Free Forgive Me by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

Time-Life cassette of world music. I still remember it.
Nkosi Sikelel…
”
    Nadine winced at his off-key rendition. “I get the picture,” she said.
    “At this point, my mother no longer thought my crush was so cute. She did not appreciate my singing African songs, and she threw away my FREE MANDELA T-shirt. She said it was the nanny, but I knew better.”
    “What about Thola?” said Nadine. “Did she ever write back?”
    “Not until I was in seventh grade.”
    “What did the letter say?”
    George put out his cigarette. “I have it,” he said. “You can see for yourself.” He went into his bedroom, returned with a timeworn piece of paper.
    “You saved it, all these years?” Nadine asked.
    George shrugged, gave the paper to her.

    Hola George,
    Thank you seven times for seven letters. I am very happy to have them. I am very busy with school and dance, of course, but I do think about you and about your nice mlungu home in America. My cousin (Albert) is home you will be glad to know. Things are not good and happy here, but we have faith. During the day there is fighting in the streets, nyaga nyaga, which means trouble, as I am sure you appreciate. The area around my house and in my house is safe for now. Two friends are dead, and I sing for them and I pray for them. They have not died for nothing.
    In school, we are learning about white man history and also science. At ballet school I am becoming a master of the jeté and Albert teaches me the toyi-toyi. You should see me. Do not worry that I will fall in love with a Freedom Fighter, George. I told you before and tell you once more I do not have time for such things. When there is a free South Africa you will hear from me. You can write again and tell me more about this Alcatraz. Also, how did the San Francisco Ballet Gala Benefit of your mother go? I hope well. Send prayers for me and for you I will do the same. My sister Evelina says hello and she would like to come to America. Unfortunately, she is clumsy, and can never be a ballerina.
    Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,
THOLA
(The Lion)

    “This was what—fifteen years ago?” said Nadine.
    “Right,” said George, taking the letter back and folding it carefully.
    Nadine leaned forward. “How did you reconnect?”
    “I wrote to her all through high school; and then during college, I finally saved enough to come over. Kevin set me up with this apartment about a year ago. Maxim was headed to Bucharest, and wanted to make some extra money by renting out rooms.”
    Nadine nodded and sipped her beer. “Go on,” she said.

Fourteen

    G eorge worked in the campus bar during his junior year in college, and by summer he had saved enough money to buy a ticket to South Africa. (His parents had refused to supplement the “African girlfriend fund,” as his father called it.) Though there had been other women for George, he still pined for Thola. When the plane landed in Johannesburg, George felt something in his gut. He looked out the window at the dusty, red earth. He thought, grandly,
I am home.
    He arrived in Cape Town four hours later, and called Kevin Holderman, whose number he had written on a square of notebook paper. Kevin, an energetic older man, drove him to the Nutthall Road house. “Okay,” he said, “here’s Thola’s address, and the keys to Maxim’s car. Ask around Site C in Sunshine township. Everyone knows Tholakele. But watch your back.”
    “I can’t thank you enough,” said George as he walked outside with Kevin.
    “Listen,” said Kevin. “You’ve got to be careful. It’s illegal for blacks and whites to mix.”
    “I know,” said George. He muttered, “Fucking ridiculous.”
    Kevin lit a cigarette and stared into space as he inhaled. The trees around them were vibrant. “It’s the way things are,” said Kevin, finally.
    “That’s a stupid thing to say,” said George.
    “Why don’t you soak it all in,” said Kevin, “before you start casting judgment.”

    I t was afternoon in