A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Igama lami ngiungu, Harold,” Nate translates.

“Harry,” the man says, “I thank you for the wine.”

“When did you guys pull this together?” I ask Ashley and Ricardo.

“Sofia is very bossy,” Ricardo says. “Whatever she tells you — you do.” In the main oom of the school, long tables have been set up. “We have some things from your world and some from ours,” Sakhile says, motioning that I should sit next to him. The women of the village carry out bowls of matzoh-ball soup. I recognize the plates — they are ones that Sofia picked out, melamine, which the school will be able to keep and use for years to come. There is also fish in cream sauce and chopped liver from the caterer in Durban, with pieces of hard-boiled egg diced in just like my great-aunt Lena’s. And for the children there is plain pasta with red sauce and grated cheese on the side; they seem deeply relieved to be eating something familiar. I am feeling very grateful to Sofia.

The broth is warm, and salty — the elixir of the ages. The matzoh ball is plump, soft on the outside, hard in the center. If George were here he’d make a crack about how Jewish women love to serve a man his balls. Either the fleeting thought of George or my sudden awareness that it is now completely dark outside floods me with anxiety. When it was still light, I could see my way out, but now we are trapped for the night, and I must surrender to the experience.

“And we have a traditional stew— inyama yenkomo, ” Sakhile says, capturing my attention. “My wife made it, you must have some.” I taste the stew; the meat has a stringy texture, the sauce is spicy and sweet. At first I do not like it, but then it grows on me. “And this,” he says, filling my glass, “is homemade beer— tshwala. ”

While we are still eating, the teacher stands up. “Nathaniel, I had not yet arrived when you visited two years ago, but we speak often of your generosity. The children have prepared a song for you.” Each child pulls out a bright plastic recorder. Weee-dee de de deee dee de deee dee dee weeamumuawahhhh. The notes climbing and falling — wee — ummm mummm awah …

Sakhile leans over and says, “ Eem boo beh means ‘lion.’ It is an old South African song. Sofia suggested it — I did not know it was so popular for you.”

“It’s a classic,” I say, singing along, “… mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.”

After dinner there is dancing with music from a boom box, and then some drum playing. One by one the villagers leave; Nate wants to stay up with his friends.

“No,” I say. “Tomorrow is a big day, it’s time for bed.”

“You must listen to your father,” Sakhile says. I’m not sure Sakhile notices his error, but Nate and I do. Nate says nothing, and I am pleased.

Before going to bed, I bring Sakhile the things he asked for. “Who is the wok for?”

“It is a surprise for my mother,” he says. “In the house where she works she saw one on a cooking show on television, and she couldn’t stop talking about it.” He picks up the wok and turns it over. “How do you turn it on?”

I can’t help but laugh. “You put it over a fire or an electric burner, and it gets very hot. …”

He nods. “Then what’s so special about it?” he says, mystified.

“I think it’s about the shape,” I say.

“Thank you. Lala kahle ,” he says. “Sleep well.”

Our beds are like pallets, a very thin mattress, and piles of blankets that smell like sweat and dirt; it is not unpleasant — it is musky, human, real. The mats have been draped with hotel sheets that have been borrowed (or stolen), as though someone told them that Americans need ironed sheets and fluffy fresh towels in order to feel comfortable. On top of our beds are rolls of toilet paper with fancy stickers on the ends. I have no idea what time or day it is — all I know is that tomorrow will come soon. The children are almost instantly asleep.

Just after sunrise, I smell coffee. I dress and go outside; on an open stove, three women are making eggs and pancakes — per Sofia’s directions. Ricardo and Ashley eat the traditional porridge, and I have the anchovy paste on toast as well as everything else. There is also marmalade and tea, which Ashley declares the best ever. The village children taste the pancakes and maple syrup and call the syrup “good medicine.”

Around the village, decorations are being put up, streamers in blue and white. At about eleven-thirty, we come back to our rooms to get dressed. I packed dress-up clothing, which now seems ridiculous, like putting on a costume, but because Ricardo and Ashley want to, we do. Nate thinks we’re being weird and wears jeans and a green-and-yellow Bafana Bafana T-shirt Sakhile has given him.

We go to the center of the village, where there is a large circular open space. The village children open with a traditional Zulu song, which I think says something like “Here come our mothers, bringing us presents. …” Then the men of the village surround Nate, wearing whatever they have, bits and pieces of “traditional” Zulu gear — I’m no longer sure what is traditional and what are tourist props. They dance in an energetic circle around Nate, their song a call and response between Sakhile, the village men, and Nate — gathering momentum and ending suddenly with a loud shout.

Sakhile turns the podium over to me. I introduce myself and begin to talk about Nate and tell the story of when Nate was born, how proud his father was — he saw the child as an extension of himself — and that I then also saw Nate as an extension of my brother and brought to my relationship with this young boy all the complications of my relationship with my brother. I go on to say that it wasn’t until this grievous family tragedy that I began to see Nate as a person in his own right. “Nate has pushed me to be a better version of myself, to expect more — to rise to an occasion and not run from it or sink beneath it,” I say. “The circumstances of his life were not of his choice, but when I see Nate, and Ashley and Ricardo, I am impressed with their resiliency. What I have learned this year is that the job of parent is to help the child become the person he or she already is. I am not just Nate’s uncle, I am his biggest fan, and I thank him for bringing me to you.” And then, as though I’m introducing a performer, I say, “Ladies and gentlemen — Nathaniel Silver.”

“Today I celebrate my bar mitzvah, which in the Jewish religion happens on your thirteenth birthday and marks the time when a boy officially becomes a man. I celebrate in the absence of my mother and father. I feel lucky to have survived.

“I have often thought of you and this village since my visit two years ago. I have thought of hardships of economy, race, and illness and become aware of how privileged my life is. When things got difficult for me, I thought of you and felt an obligation to survive, not just for myself, but for others. And it is what you taught me two years ago that kept me alive. For this I come back and say thank you — you have given me my life.”

While Nate is still talking, Ricardo leans over and tells me that when he’s thirteen he wants to come back to this place for his bar mitzvah, and that he also needs to get his penis “fixed.”

“I think it’s better to just be the way you are,” I say, trying to stay focused on Nate.

“How come you and Nate get to have a better penis than me?”

“Ricardo, I hear what you’re saying, and I promise you it’s something we can talk about when we get home, but it’s not something we’re going to deal with in South Africa. And there is no such thing as a better penis. … Have you noticed that the boys in South Africa have the same kind of penis as you?” I say, directing his attention back to Nate.