Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree. Niq Mhlongo
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Niq Mhlongo
Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree
Kwela Books
MY FATHER’S EYES
The bizarre address you gave me some ten years ago is still stuck in my memory. I don’t expect you to remember it, because it was in a weird location. And, after all, it did not really mean anything to you. But 93/574 Avalon Cemetery still rings in my mind today. I should have known better than to ask you about my father. Although I was twenty-seven years old and married, I was still so naive. I had been naive about marriage and children as well. But that naivety – and my happiness – was shattered with the birth of Fufu. Mokete was convinced it was my fault that our daughter was born with cerebral palsy. He insisted that I must find my father and appease my ancestors with traditional sacrifices to make things right. Normally, a goat and traditional umqombothi beer for the ancestors is enough, he told me. If not, he threatened to leave me.
I was surprised to learn that Mokete consulted a traditional healer behind my back. He was advised that our Fufu would heal if I found my real father. This came as a shock to me, as it did to you. Mama, you raised me the Christian way, but there I was fooling myself that I was married to a fellow Christian. I still know some verses of the Bible by heart, including your favourite:
Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.
That’s Mark 11:24. I really don’t know how Mokete changed so much. Do you still remember how I met him in our church? We were both eighteen years old when I noticed him at The Grace in Pimville. You were very sceptical about our intention to marry then. When he proposed, at the age of twenty-two, you said we were still very young. I guess you were right. But, like a supportive mother, you gave your blessings anyway. You said maybe it was God’s will. I still remember your words clearly.
“Naledi, my child, you have to be patient, quiet and listen to your inner voice of reason. Don’t make decisions that you cannot take back in life.”
I recall that moment when you looked at me sadly. Your mouth twisted as if you had pain somewhere in your body. I hope it’s not too late to rediscover the world now.
As a devout Christian, I had every right to refuse when all of sudden Mokete told me to go and consult a traditional healer. I remember that it was just before Fufu turned three. We still called her Fufu, because she seemed too small and helpless to have a name like Fundiswa. I mean, she could not walk, could barely talk, and was in a wheelchair and on constant medication. That’s when Mokete told me he had been warned that we would never have healthy children. Not unless I found out who my real father was.
Do you remember the call I gave you, crying, late that night? Like me, you were confused as to what my absent father had to do with my future healthy children. You tried to reason with Mokete on the phone. You made him aware that we were Christians and believed in the word and power of God. You also reminded him that you only gave him the go-ahead to marry me because he was Christian too. But did he listen to you? No. He was adamant that this was my problem. You reminded him of our pact with God.
“There are some things about tradition that Christianity cannot solve,” he responded.
“I really don’t understand why we black people have to slaughter goats and cows to ask ancestors for money, employment and things that are beyond us by nature, like Fufu’s disability, for example,” you reasoned with him. “Some of our ancestors died poor, without education, or employment, but we still ask them favours anyway. Some were just useless beings here on earth, but we still believe things changed for them after dying.”
“But just because it doesn’t work for you doesn’t mean you must judge those who believe in it, like my family,” he countered. “Jesus died thousands of years ago without a house or a job and yet we pray and ask him for a job and a house. Non-Christians are not judging us for worshipping him, so why do we judge them when they believe in their ancestors?”
Mama, I entered this religion because of your silent influence. You took me to church when I was still young. I got used to it, and was happy that Christianity swept away my boredom and loneliness. I remember the psalm you used to recite to me:
A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation. God setteth the solitary in families: He bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in a dry land.
That was Psalm 68:5–6, King James Version. It dispelled the shame of my weaknesses, great and small.
“What do you want from his relationship?” you asked wearily, as if it were an effort to talk about him. “This husband of yours sounds abusive. You look emotionally exhausted all the time, my dear daughter. Remember that men are made from dirt; they can’t help it if they are dirty.”
“We all have our wounds, but must go on living,” I said to you.
You put your fingertips on my cheeks. But you had no idea then that life was weighing down on me like a bag of wet cement.
Three days after Fufu’s third birthday I told you how I felt. It was as if the life within me was being destroyed, piece by piece. I did not want to quarrel with my husband any longer. Mokete’s people had a meeting with you. You couldn’t stand my constant humiliation and the despair any longer. You told Mokete’s people that you were going to do it. I believed you were really trying your best to save my marriage if you were even prepared to talk about my father. That topic was banned in our home. You often flew into rages over it, and seemed unbearably raw and irritable when it came up.
That’s when you reluctantly gave me the address, 93/574 Avalon Cemetery. Even though you did it out of love for me, I could feel the loathing and contempt you had for the man in the grave. That was after a week of pestering you to help me save my marriage. Mokete’s people had been on my back like an irritating tick. They wanted to know the date of the traditional ceremony and sacrifice so that Mokete and I could solve our marital problems. The claws of loneliness and desperation were sinking deep into my skin. I must admit that somehow your gesture and willingness to help me find that stranger called my father filled the emptiness in me. I’m still thankful for that. Oh yes, it felt like I had just emerged from my long slumber of loneliness, despair and lethargy.
You know me very well. Ever since you raised me in Protea Glen, it didn’t bother me that I didn’t know my real father. I just didn’t care. Most of the kids I grew up with did not have fathers. Some still do not have fathers today. But I was happy that you were finally forced by my circumstances to introduce me to my father’s family. I knew you hated him. I stopped asking about him years ago because I was afraid to trigger your anger. The topic never lasted for more than five minutes before you would dismiss it curtly.
“He was a complete piece of shit, an asshole, that son of a bitch! A dog! Trash, like all men are.”
You hated him with an intensity that was frightening to me. But you always cut short those angry curses. “Now let’s go and buy some ice cream and pie, my beautiful Naledi,” you would say.
My heart would be contented when you said that. I guess you’re aware that I also never wanted to see or know my father. I was only forced by the conditions of my marriage to pursue it. That’s the reason I was glad when you told me for the first time that he was dead. But, dead or alive, it made no difference to me. Whatever would please Mokete’s people was welcome. I understood the hatred that showed in your face when you took Mokete and me to my father’s grave at Avalon. I mean, he had been hidden in your memory for more than twenty-seven years.
I still remember kneeling before a gravestone with the inscription “Solomon Teboho Tseu, 1961–1993”. You just stood there and looked away as if haunted by dreams. I watched you as you kept opening your mouth and snapping at emptiness. Or were you cursing the grave in silence? It was only the three of us at the graveside. You told us that my father was killed in 1993 during the Inkatha and ANC political violence by the Jeppe Hostel inmates. When I asked you about his family, you said he came from somewhere in Lesotho. You had never been there yourself, but you remembered the name of the village