Out of the ShadowsNov 30, 2006

Christine James

Lindiwe’s stomach shook with cold and fear.

The cold had accumulated in her bones during a winter of nights spent sleeping in doorways and alleys, occasionally finding a narrow mattress in a shelter for street children. The shelters were always full though, especially on the really cold nights, and she didn’t like sleeping squashed together with the other children. There was no privacy; she hated the way the older boys eyed her full body with lust, leeringly suggesting that there was another way for her to earn a very comfortable living. So far she had managed to fight them off.

Her fear came from the realisation that the only avenue left for her to make money was the very thing she’d avoided since running out of her home four months before. This was her third day without food and her clothes were now so worn that they no longer offered any protection against the icy nights.

Her lips twisted into a humourless grimace - how strange that an anniversary celebration of "Freedom Day" - the day that Nelson Mandela had been elected President, ushering in the "New South Africa" with promises of free education, better housing, employment for all, and so much more - had led her directly to the streets. And how strange that, although there was so much talk of "uplifting the people", no one cared about a fifteen year old girl who had desperately tried to find work, and was now considering prostitution as a solution to the cold and hunger that was shaking her apart.

She started along the long dark road; her eyes fixed on the pavement. A wailing baby turned her glance upwards to a candle guttering in a window of the block of flats next to her. She stopped and wrapped her arms around her body - the candle switched her mind back to April, and the last Freedom Day she had spent at home…

The flickering shadow on the wall looked like a finger at first, admonishing her for some unknown crime. The shape changed and became more menacing - a hunchbacked ghost carrying a club, then it was her mother’s face for a few moments before transforming to a witch on a broomstick, and then a Tokoloshe. She was fascinated, and frightened.

She turned her back and tried to sleep, but the light from the spluttering paraffin lamp shone through the skimpy curtain separating the two rooms of the shack and kept her awake. That, and the voices.

They were still drinking. Laughing, arguing, shrieking..... the voices grew louder and louder, competing with the howling wind that battered the windows of the ramshackle hut.

Lindiwe hated this place, this squatter camp, where she and her mother moved when her father died a year previously. Within three months of his death, and with great glee, her mother had spent the meagre pension from the company where her father worked for twenty years. He was a cleaner in a factory, not well paid, but immensely proud that he had a steady job.

Lindiwe hated the muddy, makeshift streets, the filth, and the leers of the boys and men who were their neighbours. She hated the long bus-ride and even longer walk to and from school, where, even though she was a willing student, she was often too tired to concentrate or even stay awake, during lessons. It wasn’t easy leaving home at five in the morning, and coming home after six in the evening to a mother who begged on the streets of Durban and then drank away every cent. Lindiwe worked on Saturdays as a domestic help for a family with two small children. She loved them - but the money was barely enough for her bus fare.

The wind shrieked, the storm picking up momentum, and Lindiwe cried out with fear. "Come here girl!" She heard her mother call. "Stop that noise and come here."

Lindiwe pulled on a thin towelling robe and stood in front of her mother and the two men who were visiting. Their eyes were red with drink, and they leaned back in their chairs, openly studying her fifteen-year-old body. Try as she may, she couldn’t hide the shape of the firm breasts and wide hips from their gaze. Nevertheless, she pulled the robe tighter.

"It is time you earned some money for bread." Her mother slurred. "Take off that robe!"

"No, mother." Lindiwe’s eyes were round with fear. "Cha ngeke ngikwenze lokhu - No, I will not do this."

She backed away, across the room.

"Come here, Lindiwe." The older of the two men stood up. "Celebrate Freedom Day by becoming a woman. You will enjoy it - I have fathered many fat children." He added with a smirk.

"No." Lindiwe whispered, pressing against the table. "I will not do this."

The wind suddenly picked up momentum, and as the makeshift shutter blew open, Lindiwe tipped the table and staggered back into the doorway. The paraffin lamp landed in the middle of the room, and the fire was too swift to stop.

The neighbours ran backwards and forwards with buckets of water, desperate to put out the fire before it spread to their own cardboard and corrugated iron shacks. No sirens were heard, there were no telephones to call the fire station.

Nobody saw Lindiwe standing across the road, nobody looked for her as she turned and headed away from the squatter camp towards the city…

A cold blast of wind brought her back to the present and she began to walk again. The car parked next to the kerb was a vision of sleek, shiny richness, long and silver blue. Lindiwe was drawn to it, tentatively reaching out a hand to run her fingers along the smooth metal of the door, knowing she was touching unimaginable wealth. Her fingers slid into the curve of the door handle, the shape fitting into her small palm as if it was tailor made. A contraction of the fingers, and the door fell open softly, leaving her staring into the interior. On the back seat of the car lay a jacket of soft butter coloured leather with a fleecy lining that emanated warmth. Lindiwe lifted it, her fingers sinking into the warmth, held it to her face and closed her eyes. This dream-jacket could warm her for a hundred winters, all she had to do was slide her arms into the sleeves and -

No! She wouldn’t do it. She would not lower herself to the standards of the other children of the street. It would be hard, but tomorrow she would look for work again. She tenderly lay the jacket back on the seat, stroking it one last time before gently closing the magic door. Her heart jumped as she felt a hand on her arm.

"What are you doing?" The voice was puzzled, rather than angry. Lindiwe, in the manner that her father had taught her, stood straight and looked the woman in the eye.

"I have done no harm." She stated simply.

"So I see." The woman frowned. "Why are you shaking? Are you afraid of me?"

"No, ngiyagodola - I am cold."

The woman thought for a moment, then opened the door.

"I can help you if you want to work. Get in the car."

Lindiwe didn’t move.

"Now I think you are afraid. I won’t hurt you - I need someone honest to look after my house while I’m working. From what I’ve just seen, I think I can trust you."

Lindiwe climbed into the back seat. The woman started the car and as they gathered speed Lindiwe’s eyelids drooped, the motion of the car rocking her to sleep.

She barely remembered arriving at the house. When she awoke properly, it was to sunlight flooding through large windows. She was enveloped in softness - the pillow, the mattress, the blanket - truly warm for the first time in months. Lindiwe heard footsteps and she sat straight, pulling the blanket up under her chin.

The woman stood at the door, and Lindiwe saw her clearly for the first time. She was tall, and made taller by the mane of blonde curly hair that was pulled up to the top of her head before being allowed to cascade to her shoulders. She had a firm, strong looking body, beautifully clad in a close fitting white velvet sweater, tailored blue jeans and soft brown leather boots. Her general look of elegance was spoiled though, by her face. It didn’t seem to match the rest of her, being creased and lined with the marks of hard living. The dark red painted mouth, in repose, was turned down at the corners, the lipstick bleeding slightly into the web of fine lines that radiated from her lips. Her eyes, accentuated by heavy black liner, were narrowed as she studied Lindiwe carefully.

"The bathroom is through that door. Please bathe and put on these clothes, then come to the dining room, at the end of the hallway to the left of this door. I’ll expect you in twenty minutes, we’ll talk then."

Lindiwe nodded without speaking as the woman put down a small pile of clothing and left the room, closing the door behind her. The sparkling clean bathroom was pretty, decorated in lilac and white with a border of tiny violets along the top of the tiles. Soft white curtains were held back with flower printed ribbons, and Lindiwe exclaimed out loud at the steaming hot water and scented soaps. Although she longed to spend more time enjoying the beautiful room, she bathed quickly and went to inspect the clothes that had been left for her. There was clean, white underwear, a short denim skirt and a soft pale pink sweater. Lindiwe dressed swiftly and pushed her feet into the sandals at the bottom of the pile.

The woman sat at the end of a long table, eating a grapefruit with a long spoon.

"Sit down, Lindiwe."

Lindiwe sat nervously on the edge of a chair.

"My name, in case you don’t remember from last night, is Deborah Reed. I provide a service to executives, supplying hostesses to co-ordinate important business functions. I need someone to answer the telephone, take messages and keep my diary up-to-date. You’re presentable, have a good speaking voice, and from what I saw last night, appear to be sensible and honest - so I’ll try you out in the position. I will advise you of the salary you will receive later today, and, in addition, you will have the use of the room that you slept in last night, as well as your meals."

Deborah touched a bell, and a soft-footed maid entered and placed a plate of bacon, eggs and toast in front of an astonished Lindiwe.

"Eat now, and you can start work immediately."

She was nervous at first. The only black face amongst a never-ending stream of beautiful, well-dressed white women. It was difficult to tell them apart - they all looked the same to her. Lindiwe soon mastered the complicated appointment book, and managed to field the flood of daily phone calls with aplomb. Deborah would check the book and messages twice a day, occasionally rewarding Lindiwe with one of her rare smiles or, more often, a twenty Rand note. After the first pay-day, Lindiwe counted the money she’d accumulated. She couldn’t believe that there was so much, and so little to spend it on. Deborah had given her more clothes and shoes than she’d owned in her entire life, her food was supplied, the pretty bathroom that she’d fallen in love with on that first morning was kept stocked with fragrant toiletries - there was nothing she needed. She glanced across the room at the shelf where a few magazines lay next to a vase of flowers. Books! That’s what she’d buy - books! And then she’d find out where she could go to finish her schooling part time, and then… Lindiwe laughed with excitement - there was no end to the things she could do! She bounced off her bed and, pushing the money into the pocket of her jeans, headed for the front door.

The shopping trip left her glowing with pleasure and she skipped along the pavement, back to the house, turning heads as she went.

However, the energy dissipated and her steps slowed as she saw the police car parked next to the curb. Deborah came out of the house flanked by two men and was hustled into the car. She looked straight at Lindiwe and straight past, as if she didn’t recognise her. Lindiwe started towards the car, but a hand held her back.

"Don’t. We’ve been after her for ages."

Lindiwe turned to face one of the women who worked for Deborah.

" We? What do you mean?"

"I’m with the police, Lindiwe. Deborah has been running a prostitution ring for years, but she’s been so careful… anyway, we’ve got her now."

Tears overflowed in Lindiwe’s eyes as the police car pulled away.

"But she was so good to me.. and now I must go back to the streets? No - please don’t let this be - because of her, I didn’t have to sell my body - but she was in this business all the time?"

The policewoman nodded put an arm around the confused girl.

"Deborah was good to you because she trusted you."

"But…my mother wanted me to sleep with men to earn bread, and a white prostitute trusted me, but never asked me to sleep with men? And you? You pretend to be one of Deborah’s women, but you led the police to her? You would do this to another white woman?"

"She broke the law, Lindiwe. Her colour doesn’t matter."

Lindiwe rubbed her fingers against her temples.

" Colour doesn’t matter." - this is what they’d said in 1994, during the birth of the Rainbow Nation. It had mattered though. There was as much discrimination and racism as ever - from all sides. And not only on the grounds of colour. Healthy people still shunned those who were crippled, wealthy people ignored the poor, married women treated their single counterparts with either pity or suspicion, men still beat their wives, black shunned white, and white shunned black.

" Colour doesn’t matter." This was the first time Lindiwe had heard the phrase spoken by someone who truly believed it.

"I must try to find work. I can’t go back home and I can’t go back to the streets. I don’t fit anywhere...I don’t know what to do."

The older woman smiled and linked arms with Lindiwe.

"Now come on, you’re bright, intelligent and so honest that you scare me. You’re also a minor. You need to finish school, you need a source of income, but most of all you need a home."

"-but I can’t go home!" Tears filled Lindiwe’s eyes.

"I know that, but listen… I have a problem as well. I need someone to help me - I have a child who has just started school, but I work odd hours, often I’m not at home to do homework with her, or read a bedtime story…I can’t pay as much as Deborah probably did - but I have a spare room for you, and you’ll have lots of free time when I’m at home."

"…and I’ll be able to go to school?" Lindiwe’s smile shone out again.

"We’ll make a plan, Lindiwe…"

The two young women stepped together onto the cultural bridge that had separated their people for as long as anyone could remember.

"…we’ll make a plan."

Originally published in Human Beams in 1999 - part of our "Retrospective" series, where we are re-surfacing old articles that been thought lost.