Acts of creation

A hot water bottle. That's what knitting was for me before here. A seemingly-endless hot water bottle in the shape of an armless, thick-set snowman. One of those singularly ugly things you eventually bring home from school, which is halfheartedly used once or twice before being relegated to the washbasket, then to the back of the airing press, and then finally, with no fanfare and considerable quiet relief on the part of all those involved in its brief and pointless existence, to the bin.

Knitting was unfashionable.
Knitting was disempowering.
Knitting was for old women.

The door opens again, and two boys tumble in, propelled by the force of their pent-up hesitation outside, both pushing each other in a flail of arms and legs.

They scuff around the room in a familiar pattern - first one will go to the table and grab whatever we have brought in, while the other will make unspecified, undirected noise, until myself or Lydia begin to explain the rules of the room to them in a schoolteacherish voice. One or both will then shout at the ceiling in Xhosa, refusing to make eye contact, while twisting out of our grasp as we make an attempt to steer them out by one arm. Maybe a old tennis ball or a broom handle will make an appearance at this point, and be flung around wildly, just short of striking us, but connecting solidly with a fellow student, or a piece of furniture. The one whose idea it was will then lose interest and make a loud and destructive exit, probably snatching away something from one of the other students before slamming the Grade 7 door closed behind them.

The room takes in a deep, quiet breath. The little dust-storms settle. Someone picks up the chair that has been knocked over.

The boy left behind makes the usual sheepish face they all offer when the regular drama has played itself out, and finds a place to sit. He meekly accepts the oversize needles I hand him, and with clumsy fingers together we loop the wool, and push it through, and pull it over, and count: one stitch. Then two, then three.

And I realise he is shaking with concentration. When he turns to beam at me as we reach four stitches I can see tiny beads of sweat along his hairline. Across the room on another plastic chair Xolisani is crouched over the points of his needles, squinting for want of his lost glasses (last seen somewhere in the long grass by the train tracks). Near him, Vuyelwa is winding the dark pink wool she picked out around one needle, as Lydia coaxes her along in a low voice. Siyabulisa has his mouth scrunched up in concentration, hissing as he drops a stitch and holds out his work for Brij to put to rights.

It is the quietest twenty minutes I have ever had at Amasango.

When the security guard comes to lock up, we finish up the lines being worked on - knotted, uneven, dropped, but created nonetheless, something that would not have existed otherwise. We pack the needles away into plastic carrier bags full of odd balls of wool, wool donated by girls in our residence, friends overseas, parents passing through. I pick up my bag, and my scarf (my unspeakably beautiful scarf that Lydia knitted me over many weeks, while walking to the shops with the ball of wool tucked into her handbag, or sitting amongst discarded research papers in the small hours, my scarf that I left behind in class one day and couldn't sleep that night for guilt and grief over, and woke before the cleaners arrived in the morning to race across campus and nearly cry with relief to find still lying forgotten under the desks, my scarf that has finally taught me what my mother couldn't, to respect my belongings and keep them safe), and nod as the boy says, his eyes on the half-finished row that I pack away:

Next week.

Then they are away, jostling through the doorway, released screeches exploding into the waiting sunlight. Something falls over noisily. Someone yells.

Next week.