Read Online Starlight in the Ring by H. N. Quinnen - Free Book Online

you, I could do,” she says, picking up her ‘bookcase’ and moving to sit next to me. She quickly opens it to get a book out.
    “What’s your name?” I ask her, my voice loud in my eagerness to make friends
    “Charlotte,” she answers softly, but fidgeting with her book as she asks. “What’s yours?”
    “Betty Baker.”
    “So, where do you come from?” I ask her firmly, looking at her face hoping to get her full attention. This works out. She turns slightly looking at my eyes.
    “My home is at Soweto Township in Johannesburg. And what about you?”
    “I come from Skoonfontein Farm near Burgersdorp – BaasJimmie’s.”
    We talk for some time, getting to know each other better. I get on well with her. I’m happy that I now have a friend, and by the end of the day, I call her ‘Lottie’. The bell rings for home time. We walk together all the way. Lottie tells me all about her family - that they work for the Europeans.
    I’m interested in her talk, as we have similarities. I had thought those who work for the Europeans in cities have a better life than the farm-workers do. I want to hear more. I have many questions for Lottie, but I need to wait. We have time anyway.
    Lottie and I always look out for each other. We fetch water from the river, hand-wash and iron our clothes together.
In May 1963
    “Lottie, I’m sleeping by you tonight,” I say.
    “All right, Betty,” she agrees happily. I return to my dormitory, change into my pyjamas, and go to Lottie’s dormitory. Whispering under the blankets, she tells me about her family life - her parents and the treatment they receive from their bosses.
    One of the incidents that strikes me is about what happened to her family one morning. She keeps quiet for a little while; I encourage her to tell me about it.
    “My mum was doing domestic work for the Europeans, who lived in a very Big House with a garage and servants’ quarters at the back. I was in the servants’ quarters. My dad was helping the Baas’ son, Graham, repair one of their cars.”
    “Uh huh,” I say, nodding my head to prove that I am listening.
    “My dad was inside the car, taking instructions from Graham under the front bonnet, when he heard him say, ‘Brake!’ He pulled up the hand brake. When Graham said, ‘Okay,’ Dad then released it. My dad later told my family that he heard Graham say, ‘Okay.’ Therefore, he released the brake. Unfortunately, the car rolled forward.”
    “What happened then?” I ask.
    “My dad pulled the handbrake, just on time as it was about to crush his head.”
    “Oh!” I say, imagining the situation.
    “Graham was very angry. He got out from under the car, opened the boot, took out a black rubber whip, and flogged my dad, who was already out of the car, standing by the boot.”
    I sigh, finding it difficult to deal with what Lottie’s family had gone through. I now realise this practice is happening in Johannesburg too.
    Lottie appears to be struggling to breathe, and she starts sobbing, a single tear slides down her cheek, and then she cries loudly.
    “What did your dad do then?” I ask, feeling sorry for this family.
    “He stood still, shielding his body with his arms, until he realised Graham was hitting him continuously. That’s when he cried loudly. Graham’s dad rushed out of the house, and his son was still beating my dad. ‘Graham, stop it!’ he shouted. He stopped and returned the whip to the boot. His dad patted him on his shoulders, as if he was saying, ‘Well done, son.’ That’s when my dad grabbed his jacket and walked back to our Soweto home. I followed him, as he walked briskly all the way. When we arrived at our Soweto home, my dad was still crying silently, saying repeatedly, ‘Never, never to be treated like this in my life again.’”
    “Lottie, I don’t like to hear this. So, people in the townships also experience such a horrible life too?”
    “Yes, Betty. But it can’t continue like this; somebody should do