WHERE DO I CRY?

CHAPTER 9: PROGRESS

One month in Salt River changes a person.

Amanda was no longer the woman who arrived with R12 and slept on Shoprite cardboard that smelled like fish. The store room behind Aunty Fatima's shop was now home. Pink curtain as door. Thin mattress but with clean sheet. Plastic table where Ella draws. Pile of offcuts where Noah crawls and now says Mama correctly.

In the store, Amanda had progress.

First week she only swept floor for R80 a day. Second week Fatima taught her to cut. Third week to sew straight hem. Now, fourth week, customers asked for her. "Amanda, please cut me 2 meters." "Amanda, hem this dress." She could tell shweshwe from cotton without touching twice. She could fix zip. She sold two small dresses from offcuts for R80 each — Fatima let her keep R120.

She prayed everyday still, but not on knees shaking. She prayed while sewing — foot on Singer, hands gentle — and it was quiet prayer.

Amanda le mama Fatima baazwa ananjenga manje gashi. Very well.

Fatima told her about her husband who died, about how rent went up, about how Salt River is not safe at night. Amanda told her about Berea flat, about pap plate always covered, about R42.37 left in Capitec, about bin bread behind Shoprite she wiped with T-shirt before giving Ella. They laughed and cried on same day cutting white material. Fatima said "You are like my daughter now."

One morning, Fatima came late, carrying biryani.

"Amanda, I want to introduce you to someone," she said. "I told him where you live. I told him you are good girl who hustles."

Amanda washed face fast, put Vaseline R12, fixed blue dress.

At 2pm, he arrived.

He came on foot, not car. Black backpack, clean sneakers, white shirt ironed. He looked at shop, then looked where Amanda lives — that store room with pink curtain. He saw mattress, small bucket for bathing Ella, Noah's clinic cards on wall.

Fatima said, "This is my son. My only son."

He greeted, "Sawubona, sisi Amanda."

Fatima said proudly, "He only has one son, who's still five years. My grandson. And my son — he is best lawyer ever in Cape Town. Not those who lie. Real lawyer."

Her son smiled shy, "Mama exaggerates."

He lives in his own apartment somewhere in Cape Town — not in Salt River — he said Sea Point side, because work is there. But he comes to see his mother every month.

That day he didn't stay long. "How is hustling?"

Amanda said, "It is hard but better than Berea. Here I can cry in store room and someone says it's okay."

He nodded. He understood.

After that, their relationship got better every time he arrived.

One evening, after closing shop, Fatima said while folding material:

"Amanda, my child, you continue to hustle, I see you. You sew good. But this store room is not for kids forever. My son said you must have papers for your own small business. And me, I am thinking — the small room upstairs with green door, where Sarah used to stay — it's empty. If you continue hustling like this, you can take it. R800. You can sew there, sleep there, not in store room. What do you think?"

Amanda looked at that pink curtain, at Ella drawing with crayon on law book the lawyer son left, at Noah sleeping on offcuts saying Mama in sleep.

She said, "Mama, if I continue to hustle, I can do it."

And for first time in Cape Town, she felt not like a woman who ran away with R300 cash in Checkers packet. She felt like woman who is building.

Progress.