My Father Died for This. Lukhanyo Calata
her meat to Fort at mealtimes. She didn’t like meat and had an agreement with Fort that he would eat her meat. Mamou expected the children to eat all the food on their plates and therefore the cousins had to pass the meat secretly under the table.
Peggy remembered that Fort was the only one of the grandchildren who was allowed, to some extent, to interrogate Tatou’s decisions and teachings. Peggy cited several incidents of Fort’s pushing the envelope at times and posing rather difficult questions directed at his grandfather regarding the Scriptures they read at evening devotions or in church. Tatou always engaged Fort earnestly in debate, much to the annoyance of the older children, who were forced to sit at the table until Fort had asked the last of his ‘many, many questions’.
One such debate started when Fort questioned Tatou about a statement he’d attributed to Jesus in his Easter Sunday sermon. Peggy recalled, ‘Fort said to Tatou, “I do not understand when you say, when they crucified Jesus Christ, it is written, Father, forgive them for they know not what they do. Because that [the crucifixion] was planned.”
‘We were part of these arguments. Tatou would try to convince Fort of the way things were. Fort would say, “The bottom line here, Tatou, is that they planned and it was well planned, so it was not accidental. And for you to stand in front of the congregation and say, Because they know not what they do, I think there is something amiss there.”
‘That drew him closer to Tatou. We wouldn’t talk to Tatou like that. We’d tell Fort, “You can’t talk to Tatou like that,” but Fort said, “I want to get to the bottom of this because Tatou stood there and said, They know not what they were doing.”’
Of course, Fort was emboldened to question his grandfather like that because of the close relationship they had. This story also illustrates his bright, questioning mind. He didn’t take things at face value, even that which he heard from the pulpit, despite the reverence he had for the church and priest, who was both his spiritual and earthly father.
Sitting with Tatou while he worked or played the piano was a privilege none of the other children was afforded. Bangi explained, ‘Fort would just vanish, only for us to find him quite close to Tatou. He was a very quiet child and that’s what he used to do. Whenever Tatou was around, Fort vanished.’ At these times, Fort would be right there next to Tatou. He would just sit there listening, watching attentively, and trying to sing along as Tatou’s hands moved up and down the piano keys. Tatou would play and sing his original compositions or traditional church hymns. I can only imagine how the young Fort must have been musically educated and inspired by watching his grandfather during those moments.
Bangi added, ‘You know my grandmother was very strict. She didn’t want us to disturb Tatou because he was doing so many things, but Fort would find space [in close proximity to Tatou] and she eventually grew to accept that.’
The favour Fort enjoyed extended beyond the walls of his (grand)parental home. Fort’s arrival in Cradock as a baby coincided with a growing hope in the community that Tatou would be released from prison and everything would turn out fine. ‘When Fort first arrived from Johannesburg, community members came around [regularly] to hear the latest news regarding Tatou. That is why almost everyone had this attention for Fort all the time. Everyone, we all, had a very soft spot for Fort,’ said Bangi.
He went on to explain that their (the grandchildren’s) love for music was a direct result of Tatou’s love for music. ‘Every day Tatou came home for lunch and before he left he always played either the organ or the piano. That was how music came into our home. Because of Tatou, Fort started playing too. He went deeper and deeper into music, and by virtue of his being close to Tatou, I think he was like, “I must do everything this old man is doing,” to the extent that we all thought that one day he would also become a priest. Our nickname for him was Archdeacon.’
A childhood neighbour and family friend Sarie Miles (née Smith) remembered how Fort, shortly after starting at primary school, began to play piano. ‘He’d say, “Sarie, kom speel [come and play].”’ These play dates would happen mostly on Sunday afternoons once Tatou and Mamou had gone on home visits. She said Fort would sit at the piano and imitate Tatou, playing and trying to sing the very songs his grandfather did. She vividly remembered how the young Fort displayed musical talent back then already.
Sarie recalled it was Fort’s gentleness that drew her to him. They used to play a game where boys and girls would pair off. She always chose Fort as her partner. ‘He was such a gentle person. He was the gentlest of them all. He understood me,’ she said, smiling to herself.
Like his father, Lukhanyo is also a son of favour. I make this statement because of the obvious respect he commands in the family despite being among its younger members. Dorothy, who attended Peggy’s memorial service with Lukhanyo in September 2017, told me, ‘Afterwards, we got together with all the cousins, who came to Cradock for the memorial. Everyone wanted to greet and be acknowledged by Lukhanyo – or ubhuti as he is affectionately referred to in the family. It had nothing to do with his being on television or even the SABC 8 saga, and everything to do with the esteem in which he is held in the family.’
He hardly notices it – and if he does, he pays it no heed. Yet even older people outside of the family harbour a deep respect for him. He approaches people, both young and old, with great deference, and most times they reciprocate this respect even when they have never met him before and don’t know anything about him. It is quite something for me to behold, as the only people I’ve experienced being treated this way are clergymen.
Lukhanyo is Nomonde’s favourite, and his sisters, like Fort’s cousins before them, accept this fact with grace. I asked her once whether it was more a joy or pain to have a son who resembles his father in so many ways. She answered that having Lukhanyo has brought her more comfort, but that there are some moments when the pain of her loss is felt more acutely because of him. One of those times was the day of his graduation. ‘On that day he looked more like his father than he normally does. Also, when he got to the stage, he walked to the microphone to correct the pronunciation of his surname. I thought Fort would have done exactly the same,’ she said, recalling the pride and pain that pierced her heart at that moment.
As Lukhanyo’s wife, I too find myself on the receiving end of much favour from the Calatas. My mother-in-law completely embraces and loves me like her own. I am humbled by the high regard with which she and her daughters hold me and can only hope I don’t ever disappoint them, and, in doing so, lose that regard.
With all this favour surrounding us as a couple, favour upon Kwezi is inevitable. This favour is evident in the delight he elicits from my mother-in-law, her daughters, and their children. I expected Lukhanyo and me to delight in our son, but nothing prepared me for the pure delight Nomonde and her daughters find in him.
Tumani (my younger sister-in-law) would use the fact that she witnessed his birth to justify this reaction to her much-loved and cherished nephew. I once caught Dorothy casting a long, adoring look at Kwezi, who was busy with one of his favourite pastimes, drawing and watching television at the same time. Later, when I mentioned my observations concerning the Calata sons of favour, she drew my attention to that very look earlier. When I asked what had caused it, she answered, ‘Kwezi is a Calata in all the ways that really matter. Not only because he is Lukhanyo’s son, but also because he embodies the best of the Calata qualities. He is extraordinarily bright. I love how he reasons and questions things even at this young age. He’s talkative, like me. Why should I not delight in him? He is my brother’s son in every way – physically and in character.’
If Kwezi and his father are alike, Lukhanyo and his father are even more so. In the process of writing this book, I’ve come to greatly respect the Calata intellect. When speaking of the years at the Mission House in iLingelihle, and Tatou and Mamou’s persecution by the apartheid state, Peggy mentioned that as the children of so-called troublemakers, they did not have it easy at school: ‘The only thing that served us was that we were clever – we did our school work well,’ she explained.
Lukhanyo and his sisters are indeed very clever, but I believe they got it from both parents. Peggy remembered the time Tatou promised he would slaughter a sheep for each child who