ELVIS

A scrawny chicken and her chicks scratch in the dry soil, coaxing nothing more than puffs of dust. Lying in the shade of one of the tall aloes surrounding Maupye village, a lazy camelhair dog keeps a watchful eye on the brood.

The silence is interrupted by a chorus of shrill children’€™s voices: ‘€œElvis! Elvis! Elvis!’€ the Mmatlo pupils chant as they realise the journalists are enquiring after the whereabouts of Elvis Lerale.

A minute later the unmistakable figure of Elvis of Maupye comes screaming across the makeshift playgound, his smile as wide as the African sky.

Dressed in grey flannel trousers and a faded t-shirt, the 12-year-old has not grown much taller in the past three years. The toothy smile is still there as are sandals that always appear to be a size to big.

He proudly gets in the rented car and directs us to his brick home, a few hundred metres from the school.

An orphan, Elvis’€™ mother passed away in 1999 and his father two years later. He was taken in by an aunt who lives in the house next door and ekes out a living by selling tripe in Polokwane.

His uncle works at a brick factory in Johannesburg, migrating home once a month, a time when the family can look forward to more than their usual staple food of dry bread or pap.

Previously Elvis was able to pay his annual school fees of R240 by minding the village cattle and donkeys.

But all of this changed in January of this year.

At first Elvis is shy to say why he has stopped herding cattle, but later refers to the animals wandering off into people’€™s mealie fields and the struggle to control them.

His eldest cousin, Simon, has now taken over the responsibility of herding the village cattle after school.

‘€œI am happy that I do not herd cattle anymore because now I have time to read after school. I now have time to play, but I still have to go out and gather wood,’€ Elvis explains.

Elvis still shares the humble four-roomed house with his extended family, which includes his younger sister, and three cousins.

Since giving up his cattle herding job he is unable to afford the annual school fee, but he says the school has not ‘€œhassled’€ him yet.

In 2001 Elvis did not get a child support or foster grant. He has still not managed to do so despite Government policy that orphans under 18 years are entitled to a foster care grant of R500 per month.

Three years ago he reported that the family staple food was bread, pap and tea, sometimes only dry porridge.

In 2004 not much has changed. ‘€œWe eat bread and tea when there is no food. Otherwise we eat pap and insides (tripe),’€ he says.

A youngster of few words Elvis’€™ face lights up he when speaks of his future plans.

‘€œI want to become a scientist,’€ he proclaims. Asked what he would do, he explains that he is interested in maps and how they are put together.

‘€œI love reading and writing at school,’€ he says, smiling.

He shyly glances at his worn sandles when asked what he needs for school.

‘€œI have a school uniform, but new shoes and a pullover would be nice,’€ he says.

Sarah Galane head of a local HIV/AIDS NGO, Takalani-Nana, throws her hands up in the air when asked why Elvis and his siblings have been unable to access a social grant.

‘€œSeveral applications have been made at the Limpopo welfare offices, but all have been turned down,’€ she claims.

In the meantime Elvis remains a statistic – one of 885 000 South African children who has lost a parent, 70% of them as a result of AIDS.  

THERESA

Theresa Chabalala was a slight girl of 13 in 2001. She had traveled from her village in Radoo for a meeting on children affected by the AIDS epidemic in Cape Town.

She was one of the quiet children and spoke Sepedi, with no interpreter at the meeting who could translate.

Sister Sally Duigan, a Catholic nun with the Tzaneen diocese had accompanied Theresa and a few other children to the meeting, for most their first trip out of their villages.

The caregivers and children from across the country were hoping to influence policy and improve the lives of the hundreds of orphaned children.

Theresa and Sister Sally had brought along a collage of photographs showing the rest of the Chabalala family which, at the time, included Theresa, her chronically ill father Eric and brothers Jock, Freddy and Foster.

When Sister Sally initially arrived at Theresa’€™s house in 2001 she found a terrified 13-year-old who was trying to keep alive her two-year-old sister, Goodness, by feeding her water with a teaspoon.

Goodness died shortly afterwards.

Goodness was buried next to her mother in the backyard. Eric, who was HIV positive and gravely ill with several opportunistic infections, visited their graves each morning.

The tall father often spoke to his children and had been preparing them for his imminent death.

Sister Sally blended a mixture she called ‘€œlove and avocadoes’€ and managed to nurture Eric back to temporary health.

‘€œHe became a bit of an AIDS activist trying to convince everyone to have HIV tests done,’€ smiles Sally.

In 2001 the sight of Eric riding his old fashioned bicycle along the dusty and deserted road from Radoo to Tzaneen was a familiar one.

He made the journey to the Catholic Centre to sell rainbows he had fashioned out of wood.

Eric died last year leaving the four children to fend for themselves. His elderly mother Mothabini Chabalala arrived days after his death taking over the responsibility of caring for the youngsters.

‘€œGranny’€ is sitting on the floor at the front door of the Chabalala house. The spotless yard bears testimony to granny’€™s presence.

A pile of toffees is on the floor next to her with a glass jar containing some loose change within easy reach.

She lets out a loud whoop and embraces Sister Sally, a wide smile covering her face. She chatters constantly in Sepedi, only stopping to shout the names of the youngsters, including Theresa.

Theresa enters the sparsely furnished lounge minutes later. Now 15-years-old she has grown taller, her hair has been knotted into rows of tiny braids. She is slender and wears a brightly coloured skirt and blouse.

The terror that was in her eyes three years ago seems to have gone. ‘€œThings have improved,’€ she says and smiles shyly.

When asked if her granny’€™s presence helps, she nods in agreement.

Granny interrupts via an interpreter. ‘€œI am happy now,’€ the elderly woman says.

‘€œWhen Eric was still alive I would be very sad to see the children so unhappy. Now when I hear them making a noise and laughing I am happy.’€

Since Eric’€™s death, the family has received foster grants totaling R1 000 for two of the boys, something that has had significant impact on their lives.

Now they can afford electricity and this in turn has enabled them to buy appliances such as an old black and white television and a chest freezer which Theresa ‘€“ who keeps the key ‘€“ proudly points out.

Some of the money is used to buy monthly groceries in Polokwane.

Before Eric died Sister Sally would often drop food parcels.

At the time Eric, a retrenched miner, spoke of his desperate sadness at having to leave his children behind. ‘€œI considered suicide and killing the children as well. I was angry at the world,’€ he said in an interview, trying to verbalise his feelings around being HIV positive.

‘€œI constantly worry about the children. All I can teach them is how to avoid becoming infected. I have told them to get an education. Education should be their husband, their wife and their father,’€ he said at the time.

Today, the children remember their parents with fondness, but there is a palpable relief at not being surrounded by death ‘€“ a sense that a new future beckons.

E-mail Anso Thom