Florence was hanging out with her friends at the regional telephone booth when the car of whiteys stopped. The air was dry, and the sun was in its usual position scanning the mountain range. She was secretly glad that the red peugeot with a Johannesburg registration had pulled over, the others, in opposition, were much more suspicious.
"Look, here they come again, ask them for 20 Rand this time," Said the telephone attendant's daughter as she folded the hotel's laundry into neat squares that would fit in the canvas bag she had just found on the road from Piggs Peak.
Florence didn't care about the money these foreigners had. She had been wondering for the last three hours how she was going to pick up her youngest daughter from school today. It usually took her hours to walk across the mountain.
As the not unfamiliar white tourists armed with cameras stepped out of the car she felt she might be one step closer to collecting Mutanga on time today. It was Mutanga's sixteenth birthday. Today her youngest daughter would become a woman. She couldn't be late for the birthday celebration. There was to be a party after school, everyone would be there. It would be shameful to be late. She watched as the foreigners got back into their car satisfied with the pictures they had taken. The struggle with her inner-conscience and self confidence began.
"Should I ask them? Should I ask them? I can't. Just do it! No, why would they help me? I am nobody to them. They are rich white people. Why would they help me? But I am desperate if I miss Mutanga's birthday she will be so sad. She has never been the same since her father died three years ago."
Florence looked at her watch, the watch her husband had given her for the last Christmas they had shared together. Time was running out, there was nothing more to do, plus she had nothing to loose, she had already lost everything to an unknown force, that of Aids, a killer that she could neither understand or comprehend.
It was now or never. Now she thought or never. Approaching the red car she spoke in her best English, "Hey, can you give me a ride?" She said nervously, not knowing whether her badly spoken English would be understood.
"Sure, hop in, where are you going?"
She couldn't believe her luck. She would be on time today, on time for her daughter's birthday. They had no idea of what they had just done for her, she could never repay them. Some things are unquantifiable in this life she thought and the smile across her face was evidence of just that.
After the twenty minute car journey of pleasant conversation, they dropped her off. Florence cried as she walked into the school yard as did Mutanga, happy that her mother was on time today, while knowing that she was really the only person who could ever understand the loss of her father dying.
"Here, my daughter. This is for you on your very special day."
Florence gave Mutanga a beaded necklace that she had just spent the last four hours collecting.
"Thank you mother, I know the road is not easy with your bad knees. I love it, but I love it more that you are here."
Mutanga's class mates came running across the yard singing the sweet Umhalanga and there was in that moment nowhere else in the world that she wanted to be, she only wished that her father could have been there to see her reach womanhood.
"You will be a great doctor," said Mutanga's science teacher, "You will honour your father, we are all proud of you."
"Yes, we are," said Florence.
The dance had already surrounded them. Lost in the chanting they forgot for a moment the loss of their beloved father, husband, source of discipline and inspiration. Today was a day to celebrate life, so they gave in to the party and danced the Umhalanga until the sun went down and it was time to go home.
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