WHERE DO I CRY?

CHAPTER 11: UPSTAIRS

store after the call.

Her eyes red. Hands still wet from scrubbing green door room upstairs. Noah on back quiet because he felt Mama crying.

Mama Fatima saw her one look — she knows her too well now. Not like customer, like daughter. One month and eleven days means you know when someone's cry is not about dust in eyes.

"Amanda?" Fatima put down scissors. "My child, what happened? Who called? You have been crying."

Amanda tried to say "Nothing, Mama." But tears came again, big, on shop floor where cotton pieces lie.

She told her everything. Sitting on small stool behind Singer machine, Ella playing with button box, Noah now on mat.

"Unknown number, Mama. Daniel's lawyer. Mrs Khumalo. Says I must choose — come back to Berea and be family again, or he will serve divorce and take full custody of my kids. Says I abandoned, I am mentally unstable, I sleep in shop, I fed kids bin bread. Says court will give him kids because he has flat and job and mother. 48 hours, Mama."

Fatima didn't say "Yoh" or shock. She listened, holding Amanda's dusty hand, with needle cut on thumb.

Then she said, "That man beat you? Cheated? Controlled? You told me r**e in morning?"

Amanda nodded, tears on blue dress.

Fatima stood, took her phone — old Samsung with cracked screen — "I promise you, my child, I will ask my son for professional advice. My son is best lawyer ever. He deals with these men. He will not let that Joburg lawyer scare you. You are not mentally unstable. You are woman who sews straight hem now. You are woman who pays R20 creche everyday. You are mother."

That night Amanda didn't sleep much. She kept phone near pillow waiting for another 011 call. But no call.

The week, same thing everyday.

Morning 5am wake, sweep shop, boil water, send Ella to creche two doors down, Noah on back while she cuts chiffon. Afternoon she goes upstairs to green door room and cleans a little more. Sweep, wash, throw old newspaper. Fatima gave her old paint — white — small bucket. Amanda painted one wall herself. Not perfect, but white.

Her son came Wednesday. Fatima called him. He came with his 5-year-old son — small boy with same quiet eyes, holding toy car. He saw Amanda cleaning upstairs, hands white with paint.

He said, "Mama told me about call. Don't worry, Amanda. That lawyer in Joburg is bullying. They cannot take kids because you left abuse. In South Africa, court looks at best interest of child. You have creche, you have work, you have place upstairs now. We will answer. I will write letter for you, pro bono. No charge."

Amanda said "Thank you, bhuti" with paint on hands.

Saturday, she finally moved upstairs.

Not much to move — thin mattress, plastic table, pink curtain now real curtain for window with broken side, Ella's drawings, Noah's clinic cards, small bucket, Singer offcuts. And new thing — white painted wall.

She put things accordingly. Mattress corner near window, table near door for sewing, bucket for bathing behind curtain. Ella put her button box on table like it's cupboard. Noah crawled on floor that is now clean, not dirty.

Mama Fatima came upstairs to see. She stood at green door — same door she painted two years ago — and saw Amanda's home.

She was proud.

"Amanda, my child, look at you. One month ago you came with Checkers packet and R12 Vaseline. Now you have room. You have creche for kids. You have customers who ask for you. You have my son advising you. You have been doing better, even the kids are happy."

Ella was happy — running in room bigger than store room, singing creche song. Noah was happy — crawling without offcuts pricking him, saying "Mama" and laughing.

Amanda stood in green door room, second floor near big mosque in Salt River, hearing call to prayer far, and for first time since Park Station, she didn't ask "Where do I cry?"

She knew where she cries now — here, upstairs, where Mama Fatima is proud.