But the thick sour clots were good for babies, and Nomusa’s mother was determined that Bala should swallow them. She tried again to pour some of the nourishing clotted milk into the baby’s mouth. This time Bala held her lips tightly closed.
Looking on anxiously, Nomusa thought it a pity that the baby did not yet have sense enough to know how good clotted milk tasted. She and her brothers loved it and did not get it half often enough.
“Nomusa!” called her mother. “Hold Bala’s arms.”
“Oh, Mother, I do not like to do this,” said Nomusa. She was always unhappy when her little sister cried.
Makanya pinched together Bala’s nostrils so that she could not breathe. At once the baby opened her mouth for air, and when she did so, her mother quickly poured in some of the clotted milk. Bala choked and spluttered, but finally she had to swallow what was in her mouth. Frantically she struggled, and tiny as she was, she showed a strength that grew out of terror and desperation. She let out a fierce cry of rage which almost brought tears to Nomusa’s sorrowful eyes.
“Yo, I am glad that’s over,” said Nomusa.
By this time Bala was covered with white splashes, and some of the clots had fallen on her mother’s skirt.
“Here, Puleng!” called Nomusa.
Into the hut he came running, followed by Themba, who was not yet tall enough to have to crawl in through the low entrance of the hut, but did it to imitate the older children and to show he was grown up.
The dog did not have to be told what he had been called for. Without delay, he began licking off the milk splashes from Bala’s naked little body, leaving her skin smooth and moist. The baby seemed to enjoy the dog’s warm tongue on her body. It soothed her and made her forget how miserable she had been.