THE WHEELCHAIR HEIRESS

CHAPTER 1: THE LETTER WITH R3 BILLION The night my mother sold my second brother, I counted the money for her. I was sixteen, in a wheelchair, in the doorway of our shack in Kwadwesi, watching a white woman put R50,000 in brown envelope on our broken table, and Mama's hands were shaking so much she couldn't count, so I counted for her. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty thousand. For Lutho. My baby brother, who was seven months old. Then the white woman took him and left. That was 2023. I never told anyone I counted the money. Until today. Today, rain is pouring in Kwadwesi township and my wheelchair is stuck in the black mud again, and a white government bakkie stops on the road above, and Officer Lerato comes down with an envelope that has a red wax seal that says R3. R3 BILLION. "Nomathandi Nondumo?" she shouts over rain. My books on my lap are getting wet. LAWS & RIGHTS, XHOSA POETRY, JOURNAL. I cover them with Shoprite plastic. Mama is behind me pushing my chair, her orange airport cleaner uniform dirty with mud. She is tired. She has always been tired since Papa died and left us with nothing but this wheelchair that the church gave us, or so I thought. Officer Lerato is not police but everyone fears her more than police. She wears a greener spot patterns ranger uniform, cap, and badge that shines. She takes children away when parents do wrong. She brought my friend Nosipho back when her father stopped beating her. She carries a clipboard that never gets wet even in the rain. She walks straight into mud. Her boots don't sink. She hands me an envelope. Cream, thick, heavy. Red wax seal R3. Black stamp: PAID R3 BILLION REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA 2024 MASTER OF HIGH COURT BHISHO. My hands shake so hard that the plastic falls off my books. Mama grabs the envelope. "What is this? Lottery?" Officer Lerato kneels so her eyes are the same level as mine. Mud on her knees. She doesn't care. "Nomathandi, do you know the white mansion on the cliff? The one you see from township every night with lights?" Everyone knows it. Big white house on rock near lighthouse. Empty since old Miss Van Rensburg died last year at eighty-four. We thought white people from Cape Town would buy it and make a hotel. Township children throw stones up there and say, "Rich people's house." "That house is yours," Officer Lerato says. Mama laughs loud, then stops. "What?" Officer opens clipboard. Inside, birth certificate and old photo. Photo faded. White woman with blonde hair, kind smile, holding black baby girl with big eyes and fat cheeks. Mama takes a photo. Her hand shakes more than when she counted R50,000. "That is me," she whispers in Xhosa. "Yhini? That baby is me." Officer nods. "1986. a*******d time. Miss Helena Van Rensburg had a secret affair with her gardener, Madoda Nondumo. Your father, Nomonde. He worked for her twenty years. She got pregnant. She hid pregnancy in East London private hospital. She gave baby to Madoda's wife to raise as her own. She never told anyone. But she paid school fees secretly. She watched from far." My grandfather. Tata Madoda. He died before I was born. Mama said her mother died at birth. So my great-grandmother was white billionaire on cliff? "When you were born with spine defect and could not walk, she sent wheelchair," Officer says, looking at my chair. I look down at my old wheelchair. Second-hand, steel, wheels squeaking. I thought church gave it. Mama said church gave it. So the white mansion lady gave me legs? The officer gave me an envelope. Inside, paper with gold border. Will. "I, Helena Van Rensburg, leave entire estate Erf 392 Clifton Mansion and R3 BILLION TRUST to my only living blood heir: Asibabalwe Nomathandi Nondumo, granddaughter of Nomonde But the condition applies." R3 BILLION. In Kwadwesi, if you have R500, you are rich. If you have R5000, you are chief. R3 billion is not money. It is like owning sea and sky. It is the number children write when they play with zeros. Mama falls on knees in mud. She holds paper over head like praying. "Thixo wam! Three billion! We can leave Shack! We can buy a house in Summerstrand!" Officer Lerato's face changes. Serious. Like when she takes children away. "There is condition. To claim, Nomathandi must appear High Court East London Monday 9am and testify truthfully about disappearance of Sipho Nondumo 2019 and Lutho Nondumo 2021. Department has opened the case: alleged sale of children for R50,000 each." Rain stops. Or I stop hearing rain. Sipho. Sold when he was one year old. 2019. Lutho. Sold when he was seven months old. 2023. The one I counted money for. Mama's face goes white under dark skin. She looks at me. I look at her. "You told them?" Mama screams at Officer Lerato. "Who told you?" Officer opens clipboard second page. Statement. From white woman who bought Lutho. She was caught in Cape Town selling another baby. She gave names. Gave our address. She said she bought two boys from Nomonde Nondumo in Kwadwesi for R50k each. So police know. I counted money. I am a witness. Officer Lerato looks at me soft now. "Nomathandi, Monday court will ask you: Did your mother sell your brothers? If you say yes and show you know Children's Act, mansion and R3 Billion becomes yours. And your brothers will be returned. If you say no, you lose everything, and your mother still goes to jail because the buyer confessed. But if you testify, your testimony decides if your mother gets 2 years or 10 years." If I speak truth, Mama goes to jail, but brothers come home, and I get R3 Billion mansion to make library for wheelchair children. If I lie, Mama still goes to jail, brothers stay lost, and I lose mansion. No win for me. Mama crawls to my wheelchair. Mud on her orange uniform. She holds my knees. My knees that I can not feel. "Thandi, my child, I did it for you! When Papa died, the grant was R350! Your wheelchair taxi to the hospital is R200! Special food for your spine R100! What to do? Those white people said boys will have a rich life in Cape Town! Better than shack! I sold two to feed one in wheelchair!" She cries loud. Township people come out of shacks to look. I cry, too. But no sound. Tears mix with rain. I counted money for her. Does that make me criminal, too? Under the LAWS & RIGHTS book I read, counting money for the sale of a child is accessory? Officer Lerato pushes my wheelchair out of mud. Easy. Like I am light. She pushes me to our shack door. Mama follows holding R3 Billion letter and photo of white woman holding black baby. At the door, the officer brings a box from bakkie. "Miss Van Rensburg left you these. Before she died." Inside box, three books. Same as mine but old and expensive. LAWS & RIGHTS hardcover. XHOSA POETRY old edition. JOURNAL leather, with golden letters: HELENA VAN RENSBURG. And small golden key. Mansion key. Cold. And one more thing at the bottom of the box: tiny blue baby socks. Two pairs. With names written: Sipho, Lutho. She kept socks of the boys Mama sold? She knew? The officer says, "She knew about sale. She tried to stop it. She offered your mother R100,000 not to sell. Your mother refused because the buyer said R50k now and monthly R2000. That monthly never came." Mama's shoulders shake. "She offered?