Home Affairs

Two-and-a-half years, at the end of it, feels like it went by in a flash.  The pain of going through those 30 months of slow and agonizing ups and downs was brutal, sure.  But now, so close to the end, I feel relieved.  It is so odd how something can take so long, but in that final moment of attaining what you so desired, it feels like you always had it.

Well, it isn’t finished yet.  I am sitting here in a run-down Home Affairs building in the middle of a township.  I am waiting.  Waiting for it to be finished.  I sit here with my only child, my one and only beautiful boy.  He doesn’t smile often, but he is right now.  And it is the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen on a child.  Not that I’m biased.

I look around briefly to people-watch.  I tend to do that a lot.  Only this time, I feel uncomfortable.  I am in the room of people that look at me, sizing me up.  I am positive that they wonder about me.  Why is she here?  What is she doing with that child?  I quickly look back at my son and engage with him.  He doesn’t notice the stares of the other people waiting, so I don’t want him to see my discomfort.  

We read through this fun interactive book I bought for him.  It is full of tactile experiences - smooth, squishy, rough, and feathery objects to touch and laugh at.  If I just stay in this book with him, I can tune out the other people until I hear my number called by the Home Affairs official.

Waiting here in this overcrowded and stuffy waiting room feels so much longer than the 30 months preceding it.  I have only been here for forty-five minutes, but I wonder if they will ever call my number.  I glance down at the slip of paper the person gave me as I entered the building.  He gave it to me after I told him who I was and what I was here for.   The paper says “38.”  It is easy to remember because it is my age.  I have the number memorized.  Still, I worry that I have missed the number, or perhaps they won’t call it.

That is foolish thinking, I know.  But I don’t feel welcomed here, even by the people working.  This is my third time in this building, and it is supposed to be my last.  After I walk out of here this time, my son and I will be free to go home.  We can go home forever if we want to.  

“Uyakhuluma umfanyana kaZulu?”

I look up to see a young man, short but strong, looking at my son.  He doesn’t look at me, but is so close to my son that I am terrified I didn’t see him approach sooner.  My son looks up at the man, not frightened or worried, but also not understanding anything.  My son is three and only speaks English.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I bleat.  “My son does not speak Zulu.  He has only ever learned English.”  This is not the first time I have heard somebody ask this question to my son or to me.  It seems to throw many people off when they see a white woman walking around with a black boy.

The man looks at me, and at first I think I register annoyance or even hatred.  I have felt this often in the past few weeks.  People look at my son and me with distaste, like I am stealing him from his people.  Maybe I am, to some degree, but I can’t shake the feeling that he is my son.  I have never felt more connected to another human being.  I love him and will protect him as long as I am able.

But then suddenly, despite the expression I initially saw in this man, I see him smile at me.  He says, in his beautifully rich accent, “Ah, I see.  Perhaps he would like a lesson before your number is called?  As they have just called number 24, it seems we will be waiting for some time longer.”  He says this with a genuine smile, and I can’t help but feel encouraged by his passion.  Most people here seem to walk off disgusted after learning my son does not know the language of his people.

I am so taken aback by his joyful tone, I just stare stupidly at him.  He spoke up again to fill the void of silence.  “I apologize Miss.  I only felt I should ask because a young, strong Zulu boy should know more about his language.”

I wanted to be spiteful and say, “His language is English.”  But that thought slipped away.  I heard the number “25” being called and it made me realize how foolish I was to be worried.  I have been overly stressed these past few weeks, and it has been so hard not being home with my parents and my brother.  I miss them, and the stress of being away for so long has gotten to me.  I look at the man again and see big, friendly eyes.  His smile reminds me of my son’s smile.  

“I’m sorry.  I’m just really stressed.  Of course we would love a lesson.”  I look down at my son and use my best mom’s voice. “Do you want to learn some new words, Andy?”  Andy is actually a nickname for his real name, Andile.  He smiles and looks at the man.

“Sawubona, Andy!  That is our famous greeting here in South Africa.  It is more than just hello.  It is a blessing of happiness!  Sawubona!  Go on, you say it to me.”

The man’s voice is so smooth, deep, and rich.  He seems so genuinely excited to share his language with my son, and also with me.  “Go on, Miss.  You say it, too!  Sawubona!”

I do say it, and really joyfully.  I already learned Sawubona, and a few other words during my stay, but now I feel almost feel the emotion of the word as I here this man say it.

Suddenly I hear more numbers being called.  The man teaches us how to greet one another, learn each other’s name (his name is Monwabisi).  We laugh and smile, and my son is extremely happy.  Therefore, I am happy.

I hear the number 38 called and it feels like the man just started talking with us.  Time is funny how it can feel slow, then feel like no time has passed, and then feel painful.  I am so grateful that Monwabisi helped me feel comfortable and shared a few words with us.  “Siyabonga, Monwabisi.”  Telling him that we are thankful feels like it is not enough to express how much he helped me while waiting those final 30 minutes.  Before he said hello to my son, I was stressed and uncomfortable.  I was feeling stares of others and I did not feel welcomed here.  While he shared his time with Andy and me, I suddenly felt uplifted, like I belonged here.  

No, words would not be enough to truly show Monwabisi how much I appreciated his time.  But somehow, saying thank you in Zulu made me feel like he felt that appreciation deeper than if I had just said it in English.  The Zulu people are proud, and their language feels so alive.

Monwabisi simple nodded with his smile as I got up from the chair.  I held Andy’s hand and we walked to the counter that called our number.  I exchanged information with the small, yet fierce lady working behind the counter.  She didn’t smile, not even when she slid across an envelope.  “Congratulations.”  

I looked at my son, who smiled at me, even though he didn’t really understand what was going on.  I opened the envelope and pulled out his South African passport.  I smiled at the lady and said, “Siyabonga.”

She suddenly smiled at me and my son, saying, “Nami ngiyabonga!”

After two-and-a-half years of waiting to meet my son.  After six weeks of being with him in South Africa and going through the legalization of the adoption.  After a final week of waiting for my son’s passport.  After all of this, we could finally go home and be a family.

And thanks to Monwabisi, I realized I would miss my experiences in South Africa, a proud country of good people.  “Andy,” I said as we walked to the car, and eventually to an airport that would begin our 36-hour journey home, “we will come back to South Africa again.  When we do, we will not have anything to wait for.  Let’s just enjoy it.”