Gugulethu Khumalo was born with a rare disease. Her right arm was shorter than the right, and not functioning. When the years passed, and she was ready to go to school, her fear of being unable to write was eased. Her teacher, Ms Mthembu, encouraged Gugulethu to use her left hand instead. She also suffered from speech disfluency, making her uncomfortable speaking. She became withdrawn and anxious. Her health deteriorated rapidly in the first term of her Grade 12 schooling at Morning Side Girls High School. Gugulethu lagged in her schoolwork.
Though she was reflective, Gugulethu was self-conscious about her condition. Feeling despondent, she approached Ms Mthembu and informed her of her intention to drop out.
“That’s not an option, Gugu,” said Ms Mthembu. “You’ll not do that to yourself.”
Gugulethu’s speech improved since undergoing speech-language pathologist sessions. Ms Mthembu observed her student’s progress and was delighted by the potential Gugulethu was showing. She mixed freely with other students and was eager to join the school’s debating team. Gugulethu was passionate about social issues. She was critical of people who discriminated against and stigmatised the disabled. Ms Mthembu listened intently to Gugulethu arguing about how society regarded disabled people as a liability.
“For too long,” said Gugulethu in controlled emotions, “disabled people are being neglected by society. People who live with disabilities are not charity cases.
They’re proud men, women, boys, and girls of this country.” She paused, to allow sustained applause and shouts of “Wa bua ngwanyna, you’re now talking girl,” from the crowd.
“These people,” she had said, “are like me and you and they must be treated with respect and dignity. They, like everybody else, aspire to be active in the growth of our economy. They don’t aspire to be beneficiaries of social grants. They also want to create jobs; they aspire to be the Patrice Motsepe and Oppenheimer of this country.”
Ms Mthembu was determined she would not let such brilliant intellect wane like a flower in the desert sand. She ensured Gugulethu did not miss her homework and other assignments. Without fail, she delivered the day’s lessons and other study materials to the student’s homes.
Later, Miss Mthembu encouraged Gugulethu to enter the Annual Presidential Essay Writing Competition.
“Why me Ms Mthembu? I’m sure there’s some more suited students cane competition,” said Gugulethu.
“You’re right. You’re one of those students.” Miss Mthembu’s voice was firm, but tender.
The competition’s theme was: ‘If you were the President, what would you do for your country?’
Gugulethu relented and won the first spot at the provincial level and joined the other nine students for the national finals.
The President invited the finalists and their teachers to the Union Buildings in Pretoria. She needed the learners to familiarise themselves with the Head of State’s daily activities.
The President was taken aback when Gugulethu could not make out her right hand but pointed at her un-functioning right arm for the President to shake it.
After she had met the finalists, the President summoned Ms Mthembu to the boardroom. “How could you, Miss Mthembu? That girl can hardly speak properly. Did she win the competition?”
“Like all eight of them”. There was a trace of defiance and annoyance in Ms Mthembu’s tone. She could not imagine how the President felt Gugulethu had cheated to be in the last leg of the competition.
“But how possible is that? She’s disabled,” said the President.
Ms Mthembu drew a long breath in exasperation and shook her head. “Gugulethu is not incapacitated, Madame President”. There was a trace of annoyance in Ms Mthembu’s tone. She could not imagine how the President, a woman, and mother of three, could be so naïve about people living with a disability. “She lives with a disability. I’m sure we all have an impairment of some sort. Gugulethu is not an exception.”
The President’s eyes narrowed, her cold and hard stare piercing Ms Mthembu. “I hope you’re right, Miss Mthembu. Because if not, you’ll have a lot to explain.”
Miss Mthembu was determined she would not allow people with prejudices to discourage Gugulethu. The President was not an exception.
The disabled were capable, Miss Mthembu was assured, intelligent, and even smarter than most normal people. If need be, she was prepared to lose her job protecting her student.
“I can assure you, Madame President, I’ll have nothing to explain after Gugulethu Khumalo’s presentation.”
The two women hurried out of the boardroom. “Well, boys and girls,” said the President scanning the group in front of her. “Now that you all seem to be eager to be ‘the President’ for a day. Each one of you will sit in that chair.” She pointed towards the black leather and swivelling hair behind her desk. , “I want you to tell us what you would do to improve the quality of the lives of South Africans.”
Tension swirled inside the room. Both the teachers and students were provided with a video of the provincial finalists’ presentations. She was articulate. The learners believed that Gugulethu’s presentation was ‘out of this world’. Her essay was based on climate change and the environment. The participants were convinced that the Morningside Girls High School student would win the first prize.
The students gazed at each other, they shrugged and murmured amongst themselves.
“You can talk on anything you wish,” said the President, “education, employment, or service delivery.”
Ms Mthembu and Gugulethu’s gazes locked. The teacher noticed Gugulethu’s eyes coated with a beam of confidence and the student let her customary warm smile cross her face. Ms. Mthembu nodded and Gugulethu lifted her hand.
The students applauded, and Gugulethu smiled at them and nodded in appreciation. She limped in a measured gait towards the desk, moved around, and sat in the chair. She placed the page on which she had scribbled some notes, on the table.
“Wow!” She wiggled her body, testing the comfort of the chair. “It feels like I’m the real President,” said Gugulethu.
The group erupted into a burst of amused laughter, clapping their hands and ululating. But the President remained muted and stone-faced.
“As President of this country, I’ve noted how climate change is negatively affecting young people and children.”
There was roaring applause, foot stomping, and whistling from the students. She allowed a smile to cross her face.
“Young people and children around the world are feeling anxious about climate change. They are even frightened that humanity is doomed,” A satisfactory smile crossed her face. “They’re right to feel that way. Governments and political leaders are doing little to adequately deal with the challenges of climate change.”
Without blinking, the President’s wide-opened eyes were fixed on Gugulethu. It seemed like she was looking at someone else, not the girl who stunned her only a few moments ago. Someone who could not shake hands with her. Someone she had believed could hardly speak properly. And even doubted her capabilities to enter an essay competition.
“More than ever before,” said Gugulethu. “My government will encourage and support young people to become more active in the fight against climate change.” She paused, allowing the applause to die down.
Gugulethu noticed Ms Mthembu brushing away a tear with her finger. The tear had trickled down her apple-shaped dark face. A broad smile moved across the President’s face, she glanced at Ms Mthembu and nodded in approval.
“I’ll in any way possible, as the President of this country, encourage and urge young people to speak up and get others to join in taking action. It’s one of the quickest and most effective ways to make a difference. Talk about climate change. Urge members of your church, your communities, friends, and relatives to go green…” She paused and surveyed her audience. “And I would like to urge young people to appeal to leaders to act now.”
Gugulethu warned the planet was in trouble, whistle world leaders were fiddling with their fingers. She said they were oblivious to how climate change was hurting the mental health of young people throughout the world. She encouraged young people not to lose hope, and encouraged them to remain committed to their goals to change the world for the better.
In her private thoughts, the President admitted her error of judgment and her prejudices. She pressed her eyes shut, in recollection of her high school days. One of her classmates had a stuttering impediment but had a melodic voice, and was a soloist in the school choir. Clapping her hands, the President hurried towards the desk and held Gugulethu in a bear hug.
For the second time, the President summoned Ms Mthembu to the boardroom. “Listen, what I said to you about that girl, must remain between us.” There was a conviction in the President’s tone.
Ms Mthembu nodded. Her eyes blinking, she stared at the President in admiration for accepting her error of judgment. The President moved forward and embraced the teacher.
T he students later toured historical and heritage sites including the Cradle of Humankind.
A week later, the Pretoria City Hall was packed to capacity. The schools that were eliminated in the early stages of the competition were also invited. Parents and relatives of the students attended. The audience cranked their necks as the nine finalists walked down the aisle, there was sustained applause as they walked up the stage and sat down in two rows.
The program director stood next to the podium, holding a piece of paper in his hand. On the far right side, Gugulethu noticed three judges, two men and one woman, and an unoccupied chair.
“Are they the judges?” asked one student from the Western Cape.
Gugulethu glanced at her and nodded. After a while, the fourth female judge walked in and occupied the vacant seat. She glanced sideways at her colleagues and whispered something.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the programme director, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the President of the Republic of South Africa.”
The President walked in followed by two women clad in striped black suits. The President wore a red long dress, her hair cut short. The audience rose and applauded, she acknowledged the reception by waving. In her long strides, the President ascended the stage. She waved at the nine finalists.
The President stood beside the podium as the chaplain ascended the stage. He conducted the service that included the Lord’s Prayer. Everybody sat down after the singing of the National Anthem.
The woman in a black suit handed the President a folder. The Head of State glanced at the nine students and smiled.
“I’ve been informed,” the President cleared her throat, “by the judges that their task was difficult. They told me that every one of you is a winner, but in terms of the rules of the competition, only three of you will walk away with the prize.”
The judges had briefed the President that the selection was tough. The competitors focused on critical issues. The competitors lamented the appalling state of education. The violence at schools and learners’ behavioural patterns. Some pointed out that the South African President needed to convene a Head of States summit. They suggested the gathering would deal with conflicts that have left millions of women and children displaced on the continent. They also stressed the growing number in some African countries of child soldiers.
“I’ll start with the third prize winner.”
“I wonder who could be that?” said a competitor from the Western Cape as he brushed his sweaty palms.
“Amila Rasool from Kwazulu-Natal”. The Midlands High School girl shook hands with the President as she handed the student the prize. Nontobeko Jiya of St Joseph High School in Port Elizabeth won the second prize.
The room remained silent as the competitors glanced at each other, wondering who could be the possible overall winner.
“And the winner of the Annual Presidential Essay Writing Competition is…”
The audience shouted the names of the remaining provinces and stomped their feet on the floor. Ms Mthembu covered her face with both hands and prayed in silence.
The President turned to look at the competitors and allowed a smile to cross her heart-shaped and smooth face. “Gugulethu Khumalo from Morningside Girls High School”.
After the cheering had died down, the President left the stage followed by the two women in black suits. The eight competitors clamoured around Gugulethu, embracing and kissing her. It was about twenty minutes before midnight when Ms Mthembu left Gugulethu’s hotel room. ,
Now pensioned, Mrs Mthembu pressed her cell phone hard against her ear. “Oh… yes, Ms Khumalo, I would be delighted to be at Gugu’s graduation ceremony. No, don’t bother, I’ll pay for my plane ticket.”
She joined the Khumalos when they flew to Cape Town for their daughter’s graduation.
Gugulethu graduated cum laude with, a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Surrounded by colleagues, friends, and well-wishers, Gugulethu wrapped her arm around Ms Mthembu. “It’s all thanks to you, Ms Mthembu. You encouraged me to soar up like a bird, to be free and become anything possible I wished to accomplish.”
Fortune smiled on Gugulethu, she was accepted on an internship at the Department of Correctional Services. Soon thereafter, she considered enrolling in a Master’s Degree with the University of South Africa.
That Saturday morning her phone rang as Gugulethu was walking out of her bedroom. She turned back and walked in hurried strides toward her dressing table.
“Hello… yes, it’s me, Madame President”. Her body trembled, she held the cell phone tight in her sweaty hand and she sat on the end of her crumpled bed.

She wondered where the President had got her number. But she wouldn’t dare ask her, after all, she told herself, she was the Head of State.
“No, I don’t have any plans. Yes, Madame President, I’ll send the details of my location.”
Gugulethu wobbled out of her bedroom. Her father was slumped on a couch and her mother entered the room. She drew a long breath. “The President has invited me for dinner at Mahlamba Ndlompfu”.
Her parents, eyes opened wide and exchanged glances of disbelief.
“Why telling us now?” said her father.
“Just got the invite now, Dad. She called me on my phone.” She shrugged. “I don’t even know how she got my number.”
“Did she tell you what the invite was all about?” asked her mother.
“Didn’t ask. She’ll be sending her driver to pick me up at 6:30 pm.”
Gugulethu gazed through the window as the black BMW 737 drove up the hill, past the blanket of green lush lawn and trees towards the majestic house. It was a double-story, white structure reflecting the tradition of a city and farm.
The President wore a pair of jeans with an African print top. She wore a light touch of makeup that enhanced her oval eyes and her hair customary cut short. She sat at the end of the long table. Her son and daughter sat on her side. Gugulethu sat next to the President’s youngest daughter.
Dinner was roasted lamb, rice, and vegetables.
“My mother never stops talking about you,” said the President’s son, Nkululeko. He observed her round face, smooth, with a chocolate brown complexion. Her large black eyes sparkled like they would light the darkest corner. She had long shapely legs and her body, observed Nkululeko, was the creation of a master craftsman.
Gugulethu guessed he was of the same age, 21. Maybe 22? She wondered. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a pleasant smile that seemed to be permanently plastered on his dark face.
“In fact,” Nkululeko cut a piece of meat in his plate, and mid-way towards his mouth, he put down the fork on the table. “Soon after your presentation, I read your essay on your school’s Facebook page, quite an impressive document on climate change.”
“Thank you,” said Gugulethu.
“Mmm…I also read it. I guess it is the literature for a Nobel Peace Prize,” said Nomathemba, the President’s daughter.
“That’s the reason I’ve invited you for dinner. I have read your essay on people living with a disability.” The President cut in. She wiped off her mouth with a white cloth serviette. A proponent of the advancement of young people, she also pushed for the generational mix in public service. She believed the younger generation would bring about advancement and professionalism in public service whistle gaining experience from their elderly colleagues. “I want you to work for the Department of Social Services.”
Gugulethu’s mouth opened wide with astonishment, and at that, Nkululeko glanced at her, his face beaming with a smile.
“You’ll work in a unit that will advise and implement policy on people living with disabilities,” said the President.
“I’m doing my internship…”
“I know about that,” said the President. “You’ll start in your new position, as Director General, by the end of the month.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Madame President.”
After dinner, the President excused herself, saying there were urgent matters of the state she needed to attend. Nomathemba disappeared without making an excuse. Nkululeko and Gugulethu sat in the spacious living room, watching television and having soft drinks.
“You reckon it would be too early to congratulate you on your new position?”
“They’re people more suited…”
“Come on Gugu, you’ve all it takes to succeed. The brains, you’ve been just modest.”
“OK, enough about me. Let’s talk about you.”
“Well, I run my television production company.” Nkululeko also informed Gugulethu that he studied at the London Film School. He also worked for an Advertising Agency before he started his company.
The President disrupted their conversation as she entered the room. “Gugu, you’ll let me know when you’re ready, I’ll ask the driver to take you home. Night, see you soon.”
“Night Madame President. Thank you for everything.”
“Night Mum, I’ll let you know when Gugu is ready,” said Nkululeko.
It was about 11 pm when the driver stopped outside the gate of Gugulethus’s home. He opened the door for her and Nkululeko slid out from the other side. He held Gugulethu’s hand as they sauntered towards the door. They stood for a moment talking and exchanged telephone numbers.
“Can we have dinner later in the week?” said Nkululeko.
She remained muted, not sure she had heard him properly.
“Not at the President’s home. I’ll come and pick you up, say 6:30 pm.” He kissed her on the mouth and walked away.
It was her first kiss. Gugulethu’s knees knocked against each other, and she leaned against the front door of her parents’ house. Her voice trapped at the back of her throat, she wanted to scream at him and ask; ‘How the hell am I supposed to know what love is?’ But he had disappeared into the shadows of the night.
Nkululeko was not thrilled by the frills of his mother’s political status. Soon after dating Gugulethu, he threw his carefree youthfulness into the President’s security network. Often he would sneak out of the Presidential residence to spend time with Gugulethu at her parents’ house. Sometimes, they go to a restaurant for dinner.
After Nkululeko had picked up Gugulethu from her parent’s home that evening, under pretext, Abbey Khumalo strolled to the kitchen. He pretended to help his wife in preparing dinner.
“Ku khona o ku shaya amanzi phakathi ko Gugu na lo mfana ka Mgameli, Something is going on between Gugu and the President’s son.” He glanced at his wife his eyes dancing with curiosity.
“The feeling is mutual,” said Thulisiwe. “What do you think we should do? Sit her down?”
“I don’t think it is a good idea. Maybe it is still early, let’s wait and see.”
Nkululeko and Gugulethu were not bothered by their circumstances. Their backgrounds had no bearing on their relationship. He believed the concept of social status material frills was meaningless. He was convinced it was more so because their generation was more enlightened.
However, Nkululeko and Gugulethu had created a room to poke fun at each other about their interests in the arts. He was an ardent fan of Rap music, and science-fiction films, whereas Gugu, was into stars such as Mariam Makeba, Nina Simone, and Barbra Streisand. That afternoon, Nkululeko received a delivery. He had ordered one of Gugulethu’s favourite Barbra Streisand albums, Memories.
He switched on the wiper blades of his car as raindrops fell on his windshield. His head turned sideways and smiled at Gugulethu. She reciprocated his warm and lazy smile. He selected the track, ‘Kiss Me in the Rain’, on his car stereo.
Eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Is this for real?” asked Gugulethu.
“I know how love this singer.”
She was lost in the music until Nkululeko stopped by the gate of the presidential residence.
“What’re we doing here?” asked Gugulethu.
“It’s about time our parents know that we’re dating.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Nkululeko. Don’t you think it is still early…?”
“Love transcends time, and tonight it has done so.” Nkululeko slid out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for Gugulethu. “We had not planned to fall in love when you came over for dinner with my mother. I fell in love with you. And it is not a figment of my imagination, a delusion of my dreams. This is real.”
She nudged him on his rib cage. “Don’t you dare be philosophical with me?”
Gugulethu had not been to Mahlamba Ndlompfu after she had had dinner with the President. She had travelled to Cape Town twice for the President’s State of the Nation Address but had never talked to the Head of State.
The President dashed out of the study after a brief discussion with one of her bodyguards. She was livid.
The bodyguard had informed her that for some time now, Nkululeko had been sneaking out of Mahlamba Ndlompfu without a bodyguard. Her nose flaring, she stopped in her tracks when she entered the living room and noticed Nkululeko, Gugulethu, and Nomathemba watching TV. She drew a long breath and in silence asked herself; ‘has he found love, and that is why he has been sneaking out of Mahlamba Ndlompfu?’
“My, my… no wonder the concerns about the security breach. Nkululeko, you’ve some explaining to do.” She glanced at Gugulethu, and a-sided smile crossed her face. “To what do I deserve the honour Gugu? Evening. Nice to see you.”
“Evening, Madame President, I’m delighted to see you,” said Gugulethu.
Nkululeko twirled with his fingers, and his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Mum. Anyway, Gugu is not having dinner with the President tonight…”
The room became silent like an old graveyard. The President stared at his son and glanced at Gugulethu. But she could not read their faces.
Nkululeko glanced at Gugulethu and stared at his mother. There was a lazy smile on his face. “I have an announcement.” He reached for Gugulethu’s hand. “I’m dating Gugu. We’re dating Mum.”
With a broad smile on her face, the President felt like a mother holding her newly delivered baby in her arms. And she rationalised; who am I to tell my son whom he can and cannot love? Love flies on the wings of freedom.