THE HOMECOMING 293
at Maria's straight back, the p r o u d w a y she h e l d her head and the
THE H O M E C O M I N G
Milly Jafta
The bus came to a standstill and all the passengers spilled out as soon
as they could. It was Friday, end of the week, end of the m o n t h , end
of the year, and the t r i p f r o m Windhoek to the n o r t h was hot and
unending. U n l i k e previous times, I remained i n m y seat u n t i l the bus
was empty. Then I gathered m y belongings and m o v e d to the door.
Through the w i n d o w I could see Maria scrambling to claim m y t w o
suitcases.
The heat of the late afternoon sun h i t me as I alighted f r o m the bus.
' ['he w a r m t h outside was different f r o m the h u m a n heat that I felt inside
the bus. N o w the smell of sweat and over-spiced fast food seemed
like a distant memory. The welcome smell of meat overexposed to the
sun filled m y nostrils. I could even hear the buzzing of the metallic-
green-coloured flies as they circled and landed on the meat hanging
f r o m the tree branches and the makeshift stalls. Circled and landed,
circled and landed . . . Hawkers and buyers were busy closing the last
deals of the day. The air was filled w i t h expectancy.
Maria bent d o w n and kissed me o n the lips - a d r y and unemotive
gesture. She smiled, picked u p the larger of the t w o suitcases and
placed i t on her head. Then she started w a l k i n g ahead of me. I picked
u p the other case, placed i t on m y head and p u t both m y hands i n
the small of m y back to steady myself. Then I f o l l o w e d her. I looked
determination w i t h w h i c h she w a l k e d . H o w beautiful is the unbroken
h u m a n spirit. I t r i e d desperately to t h i n k of something to say, but
could not f i n d the w o r d s . Thoughts were spinning i n m y head, b u t
m y m o u t h remained closed and empty. So we continued i n silence,
this stranger - m y daughter - and I .
So this was it. M y homecoming. W h a t d i d I expect? The village to
come out i n celebration of a long-lost daughter w h o had come home?
H o w l o n g had i t been? Forty years? It must have been about forty
years. H o w I have lost track of the time. H o w could I be expected to
keep track of the time, w h e n I could only measure i t against myself
i n a foreign land? W h e n I planted seeds b u t never had the chance to
see t h e m grow, bore children b u t never watched them grow . . . w h e n
I had to make myself understood i n a foreign tongue . . . had to learn
h o w an electric kettle works, h o w and w h e n to p u t the stove off, that
doors are not opened to strangers, and that y o u do not greet everyone
y o u meet w i t h a handshake.
I t r i e d not to look at the long, dusty road ahead of us. I n any case
there was n o t h i n g i n particular to look at. Everything seemed barren
and empty. N o trees, no grass, just the s p r a w l i n g b r o w n and orange
g r o u n d all around us. The last rays of the sun seemed to lighten
it to a golden glow. I am sure this w o u l d make a beautiful colour
picture: the t w o of us w a l k i n g behind each other i n the narrow path
w i t h m y luggage o n our heads, silhouetted against the setting sun.
One December I saw a large picture like that, only it was of giraffe.
I remember standing there, l o o k i n g at it and for a m o m e n t l o n g i n g
to smell the fields after the rain. But I was i n S w a k o p m u n d w i t h m y
miesies and her f a m i l y as she needed the rest. It was holiday time,
1
family time, b u t I was w i t h o u t m y o w n family, just as I was for the
rest of the year and for most of m y adult life.
N o w all that has changed. I am o n m y w a y home. I am w a l k i n g the
1 Mistress of a household.
294 Milly Jafta

same path as I w a l k e d many years ago. Only then I was seventeen

and m y eyes looked f o r w a r d . A y o u n g girl has left and n o w - after
forty years, three children and a couple of visits to the village - an old
w o m a n is o n her w a y back home. A n old w o m a n w h o has her eyes
fixed on the g r o u n d .
M y daughter, the stranger, stopped suddenly, turned round and
looked enquiringly at me. I realized that she must have been waiting 1
for an answer or a reaction of some sort. I was so lost i n m y thoughts '
that I had no idea w h a t she was waiting for. But then, I never had
any idea w h a t m y children's actual needs were. I n her calm voice
she repeated the question, asking whether she was w a l k i n g too fast
for me. O h dear God, what kindness. Someone was actually asking
me whether I could keep u p , not telling me to w a l k faster, to have no
I
males i n m y room, to get u p earlier, to pay more attention, to wash the
dog . . . I was overcome. Tears filled m y eyes. M y throat tightened, but
m y spirit soared. The stranger, m y daughter, took the case from her
head and p u t it o n the ground next to her. Then she helped me to take
m y case d o w n f r o m m y head and placed it next to hers.
'Let us rest for a while,' she said gently. After w e sat d o w n on the
cases next to each other, she said, ' I t is so good to have y o u home.'
We sat there i n complete silence, w i t h only the sound of some
crickets filling the air. I never felt more content, more at peace. I
looked at the stranger and saw m y daughter. Then I knew I had come
home. I d i d matter. I was together w i t h the fruit of m y w o m b . I had
g r o w n fruit. I looked d o w n at m y wasted, abused body and thought
of the earth f r o m w h i c h such beautiful flowers burst forth.
'We must go now. Everybody is waiting for y o u , ' Maria said,
standing u p . 'You w a l k i n front. You set the pace; I w i l l follow you.'
I w a l k e d ahead of Maria on the narrow path, m y back straight and
m y eyes looking f o r w a r d . I was i n a h u r r y to reach home.