They file in silently Tat’uJohn, Tat’uThomas, Tat’uMatewu; brothers to my late father. I listen to them sigh and grunt as they sit on the dining room chairs my mother set out for them in the middle of my late grandmother’s bedroom. I watch their crisp, perfectly ironed, pastel shirts maintain their shape as if they were made out of paper. I smell the cologne from their bodies and leather from their shoes and belts, and I begin to feel slightly overwhelmed.
Our family is always being referred to as the most beautiful family in whatever township we descend upon. At funerals in the village my father was raised in, people get excited when they see the Mzimkhulu family convoy snake its way into the area. “Nango amadoda amahle akwa Mzimkhulu” here come the beautiful men of Mzimkhulu, they beam, all but forgetting their dearly departed. The beauty that they speak of is virility and wealth. Beards, sons, businesses, property, culture, sons, wives, cars, homesteads, sons.
My uncles fill every space they occupy with their thunderous laughter. It isn’t laughter like yours and mine, no, you can hear their achievements in their thunder. You can hear Tat’uJohn’s MBA roll out of him when he throws his head back to roar. He and Tatu’Matewu are always sharing a private joke about something or other and Tatu’Thomas, in a classic high school principal slash youngest brother attempt to be cool, will pretend to reprimand them whilst laughing along. Laughing, they are always laughing…but not today. Today they fill my grandmother’s bedroom with throat clearing and foot shuffling.
My mother sits on the floor on a rolled out grass mat. She always regresses to her makoti ways in the presence of my father’s family; docile as if she just married into the family the night before. Her headscarf is pulled low so that I can hardly see her eyes, she has a shawl on her shoulders and she hangs her head not making eye contact with anyone. I sit on the edge of my grandmother’s bed, the bed that she died in, watching my uncles fidget with their phones as they prepare to commence the family meeting.
Silence.
Tat’uJohn clears his throat: “Eh…brothers, before we begin, I would like to ask Thomas to open this meeting with a prayer”
More throat clearing and then, “Heavenly father we thank you for this beautiful day and for watching over us as we commuted to the homestead of our father. Though we come here to meet due to regrettable circumstances, Lord, we trust that you will guide and open our hearts and minds so that we might reach a consensus that will ease the spirits of all those present…Make us receptive, Lord.”
He pauses.
“We ask for this in your son’s holy name, amen”
My uncles say it, my mother whispers it, but I do not say amen.
There is an emptiness that follows the prayer that asks to be filled, and the distant humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen simply will not do. As I steady my breathing preparing to ease my voice into the room, the vibration of Tat’uJohn’s voice shatters the silence.
“Uhm, brothers. We are here today because we were summoned by this young lady,” he says every letter in the word lady as if he is reading it off of a nametag as he points to me. Tat’uMatewu is hunched over listening intently whilst Tat’uThomas sits back comfortably in his chair with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, nodding after every word his older brother says.
“This child,”
I am 25 years old.
“Is the first born child of our late brother Jonah. Jonah was the first-born son of our father, Sango. Jonah raised us. He lifted this family’s name from obscurity. No one knew who the Mzimkhulu’s were before Jonah taught us dignity, the power of education, and the strength we have when we stand as a unit. He made people out of us. Jonah built this house for our parents. Our father, Sango, died before he saw this house finished, but he died knowing that when it was completed, the house would roar in the face of the poverty that preceded it. Nolitha,” he says without looking at me “you are too young to know what this family was before your father said ‘enough’. Before he said ‘the buck stops with me. The pain and the struggle, they stop with me!’ He had not even met your mother, you were just a twinkle in his eye but he was already planning for you. He knew that he could not live with the idea that any child of his might be born into poverty and have to worry about their very existence on a daily basis” either passion or anger is building in his voice, I am unclear which, but whichever it is, Tat’uMatewu agrees full heartedly, nodding and rocking like he is in church. Humming and hissing “yesss.”
The church of Jonah, first-born son of Sango, praise his holy name.
“A doctor! A healer! A visionary who worked like a dog, cleaning hospital toilets, then going to nursing school and then educating these three successful men you see sitting in front of you; an educator, a businessman and an engineer.”
My mother plays with the tassels of her shawl rocking to a song that only she can hear. She serves as ambiance for my uncle’s requiem to my father.
“He put himself through medical school whilst taking care of us and our parents. Do you hear this selflessness? Do you understand these sacrifices?”
My grandmother’s bedroom is becoming stifling. Tat’uJohn has lined the walls with his memory of my father and no air can get in. The dining room chair that he sits on as he conducts his liturgy to his brother; his hero, creaks under the weight of his admiration. My uncle continues to passionately curate my father’s achievements as I attempt to decipher whether this is a eulogy or a historical introduction, but a glint caused by my uncle’s beautiful watch interrupts my attempt.
The man enjoys luxury.
His house was once featured on Top Billing where they spoke to the architect and the interior designer; they walked the audience through their decisions as to how they would capture an authentic South African feel in a modern and futuristic frame. Elephant bones as chandeliers and minimum wage domestic workers on Italian marble floors, those kinds of things. His son is in Greece at a water polo tournament as we sit here and hot box ourselves in his praise of my father, and so I suppose he is right. He is right to be moved to such great passions when speaking about his brother because if it were not for his brother he would have none of these things. He would not have been granted the opportunity to become the ostentatious man he is today.
“There is nothing anyone can say today that will change what Jonah was to me and these two men sitting here with me.” He almost shouts, motioning towards his brothers. “No one can come to me and say ‘yes but your brother was this and your brother was that’ No ONE! I know who and what my brother was, and what he stood for and what he fought against. He was a good man, nothing will change that!” he seems to be calming down “Please, Matewu, if I am lying, please jump in and tell me I am lying.” He settles into his seat smiling slightly, Tat’uMatewu gives a slight chuckle.
“No, no, no brother. Everything that you have said here is true. Jonah was a good man. You see, Nolitha, your father, John and I were quite close in age, Thomas here is a pikinini compared to us…”
Tat’uJohn laughs surprisingly loud, whilst Tat’uThomas smiles quietly eyes still closed, arms still crossed sitting back in his chair. He has always been my favourite, although I saw him the least, he is my favourite. Tat’uThomas was always a sad mystery to me. He has the curse of sight. He seems to see and understand everything which is unfortunate because as my grandmother used to say “une ntliziyo encinci uThomas”, he has a small heart. It is always heavy because it is always full. It is always full because he has the curse of sight. Ignorance is a privilege.
For most of my childhood, my uncles would visit every second Sunday with their wives. My father would start a big fire after church and the family braai would commence. They would gather on the patio with whiskeys whilst Mirriam Makeba or Thandi Claasen or King Kong spilled out into the yard. Their laughter would mute the jazz at points as they recounted stories of their childhood, how Tat’uThomas would have to wear their hand-me-downs in school and they would have to put rocks in his blazer pockets to prevent him being swept away on windy days. He would always laugh with them.
Then, one Sunday, Tat’uThomas came in whilst I was pouring myself a glass of juice in the kitchen.
“Nolitha”
“Ta?”
“Are you pregnant?” His face was twisted in what appeared to be physical pain. My eyes fell.
“YOU ARE FIFTEEN YEARS OLD” he whispered so loudly I feared he would go hoarse.
“ixolo-“ is all I can say. I am sorry. He leaves me in the kitchen and joins his brothers on the patio. The laughter stops. He leaves shortly after.
He never came to our house again.
“Your father fought, my child.” Tat’uMatewu smiles, his raspy voice almost playful. “He fought everyday so that we can drive the cars we drive and so that you can even speak with that beautiful English that you speak with today, that English that you used to summon us here. We would have nothing if it were not for him. Thomas here was just starting high school when you were born. So I must correct you slightly there brother” he smiles at Tat’uJohn almost apologetically.
“Of course, of course brother! If we cannot correct each other then we will live in lies” Tat’uJohn chuckles gruffly.
“Yes! That is quite right” Tat’uMatewu hisses with laughter and then promptly continues with his correction, “He doesn’t quite have the same experience of your father that we have because by that time Jonah’s life was in full swing, but he had given us the ability to take care of Thomas.”
Tat’uMatewu: the union man. Always negotiating. Always euphemizing. I have never quite understood him. Him and my mother a very close, which is strange because he and my father were not, despite his loyalty to my father. My father once told me “if you want to understand your uncle Matewu think of this: When he was much younger he organized a rally in support of the liberation movement during a time when the ANC and all associated groups were banned. He organized it perfectly and it was attended very well considering that it was held in a rural area which was not considered a hub of political activity. Anyway, we were all very confused by his sudden interest in politics as we knew him to be disinterested in being on the frontlines of the liberation movement. However, it was John who discovered that he was charging people who used the transport that he had hired, and that he was selling food and beverages at the venue with the help of one of his girlfriends. He made tens of thousands of rands that day. He didn’t even give any of that money to the liberation movement that he was claiming to be in support of”. Charming.
“John and I paid for Thomas’s education because your father made us the type of strong men that were able to do such a thing. Unfortunately when Thomas started his teaching degree, I had started a family and John had gone abroad, but because of the work ethic and the philosophies on life that your father had instilled in all three of us, Thomas knew that only his best would be accepted, nothing less. Look at him now. He is a principal at a high school and his school is doing well. Look at me, I am an engineer and the town councilor, look at your uncle he is a world famous businessman. All bec –“
“Because of my father, yes, I get it” the words escape before I could think them.
“Nolitha” my mother verbalizes her silence, but only just.
“Hey, little girl, we will not be spoken to in that tone!” Tat’uJohn growls.
“You think we are making these things up?” Tat’uMatewu seems perplexed.
“No, Tata, I know what my father did. I know that everything you are saying is true –“
“And yet you continue to discredit his memory! You never once speak of the good he did, you only want to dwell on his mistakes” Tat’uJohn is shaking. “That man would have put his life on the line for you, and I believe he did in many ways, yet you speak ill of him, your father?!” he bellows and the echo of his voice rings through the room, circles my body and pulls up the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Enough.”
“Come again?” Tat’uJohn yelps three octaves higher than I have ever heard him speak.
“Wait brother, let this child speak. She is the one who called us here today let her say her say” Tat’uThomas says, his eyes now opened but squinted thoughtfully.
I inhale and hold the breathe in my lungs in an attempt to extinguish the fire that I feel in my chest. Imbheko. Imbheko. Imbheko.
“Would I be your brother’s daughter if I did not know when to say enough? If I didn’t preoccupy myself with thoughts of how my son, who is just ten years old, might have to worry about his very existence? Your brother was an honourable man. He worked hard, he broke ground, and he paved a way for all three of you…and me…and in many ways, my mother. He showed uMa’khulu no Ta’mkhulu a life that they didn’t even know they deserved. He made people in this community realize their potential and what a black man from nowhere can do. He opened people’s eyes, he opened people’s minds; and, he raped me! For years he raped me. Mama was there while he raped me; you were all there while he raped me. For years! And no one said anything because he was your doctor, your healer, your visionary and my rapist.”
I wanted to stop, for my mother’s sake and for my own…but my pain would not let me.
“15 years old! I was 15 years old when I fell pregnant with Sihlangule. In grade 9 in a white school where you expected me to thrive by their standards while you aided and abetted my rapist. My father sent me to a fancy, white, private school; you are right. Then he put a baby inside me and I had to go to that school and be accused of being corrupt and dirty, of not having morals and giving my body away to anyone who will have it when it was my father, your brother, who did that to me. And you stood back and you allowed it. You are so quick to rush to his defense even in his death. So quick to dismiss the pain that I fight through on a daily basis because in your eyes he did more good than bad. Because he is your hero, he can’t be my villain? Because he saved you, he can’t have killed me?” Every time I have to take a breath I have to chase it. Something is choking me; guilt, shame, pain, sadness, rage, something. Something hot and tight. Something unforgiving. Truth.
“I know what you have been telling my son Tat’uJohn. I know you have told him that I do not know who his father is. You want him to think that I was young and got too big for my boots and acted irresponsibly. You want him to see me through your eyes.”
Tat’uJohn stands up from his chair “I don’t have to stand for this” and begins towards the door.
“John, please sit down bhuti, we are talking here. If you walk out without having listened to any voice but your own today, you can’t expect us to call you an elder tomorrow.” Tat’uThomas States matter-of-factly. Tat’uJohn stops but does not sit…instead he towers.
“Nolitha” Tat’uMatewu raises his hands as if I am pointing a gun at him “you are angry my child. Angry people cannot be trusted to tell the truth –“
“Tat-“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” he says as if pumping the breaks of a car “look at your mother.”
I won’t.
“Listen to the violence that you have brought into my mother’s house. When you curse your father you are cursing me. You are cursing John. You are cursing Thomas. You are cursing your mother. You are cursing your grandparents. You are cursing us my child. And for what? We don’t know this thing that you are talking about and I am sure, where he lies, Jonah does not know this thing that you are talking about.”
My mother’s pained sobs are making me uncomfortable because she doesn’t get to cry as far as I am concerned. The air is thick and I need to breath…I need to leave. So I stand up as quietly and respectfully as I can.
Fine.
“Tat’uThomas, Tat’uJohn, Tat’uMatewu, I will never tell you that your brother was not a visionary, and, with respect, you cannot tell me that my father was not a rapist. Nor can you tell me what to tell my son about his father. Sihlangule will know that his grandfather did great things and changed many lives, he will also know that his father raped me and he will know that they were one person. The only way for my son to be born free of the sins of his father is for him to know them, and for him to know them is for him to know himself.”
I hope one day they hear me…but I don’t need them to.
Glossary:
Tat’u- Male elder “father”
Makoti – New bride
Pikinini – Little one
Ixolo - Sorry
uMa’khulu – Grandmother
Ta’mkhulu – Grandfather
Buthi – Brother
Imbheko - Respect
Nolitha – She who has light
Sihlangule ¬– Redeem us
