Free The Water Man's Daughter by Emma Ruby-Sachs Page A

priority and I’ll get back to him when I get a chance.”
    Tosh protests, but she is already out the door and on the way to her car.
    Z EMBE FINDS N OMSULWA PERCHED ON THE FRONT steps of the community centre. Her light skin looks fire-black from far away, and shadows from a cap she’s fingering fall across her face, making it darker still. She looks tough – is tough, Zembe corrects herself, a girl who ran with the boys’ gangs for most of her childhood. And now a woman who stands up to powerful politicians on a regular basis. But there is a soft side to her too, an instinct to mother that brings many young children off the streets and into the offices of her organization to help paint banners or make phone calls. That side makes Zembe feel better about her decision to trust Nomsulwa with the Matthews girl. Despite her reluctance to help in the search for Kholizwe, she will agree because she owes Zembe. But she will do a good job because she cares too much not to.
    “How is your mother? Feeling better?” Zembe is genuinely concerned. Mama Sithu has been failing quickly over the past few years and the change in her has been surprising for all her friends, especially for ones like Zembe who do not get the time to visit often.
    “A little. Her emphysema acts up less in the cooler months,” Nomsulwa answers matter-of-factly. Zembe wonders why Nomsulwa refuses to acknowledge their past, never mentions the many nights she spent with her family, the time her mother would have considered her a close friend – before she moved too far away for visits to be practical.
    “Give her a kiss from me.” Zembe responds with a heartfelt smile.
    “Uh huh.”
    “I remember when we used to spend hours walking door to door fundraising for church. And on the street corners …” Zembe tries to remind Nomsulwa. “We would hold court in those days.”
    “Mama, I have a meeting to go to, I –”
    Zembe launches in, stopping her escape. “I need a favour.”
    “I already called Mira and told him you wanted to speak with him. He’ll get in touch. He just has his own schedule.” Nomsulwa smiles at her small joke.
    “Another favour.” Zembe doesn’t smile. “The foreigner who died, he was a water man –”
    “So?” Nomsulwa jumps in. “Why do I care?”
    Zembe continues as if she hadn’t just been interrupted. “He worked for Amanzi’s parent company and the company is, as you know, very close to the police services branch.”
    Nomsulwa isn’t leaving, but she’s certainly won’t stay put for long either. Zembe speeds up her explanation. “The company is flying the daughter over here and has put my officein charge of taking care of her while she is in Johannesburg. That means I need to find a guide I can trust, fast.” Now Nomsulwa really is turning around, as if to escape. “Where are you going?” She confronts Nomsulwa directly.
    Nomsulwa stands still, legs taut and eyes big. “What can I do to help with that?” As if Zembe had levelled an accusation rather than a request. Then, before Zembe can answer her question, Nomsulwa starts to leave. “I really have to go to that meeting—”
    “Wait. Don’t walk away from me. You’re the guide.”
    “You’re crazy. I’m not going to be able to help you with this.”
    “You’re going to have to. This is not a favour. It’s an official request.” Zembe walks forward, puts a hand on Nomsulwa’s shoulder, and feels how tense the muscles are. She tries to be calmer, more friendly. “I haven’t got enough information yet, I need more time.”
Be grateful, Nomsulwa, that I didn’t drag you down to the station that night
. “I need you to distract her, take her out, see the countryside, tour around. I need you to keep her busy.”
Pause again, give her time to remember, to feel lucky and indebted
.
    “Hayi-bo wena, you drunk? Not me, I can’t.” Nomsulwa walks up the stairs, stumbling a bit. Zembe follows her erratic path indoors.
    “I could have turned you