looked after though. I know we are poor, but we have at least some property we can count as wealth, if you include that lazy milk cow. They laughed and Matokollo pinched her niece’s cheek playfully. He wants you to be provided for and he was just not happy with the previous families that came. Will he ever be happy with any family I wonder? She turned suddenly and stirred the three-legged pot with vigour. He has got his head in the clouds, that man.

This was said more to herself than to Dikeledi who paused a while longer and then, getting no further conversation from her aunt, began to sweep the front step slowly, and then gained momentum as she moved on into the compound, sweeping away the dead grass and twigs from the bare ground.

Although they were not rich, they were better off than many families in their village. They received an allowance from the mines since Dikeledi’s adopted father was seriously injured and crippled while in the mines, which allowed them a steady income. With it they could afford to buy essential groceries and clothing and a dress at Christmas for her. Not that she wore dresses much; the setea was too much of a status symbol for her and the other girls who had been to initiation school, and they wore it with pride. The money too helped to pay for transport to take her aunt and father into town for his twice-yearly checkup at the doctor’s.

A resourceful woman, Matokollo raised poultry that they used for eggs and occasionally meat as well as a small field that she had turned into a vegetable garden. In it, she planted tomatoes, onions, spinach, cabbage as well as beans, peas, and maize. The latter was a staple food, and what she grew was never enough for her family, so she would trade in the much-in-demand vegetables for sacks of maize, sorghum, and wheat. Having no sons and nearby relatives, and having a husband who needed her constant attention, she found it more profitable to hire one herd boy to take care of the few livestock she had. It was better to earn her living in this way than to risk being defrauded by well-meaning neighbours in her fields during harvest time while she remained at home, nursing her husband.

The next day, true to her word, Palesa was up bright and early to accompany Dikeledi. Dikeledi waited for her to catch up, watching her friend fondly as she expertly balanced the clay pot on her head.

I was afraid you would oversleep. Dikeledi laughed and took her stride next to Palesa as they made their way out of the village towards the mountain path.

Oh no! Not today, Keledi. Palesa smiled. Today we save you from a beating. Although why we should all have to rally around you to save your skin . . . ? She shook her head with a look of mock wonder on her face, causing Dikeledi to burst out laughing.

I do so love being with you, Palesa, she said joyously. Then, more seriously, she said, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, when you leave us.

A shadow of sadness passed over Palesa’s face, and she turned her face away from her friend as though striving to hold back her tears.

Let us not talk about him today, Keledi, she whispered as she struggled for composure. She turned to face her friend again, bravely putting on a smile for her benefit. Today, we enjoy ourselves, forget about our worries, our cares . . . everything, and just enjoy now.

They fell silent, each being enveloped in their own world. As Palesa struggled to rid herself of thoughts of her impending nuptials, Dikeledi had taken Palesa at her word and was now revelling in the beauty of the mountains, the chirping of the crickets, and the rising mists of the morning dew as the first rays of sunlight warmed the grass. As they neared the spring, they broke into a run. It was a game they always played when they neared this place, to see who would fill their clay pot first. Chivalrously, Dikeledi let her friend win to try to cheer her up and it worked.

Beat you this time, Keledi, Palesa shouted happily, expertly depositing the large clay pot on the ground and throwing herself on the green grass around the well.

I got a thorn caught in my foot, Dikeledi retorted loftily, launching herself stomach first beside her friend after also placing her clay pot near the well, otherwise I would have beaten you by a mile.

Liar, said her friend good-naturedly, you are just a sore loser, that’s all. She smiled happily as she stretched out on the grass, her hands supporting the back of her shortly cropped head. She had a strong suspicion that Dikeledi had engineered the race for her to win—she was the best runner in the village. Oh, Keledi, I am going to miss you when I leave. I wish I didn’t have to go. But, hey, we said we wouldn’t discuss that today. I am going to try to come out with you as often as I can before I leave. It is such fun coming here with you.

Yes, Dikeledi replied, it is really fun. I am going to miss you too, Palesa, but hopefully we still have time. Let us enjoy the weeks—or is it months?

Palesa’s reply was a grimace and a shrug. It could be tomorrow for all she knew, except that her intended worked in the mines and was usually gone for long periods at a time.

Suddenly, a startled bird put Dikeledi on the alert and, with one swift movement, she sprang into a kneeling position, listening. Did you hear that? Her eyes scanned the mountainside and she caught a glimpse of a figure behind a rock overhang. Whatever Palesa replied, Dikeledi did not hear it as she became mesmerised by the sight of a young man in a white shirt. He was near enough for her to see his face clearly, and she noted that he was handsome. He was the most handsome boy she had ever laid her eyes on.

His short, dark hair was greased and well-combed, with a hint of a moustache above well-shaped lips that wore a faint smile of appreciation. He had wide-set, piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through her, framed by startlingly thick caterpillar-like eyebrows that almost seemed to touch one another.

"Keledi! Dikeledi! Palesa’s voice seemed to be coming from a distant place, but the shaking was getting rougher until Dikeledi snapped out of the spell that he seemed to have woven around her. What’s happening to you, Dikeledi?"

D-d-did y-y-you see th-th-that?

"See what? What? As she followed her finger to the rock, she shook her head in bewilderment. There is nothing there but a rock."

Yes. Yes. A rock. For some strange reason, Dikeledi decided to keep quiet about the youth she had seen.

Come, let us go home, Palesa urged with concern. This place is starting to feel spooked. They filled up their clay pots in silence, with Palesa turning every now and then to try to catch a glimpse of what Dikeledi might have seen. With the clay pots, now brimful of water, balanced on their heads, they began to walk back to the village.

What did you see back there, Keledi? Palesa asked after a while, curiosity eating her up inside.

Suddenly, it was funny, and Dikeledi giggled. Palesa felt the spookiness lifting somewhat, but she couldn’t wait to hear what it was all about.

You know when that bird flew off? Well, when I looked up, I saw someone. He was wearing a white shirt and I thought he was a ghost until he waved.

Palesa too joined in the laughter, and they laughed till the tears ran down their faces. To think you had me so scared, I was thinking I would never again want to come back here.

Well, I was also glad when I saw he was flesh and blood, Dikeledi said, sighing in relief. They continued chatting happily, discussing ghosts and apparitions, while Dikeledi was glad that she could have alleviated Palesa’s curiosity so easily. The truth was, the someone had disturbed her, and not just a little, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The next few days were passed without incident, with the two girls going up each morning to the mountain spring. They did not see the young man again, although from time to time Dikeledi would get the feeling that they were being watched. She said nothing to Palesa about this, preferring to keep these feelings to herself.

She must have been thinking overtime about her mountain encounter with the youth, for one night, her dreams were filled with young men who were on the lookout for marriageable virgins for tjhobediso. She had been their next target and had had to outrun the horses they rode. She had just realised that she was running into a trap when she awoke breathless and panicked. She was immensely relieved to find that she had only been dreaming, and she shook off the nightmares hounding her.

Arising from the mud and dung floor, she rolled up the grass mat she had been sleeping on and placed it neatly against the wall and then left her hut to go to the mokhorong. She picked up the second clay pot, the first still being half-filled with water, and made her way out of the village towards the goat trails. Palesa would be unable to accompany her that morning as MaPalesa, Palesa’s mother, expected her to be renewing the dung-and-mud plaster coatings of the compound’s huts and so did not want her to go far.

Even though Palesa could not accompany her, and even though she was forbidden to go by herself, Dikeledi felt she had to make the trip into the mountains today as though some magnet were drawing her there, her heart searching to unravel the mysteries that surrounded them.

The moon was full and still in the sky as she made her way up the steep path. Her head cleared as she walked, and the fears of the previous night receded. She was once more filled with happiness that permeated even to her feet and made her agile and carefree again. There was a light mist that added to the mystique of the mountains, heightening her expectation that something magical was about to happen.

She returned from the spring just as the sky lightened and separated the mountains from the deep blue of the early morning sky, the clay bowl balanced on her head. Her hips swung her cowhide skirt softly from side to