Читать книгу After Tears - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 7

FOUR

Thursday, November 25

The following morning, before she went to work, Mama passed by our house in Chi again. To my utter astonishment, she asked me to draft an advert for the sale of our house. At first I thought my ears were playing elaborate tricks on me, but when she insisted that I should send the advert to the Sowetan newspaper offices in Industria for publication the following day, I realised she was serious. I was completely against the idea because Uncle Nyawana was still living in the house and although my elder uncle, Guava, was in jail for arson and assault, he was still part of our family and it was his house as well. I thought it was unfair of Mama to decide to sell the house without speaking to my uncles.

“But Mama, have you discussed this with my uncles?” I asked.

“There’s no need to do that now. Besides, both of your uncles have RDP houses, in Snake Park and Slovoville respectively. It’s only a matter of time before they leave this house for their low-cost houses.”

“What about the family history in this house? I’m sure we’re not that desperate.”

“You need your results so that you can start earning a salary for yourself, don’t you, Bafana? This house means nothing to the kind of money that you’ll be earning once you’ve become an advocate. You can buy thousands of these houses in just one year,” she said, trying to convince me. “Anyway, all the memories in this place are bad ones. Both your grandparents died here and your uncle Guava went to jail straight from this house. There are no good memories here. Just don’t tell your uncle about our plan yet.”

“Okay, how much shall I advertise it for?”

“What do you think? I mean, there are no improvements; it’s still two bedrooms, a dining room, a kitchen and a small yard. The house isn’t even plastered.”

“But houses are expensive nowadays, Mama.”

“Make it forty thousand then.”

“Okay, fine, Mama.”

As I was talking to Mama in the kitchen I looked out through the dirty window into our small, dusty driveway and saw Priest Mthe­m­bu approaching. He lived in the house at the corner of our street and preached nearby at the Roma church. Looking at the black brief­case that he was carrying, I guessed that he was on his way home from his night shift at the Croesus yeast company.

My uncle had just come out from the toilet after doing his morning ritual and was now smoking a zol under the apricot tree. As Priest Mthembu approached, I called out to my uncle.

“A-ye-ye, Uncle! Sekushubile! Danger! The priest is here,” I warned him, expecting him to put out the zol that he was smoking.

“Yeah, Bafana is right. What will the priest say when he sees you smoking dagga, huh Jabu?” said Mama. “He’ll probably think that we don’t have any respect in this house.”

“Priest Mthembu knows very well that I don’t respect him. He once said to my face that I’m a heathen and will not go to heaven,” responded my uncle.

By a stroke of luck, Priest Mthembu didn’t hear my uncle as he had seen someone he knew and had stopped to greet him.

“And I stopped attending his evangel when he started preaching that Jesus was not the son of Mary and Joseph, but the son of God and the Holy Spirit,” continued my uncle, puffing away at his zol. “We argued a lot about that, Advo,” he said, almost in a whisper, “and that’s when I stormed out of his church because I can’t be taught lies.” He threw the remainder of his zol on the ground.

“Shhhhhh, Jabu! He’s already here,” warned Mama, going into my bedroom where she had left her handbag.

Within seconds Priest Mthembu was knocking at the steel kitchen door.

“Oh my boy, I heard that you had arrived from Cape Town and I thought that I should come and welcome you home,” said Priest Mthembu as I opened the door to him.

“Thank you very much, babuMfundisi. I was thinking of coming to your house yesterday, but then I thought you would be at work,” I lied as he shook my hand.

“I see. Are you coming to church this Sunday?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Sawubona, babuMfundisi,” said Mama, coming out of the bedroom carrying her handbag. “I’m already late for the train. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Before you leave, let us pray for the unborn child,” said Priest Mthembu. “Father,” he started as we obediently closed our eyes, “we thank you for your marvellous gift. During this time of waiting, we ask you to protect and nurture the mysterious stirrings of life. May our child come safely into the light of the world. Mother of God, we entrust our child to your loving heart. Egameni lika Yise, uNyana noMoya oyingcwele. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen!” He made a cross on his chest.

“Amen, babuMfundisi! Let me go before the train comes,” Mama insisted.

“I’m also not staying. I was just passing by to see Bafana here and to remind him to come to church on Sunday. The choir misses him.” He turned to Uncle Nyawana who had just come through the kitchen door and asked, “You’re coming along, Jabu, aren’t you?”

It was the first time that I had ever heard someone from outside my family use my uncle’s real name. Ever since he had lost his leg in the accident people had called him uNyawana. Although it’s an uncomplimentary nickname, my uncle never complained.

“No, church and I don’t mix and you know that, babuMfundisi,” said Uncle Nyawana, going into his bedroom.

“I’m not losing hope, Jabu,” responded Priest Mthembu, pointing after my uncle. “You must know that God loves you.”

* * *

My uncle only came out of his room when Priest Mthembu had left for his own house. By then Mama had also left for work.

“Hhola, Uncle, it seems you don’t believe in Jesus,” I said.

“It’s not a question of believing in God or Jesus, my laaitie. It’s whether They believe what is important to me. I might not be educated like you, but I’m not an idiot. How can I believe in a man who was convinced that His own mother, Mary, was a virgin? Just look at it, Advo! She carried Him for nine full pregnant and painful months, but Jesus still denied that Mary was His own mother.”

“But I already promised Priest Mthembu that we’re coming to his church together this Sunday,” I teased. “Is that the only reason you won’t come with me?”

“I grew up respecting my parents, Advo,” he said. “Even though my father was a drunk, I still respected him. Jesus never did that to His parents. He disowned them.”

I laughed out loud while my uncle limped to his room and came out with a glass full of whisky. He stopped and took a sip before belching loudly.

“Ahhhhh! This is my Garden of Eden. I tell you, Advo, if Jesus and God were not dead, They would come down from heaven to have a sip with me. This would make Them forget Their Christian confusion.” He kissed his glass and laughed at his own joke.

“But, Uncle, we must be thankful for the life that God gave us,” I said.

“Life! Come on, Advo,” shouted my uncle. “I’m not going to waste my time bribing God with prayers. Whatever I say to Him, He won’t bring back the leg that I lost twelve years ago.”

“Let’s leave God out of this, Uncle,” I said, trying to change the topic.

“To tell you the truth, Advo, it was not a mistake or oversight that I lost my leg. God did it deliberately to punish me because I was a tsotsi.” He pointed at his stump. “It was part of His plan that I should be a cripple from the age of twenty-nine.”

Memories of the day of his accident started to flood into my mind. I recalled coming home from school with my sister, Nina, and hearing that my uncle was in hospital, but I wanted him to tell me more about it.

“What happened on the day you lost your leg, Uncle?” I asked.

“It’s a long story, Advo. Let’s not even go there.”

“But I want to know, Uncle,” I insisted.

“Okay, okay, I’m only telling you this on condition that the first thing you do as an advocate next year is to sue Transnet for millions.”

Silence fell for a while as my uncle took another sip from his glass.

“Well, it happened a very long time ago, in 1987. Let me see, how old were you then?” He scratched his head. “I think you were about four or five years old, a real pikinini. You were still sucking Rea’s breasts.”

“No, Uncle, I was nine in 1987,” I corrected him.

“Yeah, but I remember the popular beer was Lion Lager then.”

“Okay, fine with Lion Lager and my age now, Uncle. I want to know what happened to your leg,” I said, interrupting his thoughts. “Tell me everything.”

“All right then. It happened on my way home from Jozi. I was with PP and we were empty-handed. Then inside the garo I saw this woman sitting alone at the far end of the coach. Some smokser came in selling ice cream and the woman opened her purse for some money. Inside it . . . Advo, phew!” He whistled. “There were bank­notes this thick.” He demonstrated, using his forefinger and thumb. “PP saw her as well.”

“So you and PP have always been bra’s and tsotsis?”

“We’ve been friends for a very long time, since we were pikininis, my laaitie. We dropped out of school at the same time because isi­ge­le was just not meant for us. It was meant for people like Dilika.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh, I think the woman was going to Vreega with the train, so I looked around and aimed at her purse. As the garo picked up speed away from the station, PP was already at the sliding door blocking it with his body so that it didn’t close. We were good at sparapara and that’s why we were planning to come out with the purse while the train was still moving, but as I stepped out, holding the purse, I tripped and fell.”

My uncle suddenly stopped his narration. His sausage-like fingers were nursing the whisky glass on his palm. There was an expression of bitterness on his face.

“I’m telling you this because I’m glad ugelezile. You’re educated. You’re going to be an advocate next year and not a tsotsi like most boys here in Chi.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“I want us to sue Transnet for my lost leg. Yeah, we must sue them,” he repeated.

“On what grounds are we going to sue them, Uncle?” I asked.

“You know what, Advo? Some people say that I was pushed off the train by a security guard who worked for Transnet. They say that he was inside the train and heard the woman’s cry for help.”

“Do you have enough evidence for that, Uncle? I mean, did you see him push you?”

“My witness is PP. He says that he saw the guy push me, but I don’t remember anything. All I know is that my leg was amputated below the knee three days later.”