Forgive Me by Amanda Eyre Ward

Cape Town, but the middle of the night at home. George felt woozy from cigarettes and lack of sleep. He went outside and found the yellow Tercel parked in the middle of a pile of weeds.
    There was a map on the passenger seat. Styrofoam cups and fast-food wrappers littered the car. One of the back windows had a bullet hole. It took a few tries, but finally the car started. George picked up the map, which was marked with red
X
’s. Cape Flats was a blank expanse, but Maxim had filled in some of the streets. He had noted
Sunshine,
so George started the engine and drove.
    After about ten minutes, the streets of the city, lush and landscaped, ended, and then the townships began: tiny shacks and concrete blocks lining the road. George followed the signs to Sunshine, but found himself lost on a street filled with animals, people, and garbage. He passed brightly colored tin buildings. On one building, QUEENS’ HAIR SALON had been painted in red, followed by a list of services, including RELAX, S-CURL, BLOW , and HOT WATER . A few blocks away, he found Thola’s address.
    As soon as he stepped from the car, George noticed how many people were watching him. From windows and yards, from the makeshift bar across the street, men and women stared openly. He had never felt so conspicuous. He was scared and guilty for being scared. He hadn’t even showered before coming to see Thola, he realized, pushing loose strands of hair back into his ponytail. He felt ashamed.
    George walked past a row of concrete buildings. Laundry hung on a line, and a few empty plastic buckets had been overturned to make stools for women who sat and gazed at him. The buckets, George learned, were for human waste. There was no plumbing in Site C. There were no electric lines: there was no electricity.
    Thola’s house, a corrugated-iron shack with horizontal windows, was surrounded by a dirt yard, which had been carefully swept. There was a spindly tree and a walkway made of stones. In the chilly afternoon, smoke curled from a fire in the backyard. George swallowed. The sky above him was closed in by smog. He approached the metal door and knocked.
    An older woman with close-cropped hair opened the front door. She looked tired, her shoulders folded forward. “Hello,” said George, with way too much enthusiasm. “I’m here to see Thola! My name is George. I’m a friend of hers from America!” He grinned, and the woman looked at him levelly. She stepped back, indicating that George should come inside, and spoke to someone in the back room. George could not grasp what she was saying; he later learned she spoke only Xhosa.
    On the wall, framed pictures and cutout newspaper articles had been hung. George recognized the girl in the photos: Thola. He smiled.
    “Welcome,” said a woman in a green headdress, offering a tray with a teapot and a mug. “Thola is not here. Thola is at work.”
    “She got a job?” said George. “I didn’t know. That’s great! That’s really great.”
    A young girl at the kitchen table snickered. She wore a school uniform, plaid skirt with an oxford shirt. Her hair was pulled into two braided pigtails. When she looked up, George could see that one of her eyelids opened only partway. In front of her was a math textbook. “Where is she dancing?” said George.
    “She is not dancing anymore,” said the girl, looking at George angrily. “She is a maid.”
    “A maid?” said George.
    The older woman pushed a mug of weak tea into George’s hands. The mug was very hot, its handle broken off. George switched it from hand to hand, trying to ignore his scalding fingers. The woman spoke in Xhosa. “She says it’s a good job,” said the girl, rolling her eyes.
    “Well, that’s wonderful,” said George, trying to feign enthusiasm.
    “We have heard many times about you,” said the woman in the green headdress. “I am Tholakele’s aunt, September. This is her mother, Fikile, and Evelina, her sister.” George looked long at Fikile.