The car stops just as I think I’ll never catch a ride. Take me as far as you can, I say, and sit next to a girl in a child seat. Starting work tomorrow, I lie, school’s over. Not a word about the handful of money in my backpack or what it is for.
Behind the window, flat-topped mountains keep the sky from falling. Twin hills repose like engorged breasts, windswept boulders die from erosion. The Great Karoo desert waves me a goodbye.
The little wooden zebra prods in my pocket as if it too wants to take a final look. Tiny black stripes and front foot up, ready to gallop to the savanna beyond. I shouldn’t have taken it. It belongs with the giraffes, hippos, and elephants my grandfather carves for baby mobiles. Now it’s my keepsake, my talisman. To scrub with the salt of my shame. To wash clean with my tears.
Bang! The car judders, the little girl screams. We stop and step out. Flat tire, the father frowns, hopefully the spare’s fine. The mother gives us biscuits. Made them this morning, she says.
This morning my mother didn’t eat breakfast. Just stared at me with that long, all knowing gaze, then gave me her shoes — the ivory pumps she wears to church. They know the way back, she said.
Caged by the black of my eyelashes, the air shimmers. A rusty windmill squeaks omens. My feet burn, blisters throb; my mother’s shoes — two pieces of unleavened bread buried in the red dust.
The tire’s fixed. The little girl grabs my hand, her pudgy little fingers sticky from the biscuits. Let’s go, let’s go, she says with a toothless grin. Her eyes are sky-blue.
Where on earth am I going?
Rostislava Pankova-Karadjova 