Shental (Shen-tull)

I’m walking down Lower Main on Sunday afternoon, frustrated because my plan to see a choir in Khayelitsha has fallen through and now I have no purpose. I’ve made up some goals to make myself feel better (do laundry, plan a lesson, research Eleanor Roosevelt) but some of them require the internet so I’m heading for Coca Cha-Chi, the only café with free wireless. Want to meet someone from the U.S.? Go to Cocoa Cha-Chi – strong coffee, wi-fi, gigantic desserts, Norah Jones on the loudspeakers – it’s like flypaper for Americans. I don’t normally like to be seen there, but before I have too much time to ponder this Shental runs up to me and gives me a hug, scaring me out of my funk.

“Did you not see me? I was waving and waving at you!” She demonstrates, furiously moving her arms back and forth.

“I didn’t, I can’t believe it!” I am so in my own world today. Eish.

She’s wearing a dark blue knit cap and dark blue T-shirt and pants, and I’m struck again by her long thin eyebrows, sparkling eyes that perpetually squint, perfect caramel skin. She doesn’t look “homeless” at all. In fact the only thing that gives her away is the smell of old sweat I catch when she gives me a hug. Shental is never drunk, always with it and smiling. Something tells me it’s ok to trust her, and I’m happy to see her.

“I am coming from church now…I haven’t seen you this week at all…I was looking for you…I lost your number as soon as you gave it me…I’ve had a terrible weekend…my Auntie, she got beat up and…”

Shental goes on to describe something very disturbing, which she relays to me so casually that it doesn’t seem all that bad to me until later on that evening when my voice suddenly shakes as I tell my roommate. Basically, something very awful almost happened and Shental called the police, and the police pulled some strings and arranged for Shental, her baby, her aunt, and her 2 sisters to stay in a shelter for awhile. This is special because the shelters usually cost money. It’s called Loaves and Fishes. This is the first time they’ve had a room of their own.

I ask Shental if she wants to join me for tea, and she does.

We take a seat at a table right smack in the middle of a bunch of students, reading and smoking and drinking coffee, occasionally rolling their eyes at each other about this professor, that unreasonable assignment. Shental opens the menu, assuming I am going to buy her a meal. I was asking for it, inviting her to a restaurant. She asks me to read a few of the menu items to her before deciding what she wants.

Shental went to school in Bloem until she was 15, then dropped out. She had a boyfriend who turned out to be, in her words, not a man but a pig. He left before she had Abigail. I thought she said she was 21, so there are some missing years in there, but I don’t ask.

“Shental, have you ever had a job before?”

“No man, never. We struggle. I’m always just, you know, begging.” She looks so young when she says this, and surprised that I asked.

“Are you okay staying like this then?” I’ve overstepped a boundary. But I’m also wary of just sitting there and playing the sympathetic one while Shental plays the weak one, and maybe it hasn’t occurred to her? Unlikely, I know.

“No man, like I told you, we struggle!”

“Have you ever tried getting a job?”

Shental ignores my question. She has become absorbed in buttering her toast anyway. Fortunately a Chris Brown song comes on the radio and we both perk up and sing along. We giggle and I order another cup of tea and Shental spills ketchup on her pants. She hops up, upset, looking like she doesn’t know how to deal with this. It’s fine Shental, I say, no problem, it’s not even very much, but I think these are her only pants.

At work the next day, I feel my phone vibrating in the pocket of my vest while I’m talking with a client. No one ever calls me, especially in the middle of the day, so this must be something important. I say excuse me, and then sheepishly answer, hoping Antonia is looking the other way.

“Rebecca?” Strong accent but I can’t tell which kind from one word.

“Yes hello, who’s calling?”

“Rebecca it’s Shental. I’m getting a job!”

“Shental I’m at work, I can’t…oh wow, that’s great! Can I call you back? I’m at work, I’m sorry…”

“No, you can’t call me, this is a public phone!”

But the phone cuts out anyway. She calls me back a few hours later. It turns out Shental got a job at some office, cleaning. That’s fantastic, I tell her, you’re amazing. I smile into the phone. Ok, well you know, I just wanted to tell you as soon as I could, she says.