Читать книгу Being Chris Hani's Daughter - Ferguson Hani - Страница 10

Reality was not a street I liked to play on much. So when The Cosby Show came to Lesotho via the SABC I found my alter ego in Rudy Huxtable. I truly believed that Rudy was the girl I was meant to be – so much so that I emulated everything about her, especially the way she spoke. First prize of course would have been having her hair. She had this amazing full head of hair, which she often wore bunched up in two cute little plaits. Since mine grew like tufts of pubic hair, I was forced to watch hers on the little television screen in envy. It didn’t help that Mama had decided to shave my hair when I was three to punish me for not combing it. For years I carried a deep resentment.

I was constantly mimicking Rudy, so I decided that it would be a grand idea to answer the phone just like her, “Cosby residence, hello,” but I substituted it with, “Hani residence, hello.” Well, that happened only once before my mother snatched the receiver out of my hand, slammed down the phone and told me in no uncertain terms to never tell people whose house this was. She proceeded to lecture me that if people ever asked, “Who am I speaking to?” I was to respond with, “Who would you like to speak to?” You would think I would have asked her why, right? Nope, not me; once again I just went with it and again chalked it up to “this is how all families are”.

I was told by my parents that the reason we didn’t live together as a family was because my father was working ‘Overseas’. I’m sure they probably explained to me what my father actually did because my older sisters knew, but I just could not get it. As a result, when asked at school what my dad did for a living, depending on the day, my father would either be a lawyer or a doctor, obviously like Dr Cliff Huxtable – I mean, the similarities were obvious: Daddy even wore those wildly patterned jerseys.

Prep, the school I attended, followed the American system, which saw us breaking for the ‘summer’ holidays, except with us being in the southern hemisphere, these holidays fell over winter in Lesotho.

It was during these months that we usually travelled to visit Daddy wherever he was working at that particular time. I loved most things about travelling, from the waking up early, to the drive to the airport, to boarding the plane, excited for the moment that the plane would start slowly down the runway, then gather speed as it took off. It was the flying part that I dreaded because most of the planes we flew in weren’t sleek jets or 747s. We would depart from Moshoeshoe II airport in some rickety metal contraption that shuddered and shook as it slowly lifted into the sky. I felt that at any moment it would either fall apart or we’d crash into the mountains we flew so perilously close to. We would usually stop in Botswana for a layover and then board for Lusaka where we’d be reunited with Daddy.

Flying Zambian Airways was always much more exciting as these were bigger planes with proper air hostesses in snazzy uniforms. Plus, on these flights we always got a meal. For a long time I felt like there were no more glamorous women in the world than air hostesses and for years I fostered the idea of becoming one. What better profession could there be than a job that entailed looking outrageously glamorous while spending most of your life on a plane, flying to exotic places?

I remember the anticipation and relief in the moments just before the plane landed, then waiting for it to park before we were allowed to disembark. By this stage I could hardly contain myself. Once we’d collected our bags off the conveyor belt, and we were through the Arrivals door, my eyes would be on super high alert, darting around like some firefly, trying to find Daddy’s face in the waiting crowd. As soon as I spotted my target, I would sprint like hell and literally take off like a little plane into his arms.

I was a Daddy’s girl through and through. He was so tall and strong that when I was with him I felt the absolute definition of pure safety, like nothing bad could ever happen to any of us. My admiration for Daddy was so intense when I was young that whatever he did I would be right there copying him. When he’d lie on the bed and read the newspaper, there I’d be, mimicking his every action, reading my own paper – except mine was invariably upside down.

When we visited Daddy in Zambia, we didn’t always go to the same house because Daddy moved around a lot, but there are two houses that stand out in my memory. The first was a small one in Lusaka’s version of a township; it had only two bedrooms, one communal area and a kitchen. He never lived alone but when we arrived to visit, the comrades would move out so we could stay together as a family. The second house was in a much smarter suburb in Lusaka called Woodlands. I loved this house; it had a huge garden and in my little eyes it was the biggest space I’d ever lived in. It had a tall wall with glass shards jutting out on top, clearly to deter criminals or intruders. But what I remember most are the vicious dogs that made our lives hell by eating anything we left lying around, from books to food to shoes. When we complained to Daddy, his standard response was, “Well, don’t leave your things lying around.” It was that simple to him.

From as early as I can remember, Daddy was a fitness fanatic. No matter where he was, he would wake up early every morning to work out. When I managed to wake up early enough, I would attempt to do all the exercises with him, while wearing his huge gown – overcompensating much? Then, once a year during the school holidays, there were the rare times we spent as a real family, where the father kisses the family goodbye in the morning to go off to work while we stayed home, or went to the market, visited friends and then all congregated in the evening to eat supper together. I loved these precious times, when we were just the normal Hanis. It felt just like we were the Huxtables.

But sometimes something would happen to jolt me out of my Cosby Show la-la land, like the time that Daddy, clearly without thinking, asked one of us to fetch his gun. You know, normal stuff, just as all fathers do. Khwezi and I both went barrelling out of the room to fetch it, vying with each other as to who would get it first. As we grabbed it simultaneously, Mama walked in to find us wrestling back and forth, tugging at a dangerous weapon, screaming at the top of our lungs, “No, I’ll give it to him! I will!”

After picking her jaw up from the floor, she grabbed the weapon, smacked us both on our heads, and severely berated my father for his carelessness. Needless to say, that was one errand we were never asked to do again.

During our big mid-year holiday we would go off on mini holidays as a family. I particularly loved the road trips where we’d travel together to the Victoria Falls. There’s a photograph of me and Daddy standing close to the thundering falls, him wearing a blue sweatshirt and me in my multicoloured checked shirt. I remember the roaring sound of the water, me clinging to my father, both terrified and excited, while nursing a cut on my hand, which stung like crazy as the powerful spray from the falls drenched us.

One Christmas, I was probably five or six years old, my mother – sorry, Father Christmas – gave me a black baby doll similar to what we know today as Baby Borns. I fell completely in love with this doll, who for some odd reason I christened George. George had to be constantly changed and fed, and I annoyed just about everybody around me, insisting that they babysit. I told Daddy all about George every time he called and, naturally, the next holiday that we saw Daddy, George was taken along to meet Grandpa. Upon arrival in Lusaka, I immediately hoisted George up to Daddy and, to his credit, he acted elated to meet his first grandchild.

There was a day during that week that we had to go out for the whole day and I insisted Daddy look after George while we were out. He tried to explain to me that he had meetings all day and he wasn’t sure whether he could give George his full attention. I promptly insisted that he should take his grandchild along with him. So that’s exactly what my sweet father did. As he got ready to leave the house, he carried George in his arms, much to my delight. Up to this day I’m not sure whether George was left in the car when he met with the comrades – all I know is that George left the house in his grandfather’s arms. What a guy, my dad.

I was around six or seven years old when we went overseas with Daddy for the first time, really over the seas, I mean. Flying to East Germany, part of Soviet Russia, was by far the longest trip I had ever been on.

Daddy’s ties with the Soviets were strong. He had gone into exile to the Soviet Union in 1963, long before I was born. Along with 30 MK cadres, he initially went for six months’ military training but that was extended to a year when many of his comrades were arrested on Liliesleaf Farm back in South Africa. In 1974 Daddy went back to that part of the world, to East Germany, for three months’ military training.

Taking off from the little airport in Maseru on a rickety old plane, then flying to Zambia to meet Daddy, who was waiting for us, to head off in a huge plane, all together as a family over the huge continent of Africa to East Europe, took what felt like forever! What I remember most was the sweet fragrance of summer in Eastern Europe.

On another trip, we went to the seaside on the Baltic, with my parents and Uncle Thabo and Aunt Zanele. I absolutely loved staying in that hotel, which had a glass elevator. My sister Neo and Aunty Zanele really hit it off that holiday, spending hours together doing keep-fit exercises to Jane Fonda videos.

I can still smell the freshly baked bread that seemed to waft from every part of the hotel. I adored spending time with my father, playing in the water alongside him as he swam, and mischievously pressing all the buttons of the elevator just because I could. I can’t remember being quite as carefree and happy as on that holiday.

Then there was the holiday with Daddy when we flew all the way to Russia, where my love affair with collecting teddy bears began, and the rides in Gorky Park spun in my memory long after the holiday ended.

But the highlight of that trip was viewing Lenin’s body displayed in Moscow. We queued in Red Square among hundreds of tourists for what felt like an eternity. I had no idea what we were waiting for, but when I stood in front of the glass coffin I remember that sense of utter amazement. Lenin had died in 1924 at the age of 53, but almost 70 years later his body was still perfectly preserved. It was such a powerful sensation; I just knew that I was witnessing something great. Who would have known that fewer than six years later, I would be standing in front of my own father’s coffin lying in state.

It was such an anti-climax going back home to Lesotho, leaving behind all the exoticism, the new tastes and landscapes of Russia. Home and Maseru meant returning to school, which was a depressing thought on its own. But much more than the onset of school, after spending six whole weeks with Daddy, watching him leave us again left me totally bereft. I had learned to accept that greetings and partings were just the way of our existence and somehow I knew life would carry on regardless.

The year that I turned nine Daddy came to visit us at home in Maseru. I waited at the entrance of Devcourt for what seemed like hours, scanning every vehicle that happened to drive past or stop to see if I could spot his car. When his dark sedan eventually drove through the entrance I began screaming like a banshee while sprinting behind it. The next day was school, and the thrill that my father was going to take me to school for the first time in my life was more than I could bear. I wanted to show him everything, but more importantly I wanted to show him off to all my peers and teachers. In fact, I was hoping that the entire school would notice Daddy by my side – that’s how proud I was of him. All the other kids at school had fathers and mothers who lived together, and now it was my turn to have my perfect little Huxtable family.

That Saturday Prep was holding its inter-house school cross-country races and thereafter the parents were expected to participate. I ran my race as fast as my little legs could carry me, managing to come either first or second. But the price that I paid for my blind enthusiasm was not pacing myself, so I stood for a good 15 minutes after the race, panting like a wild dog, trying to catch my breath. But seeing Daddy bursting with pride made every rasping breath worth it.

Naturally, being the fitness fiend that he was, when Daddy ran the parents’ race, he came in first. As I watched him take the lead, I screamed myself hoarse, “Go, Daddy!” from the sides. I don’t think I had ever experienced a prouder moment.

All too soon, the precious time with Daddy flew by and, without warning, the dreaded moment arrived to say goodbye. Somehow this time felt different, because this time I was not saying goodbye to him in some foreign land. For the first time in my life, since the Lesotho Raids, when I was barely two years old, he had entered the very centre of our existence. Briefly, I had felt the unguarded joy of having him live with us and how it felt to have a father as part of our daily lives. And now he was leaving.