Until I was about seven and became too large for her to carry, I would ride tied with a blanket on our maid’s back. The movement, her melodies, and the safety of her broad back rocked me to sleep.

Pauline protected me. She was my mountain. She was “the girl”.

The little Zulu I know I learned from her and we’d bellow with laughter when I mastered a difficult word. She taught me her songs and our singing would end with her shrieks as she danced and clapped her hands and circled me with her joy.

Every afternoon Pauline shelled peas or peeled potatoes, preparing our family dinner, and enjoyed loud conversation with other maids gathered from nearby homes. Sewing, knitting, cleaning silver, and tending white babies, the community of women rocked their bodies in loud agreement.

In the middle of one night Pauline had to leave.

I remember the police vans and the men in blue uniforms and her things strewn out on the lawn for everyone to see.

“She has to go,” Mother said, “I cannot have a thief living on my property.”

Among the items on the grass Mother had identified a blanket, a cup, and a handful of beads.

“Yes, we cannot have a thief living on our property,” I agreed.

And because my parents decided to bring no official charge against her she left walking off into the night carrying her things.

We never looked at each other.

Then again, you cannot have a thief living on your property.