Themba
October 25, 1997

Themba, a rather plump girl "six and a quarter years old," squeezed into the already crowded seat between her very plump mother and me. My knees were, as they are on nearly all modes of public transport, in my chest and pressed firmly into the unfortunate seat in front of me. Themba was clearly displeased with her confined quarters.

We boarded our mini-taxi near the Golden Acre in downtown Cape Town. It’s a vast area of indoor mall space teeming with Calvin Klein perfume, Nike, African masks, wood carvings of giraffes, and Levi’s combined with an outdoor market area where street vendors sell knock-off versions of the same. Our driver, a grizzled old man with severe wrinkles and a sparse head of gray hair, called incessantly to the crowd "Kloof Nek, Camp’s Bay" and hassled passing tourists with "Cable car to Table Mountain? Camp’s Bay, a beautiful beach." Soon he had recruited a full van load – two in the front seat, three more facing the rear, three in the middle, and four of us in the back, including Themba, her mother, her aunt, and me.

Themba’s mother said the beach should be quite nice today. Indeed, the cloudless azure blue sky and 80 degree sunshine made ideal conditions for a relaxing day of reading, volleyball, and rest. We expected to be underway shortly for the thirty minute ride to beachside paradise. The driver had other plans.

"Kloof Nek, Camp’s Bay" he called. "Cable car to Table Mountain." I looked around the van to see if I was missing something. Surely, our already overburdened vehicle could not fit another soul. Still, "Kloof Nek, Camp’s Bay" he sirened to the crowd. I became irritated; Themba kept her incessant infectious smile.

After about five minutes, our intrepid driver recruited a weary soul. Amazingly, the driver created space where there was none, and our thirteenth passenger squeezed into a row, thankfully not our own. Our van left the Golden Acre and headed for Kloof Nek, Camp’s Bay – laboring up the steep roads, every turn smushing the passengers sandwiched like sardines into their seats.

Themba had a bag, and I asked her what she had bought. She opened the bag and produced chicken giblets, some oranges, rice, and some spices. She said she was going to help her mother cook. Her mom said that Themba was a great help in the kitchen.

When I asked her name, she shyly replied in almost British like accent, "My name is Themba – T, H, E, M, B, A. Themba." Her mother explained the name was Xhosa, of Nelson Mandela’s heritage, and the feminine version of Thembi. Mother and Themba spoke to each other in Xhosa; both spoke to me in perfect unbroken English.

Themba asked me where I was from. I asked her where she thought I was from. "England, you’re from England" she guessed. I suppose that she was not yet familiar with the signs of an American tourist on the way to the beach– my Teva sandals, beach towel, backward hat, white Structure T-shirt and Columbia Sportswear shorts. I said "United States" and before I could say "of America" Themba completed my sentence and then giggled.

Themba almost glowed with the enthusiasm and energy of a six year old. Her smile lit up the bus, except for one scowling old white woman facing us from the first row, smushed against the van wall. As the only other "white" on the bus, she looked at me constantly for what I assume to be a show of support. She clutched mercilessly to her can of Mace that was strapped to her age-spotted wrist. Her disdain for having to take this commoners mode of transport was clear. I felt no pity for her.

As passengers boarded and unloaded, each was greeted or bade farewell by name. Themba’s mother knew just about everyone, except the old white lady. Just after our "Kloof Nek, cable car ride to Table Mountain" stop where none of the four departing passengers could afford the cable car ride, four replacements entered the van. It was a family of four – mom, dad, and two twin boys the same age as Themba. Themba and her mother greeted the family by name.

The boys were adorable, dressed in their smart fitting matching outfits. I teased Themba by telling that the boy on the left was in love with her. "No he’s not! No he’s not!" she begged, still smiling. He mother joined me and told Themba that the boy was very cute. "Don’t worry, Themba, I won’t tell your Cutie-Pie about him." Themba continued to deny. Of course, I asked about the "Cutie-Pie" alluded to by her mother.

"Cutie-Pie" was a boy down the street from Themba that she played with. "He’s older" she said, and when quizzed about his age, Themba told me "six and three quarters, almost seven!" He was one of her best friends, she said, but she did not love him. And she definitely did not kiss him, ever, not even on the cheek.

The driver asked Themba’s mother where she would like to get off, and she responded the way most South Africans I’ve encountered give directions: "just past the 7-11." I was very sad to see them leave, and I spent the majority of my time in paradise that day smiling – pleasantly infected with a disease known as Themba. T, H, E, M, B, A.