Translation - The butterfly month by Ariella Kornmehl

I noticed that Zanele was working without gardening
gloves again. Gibsan had probably needed them. She had
weeded and pruned and watered the plants using a
bucket as a watering-can. The door to the garden was open,
and I heard her humming; it was always the same tune.
She started when I walked into the garden. She hadn’t
expected me. She said she had just been thinking about me.
I loved it when she said that.
‘Not nice, about mother.’
‘Oh well, that’s just the way it is …’
‘I know, but not nice.’
‘No, but it was never really right, Zanele. There had always
been a distance between us.’
We didn’t go into it any further. Th ere wasn’t much more
to explain. Th ere had never been any warmth, and I couldn’t
explain it properly anyway. We stood close to each other.
Because she was holding twigs in her left arm, it looked as
though her belly was sticking out a bit.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked belligerently.
‘Nothing, nothing. I’m just looking at your tummy. Th at’s
okay, isn’t it?’
I said that there was always an obvious diff erence between
tummies that had held children and those that hadn’t.
‘Oohoo, I was fat then — super fat!’
I asked what I had never dared to ask anyone. What did
it feel like?
‘Big, big!’ Her lower teeth fl ashed in the sunlight.
I stuck my hands out in front and started waddling — as
if I had a heavy belly, as if I could only straighten my back
with diffi culty. With my hands folded on my enormous
belly, I struggled to go forwards. I curled my lips — that felt
right — and walked around the garden while Zanele was in
stitches. She was roaring with laughter, and I walked towards
her.
Was I imitating her? Yes, I was imitating her carrying
Shanla, but at the same time I wasn’t. I liked walking pregnant
through the garden. Zanele took my arm and waddled with
me. She tapped my buttocks. ‘Bum out,’ she said.
‘But I don’t have one!’ I yelled. She tapped again. ‘What’s
that I can feel then? Eh?’
Bum out. Th at made it harder to stick your stomach out.
Two women waddling around the garden. All at once she
started imitating contractions, waters breaking. She let the
twigs fall and collapsed on the ground, moaning, screaming.
I was beside myself with laughter. I almost shat myself. She
roared with laughter again, and said that that’s exactly what it
felt like — like shitting yourself. ‘Th at’s what is like, Joni!’ We
lay on the ground together, weak with laughter, as if it would
never stop. I felt wonderful, wonderful because it was years
since I’d laughed like this. And because I was with Zanele.
We were laughing, even though she knew what had brought
me here. I felt small; the world was no bigger than the two of
us, here together in the garden.
It was hot, very hot; there was nothing I would have liked
more than to take my clothes off , just like when I was young,
unashamed. But that wasn’t possible; it would have been
strange if I lay naked in the garden, on the dry grass, with my
hand between my legs, afraid of pissing. We looked at each
other with aching stomach muscles. We lay close beside each
other — she on her back and I on my side. I said that she was
sweet.

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