Читать книгу The Book of ProVerb - Tebogo Thekisho - Страница 9

My heart speaks in the language of heartbeats

My heart speeds when glad

When sad my heart bleeds

Some things are easier to talk about than others. When I was a youngster, I was significantly closer to my mother, Nomonde, than I was to my dad, yet it has always been much easier to talk about him. Perhaps it’s because my mother and I had a fairly turbulent relationship, although this never changed the fact that I loved and respected her. My older cousins used to call her Sisi. I picked up on this as a toddler, and started calling her Si for short.

In the early days of my career, Si did not like that I had chosen to be a rapper. As my career progressed, however, she became aware of all the radio and TV shows I appeared on, and her attitude started to improve. She’d read magazine and newspaper articles about me and keep the clippings in a file, so she got on top of my career quite impressively.

For almost 35 years, my mom was a highly respected lecturer in social sciences at the University of the North West in Mafikeng, which used to be known as Unibo – the University of Bophuthatswana. She then became a professor after attaining her first PhD. She loved her students dearly and referred to them as her ‘kids’. Often, they would update her on anything they’d read or heard about me in the media. When we spoke, she’d start a sentence with the words, ‘One of my kids said’ and then recount the latest story.

It blew my mind when she referred to me by my stage name, ProVerb, for the first time, in a conversation with her friends. It was a real turning point! Even more special was that she sent me an SMS after every Idols SA episode to discuss what she’d found interesting, from funny moments and participants’ interactions to a mistake I might have made. I like to end the live episodes with a quote, and if I quoted biblical scripture, man, she would sing my praises! I could feel her beaming with pride.

My parents separated in 1983, when I was two, and divorced in 1986. I’d been living with my grandmother from the day I was born, so the divorce did not really affect me. Despite my parents’ busy schedules, they were very active in my life, which I really appreciated, especially because I was in boarding school from the age of twelve. Si wanted me to attend a better school, so in 1993 I moved to Mmabatho to enrol at the International School of Bophuthatswana, now known as the International School of South Africa.

This brought me closer to Unibo, where my mom was lecturing, so even though I was a full-time boarder, I got to see her much more often. At the end of every term, she’d pick me up so that I could spend the break with her, unless of course it was Pa’s turn to have me over for the holidays, which happened more frequently when I was in high school.

Si was raised by my grandmother, whom I fondly called Mami, in Greenpoint, Kimberley. She was an only child. Although she became an academic with two PhDs, she always tried to convince me that she was never academically inclined in any way. I’m sure she only said that because I wasn’t academic at all, and she just wanted to make me feel better about myself. I mean, she was a professor, after all!

My mom was an incredibly focused, forward-thinking person who always planned ahead. She paid my school fees ahead of time and, when I was in college, she ensured that my meal card was always loaded with money. I do have to mention, though, that she was quite strict in raising me. I am talking about a time when physical discipline was very much a part of people’s childhoods, including my own. So yes, I grew up with the belt, the slipper and the backhand, all of which my mother used frequently, because I was so naughty. Physical punishment is now frowned upon, but I am grateful for it, because it made me a better person.

Today, when I have a decision to make, I still think about what Si would have said about it. It could be about something as basic as wanting to get a tattoo; my mom believed they were the work of the devil! When I was in Standard 7 (now Grade 9) at the CBC in Kimberley, I kept a Flipfile as a rhyme book. I would write lyrics on a computer, print them out and then place them in the plastic sleeves of the file, believing that one day I would become a superstar rapper. Unfortunately, my mom found my file, and was very disappointed in me because some of the lyrics contained swear words. She warned me that if she ever saw that ‘rubbish’ again, there would be hell to pay!

As a result of that incident, I’ve always been conscious of how I present my content. I cleaned up my act even more when Si started listening to my music. Not only did I become more selective with my words, I also chose topics that wouldn’t result in additional reprimands. I became more responsible about and aware of the messages I was sending out to the public. I thank my mom for this, because it shaped what I stand for as a person and as a brand.

I am strategic about the products and services I endorse, and I am careful not to compromise what I stand for. All of that is informed by the foundation my mom laid for me. I don’t pass judgement on people who endorse things I would not, because I don’t consider myself better than them. It’s just how I was raised, and that’s who I really am.

So although my mother was very strict, just like my dad, she never wrote me off, despite having many reasons to do so. I didn’t take advantage of the opportunities afforded to me. Even though I attended a private school, I barely passed. And when my mom enrolled me at an international school, I performed even worse. I was a spoilt brat who didn’t put in any effort. I just wanted to become a rapper, which was all I excelled at, except for playing tennis, which I also enjoyed. I have no doubt that a lot of who I am today comes from Si, such as being a planner who thinks ahead. She drilled that into me, although I believe she wasn’t really conscious of it.

I generally strive to live a debt-free life because Si always told me to plan for the future and save as much as I could while living modestly. My children’s 2020 school fees were paid up by the middle of 2019! But I try to find a middle ground between planning ahead and living my life spontaneously. With my mom, there were no grey areas – life was either black or white. She was decisive and had a solution for every challenge we faced. As a believer, her Christian background was a strong force in how she shaped her existence, and it was also how she raised her children.

As I got older, our relationship became more challenging. I was growing into the person I am today and becoming more of an individual. I started thinking for myself, and I had a lot of ideas on how I wanted to live my life, which she didn’t always agree with. When I was about twenty- one, I wanted to get my own place, but Si didn’t think I was ready. My first car was a Toyota Tazz, but a few years after I got it I wanted to upgrade to a Corolla – their latest sedans had just been released and I loved them. Si wasn’t having any of it, because she thought a Corolla was too grown up for me. She drove all the way from Mafikeng to my home in Johannesburg to discuss this with me, and we eventually reached a compromise. She convinced me to go for the Toyota RunX instead, as it looked spunkier.

When my girlfriend Onalerona Moreo fell pregnant, I wanted to marry her after our baby was born, but my mom didn’t approve. She wanted us to get married before the baby came. This caused so much friction between us that she didn’t attend my wedding, even though it took place before the birth, as she had insisted. I had really wanted her there.

Years later she came round and embraced my marriage, but held on to her opinions about how and when she would have liked the events in my life to have happened. We had periods where we wouldn’t talk to each other, and during my divorce we drifted further apart because she wasn’t happy with how things were transpiring. She was also based in North West at the time and because our schedules were not always aligned, we’d only see each other about twice a year, although occasionally we’d all meet up in Kimberley at my grandmother’s house. At one point I had a lot of gigs in Kimberley, as I was raised there, but even then I mostly saw only my grandmother.

In the end, my mom and I made up, thanks to an article in one of the Sunday papers. The first relationship I’d had after my divorce had just ended, and she’d read about this in the news. She called to me say, ‘Hey wena, what’s this I hear?’

It was awesome to hear from her after two years of radio silence, and she might just have needed a convenient reason to reconnect. ‘Are you now dating again?’ she asked. ‘Does she know you have kids?’ It made me chuckle.

From then on we were really close and spoke every weekend. My proudest moment came in December 2017, when I invited her and my extended family over for Christmas. Before that, my mother didn’t really understand what was happening in my career, although she’d been supportive throughout. She’d seen me on TV and read articles about me, but she’d never quite comprehended how much my career had advanced. She used to look at me in a certain way, as this kid for whom she’d had high hopes. Even though I turned out okay, my achievements never quite reached the level she had set for me in her mind. But that December, as we caught up, she got a better sense of what I did for a living, and where and how I lived. From then on, she looked at me differently.

Unfortunately, as fate would have it, it was the last time I would see her alive. She passed away the following April, a week after my birthday. I got very emotional when I told this story on stage a few years ago.

As a man raised by strong, opinionated matriarchs who played a huge role in my life, I see women as leading forces in society. Men may have built the world, but it’s run by women. A man’s job is to look after the nuts and bolts of life, but the machine is steered by the better gender. My daughter is headstrong, and that’s not my doing. I swear it’s almost a default setting in her, which I encourage.

My mother had planned to retire in 2018, as her health was beginning to decline. She didn’t share much about what was wrong with her, but I knew she was having issues with her thyroid and suffered from arthritis. I knew about the thyroid problem because she used it as an excuse for the weight she’d gained. Whenever we spent time together, I’d suggest that we go for a walk, but she’d always respond along the lines of, ‘You know my thyroid, that’s why ke le mokima so (I’m so fat).’

Si had a great sense of humour and could have us in stitches in seconds. She was usually the centre of attention in a gathering and had a story to tell about everybody. She would stand up, mimic a character’s voice and say, ‘Mang mang na etsa so (This is what that person was doing).’ I laugh just thinking about it.

An important lesson I learnt from her passing is that we get so caught up in thinking of our demise that we stop living. For a long time Si had wanted to go on a holiday cruise, and to buy her dream car – a Mercedes-Benz. She often told us how much she wanted to drive that car, but never got to. She didn’t go on the cruise either.

I’ve learnt to live my life to the full. I get that we should plan and save for the future, and put money away for our children and our retirement and all that. But we must also live life and do the things we want to do, the things that keep us excited.

My mother always had her ducks in a row, though, which is one of the things I really respected about her. Closer to her death, I sensed that she knew she didn’t have much time left, because she would text me and my little sister, Tumelo, to tell us which assets she owned and how she was going to delay buying the car because she felt her health was failing.

I didn’t want to have those unsettling conversations with her; who wants to contemplate the worst? I still have the last message she sent me saved on my phone; I will never erase it. In the end, I believed she was at peace and had accepted that she was going to leave us. By communicating with us, she gave us peace as well. My biggest joy is that my mom passed away when we were in a really, really good place, and she was proud of me. I know she loves me from all the way up there.

One thing I know for sure is that life is going to happen, and if you spend your time feeling anything but happy, you are squandering that period of your time here on earth. Think of all the times you have been sad, miserable or unhappy. If you add that up, it equals the amount of time you’ve wasted in your life. Bear in mind, too, that getting up to mischief, making bad decisions and being irresponsible are all part of living a life. I am not just talking about the so-called pretty parts. All of it is a part of your experience as a human. Remember, you stop living when you spend your time being unhappy and holding onto things that no longer serve you. It’s true what they say: there is more power in the present, so be here, in this moment, because you will never get it back.

I inherited my folks’ big personalities. They could effortlessly command an audience in a crowd or lecture room. My mother joked about this, saying, ‘Tebo man, wa bona ha o le mo TV (you see when you are on TV), you know you got that from me,’ and I believed her.

Si spent her final days being cared for by her mother in Kimberley, her health deteriorating rapidly. Mami kept me informed of her condition and called me around the clock to keep me updated. Sometimes Si was able to speak, and we would chat for a bit.

On 19 April 2018, Mami called me in the evening and said, ‘Just so you know, your mother has collapsed. The paramedics are here with her, but I want you to know that I don’t think it’s going to go well.’ I started mentally preparing to go home to Kimberley. Mami called again shortly afterwards: ‘Tebo, your mother has passed away. They couldn’t revive her.’

In that moment I felt calm and clear. I knew that I had to be strong for my little sister Tumelo, my kids, my grandmother and the rest of our family. As Si’s eldest child I had to be their pillar of strength, and I understood this immediately. I also had to notify my dad. My grandmother had called Tumelo, who was in Cape Town and got to Kimberley sooner than me. I had to cancel a couple of appointments and only arrived a few days later.

I was comforted by friends and family in Johannesburg who came over to my house to offer their condolences. As the first-born child, it fell on me to arrange the funeral, which I did jointly with my little sister. I really marvel at God’s timing, because all of this happened when we were in a sound financial position and able to give our mother the most dignified send-off. Mami often sang our praises for it, saying that we buried our mother with respect and dignity. Mami also shared a powerful story with us, telling us that on the night of Si’s passing, she had asked for a Bible, which Mami had handed to her. She took her final breath a couple of hours later, knowing where she was going. This reassures me that she did not have an unhappy passing; she was ready and at peace.

I miss how strict, steadfast, headstrong and uncompromising she was as a person. You could not debate or challenge her on anything without knowing your stuff. She always stood up for what she believed in, even until the very end. I really admire that quality in a person. As a Christian, she could quote the Bible back to front, and was always clear about what she stood for and against – there was no middle ground.

I find it admirable when people are so sure of who they are, as some of us can be easily swayed by others’ opinions and viewpoints. Even though Si had her own dream for me when I was young, when she started supporting my career, she outsupported everyone else. Man, she would tell me all the time, ‘Go for it, my child! Just do it. I saw how you commanded the audience, and I just loved it.’

On one occasion I had a performance in Kimberley, and Si and Mami picked me up at the airport because I hadn’t rented a car. I told them not to attend the event, and specifically said, ‘Please don’t come, it would be weird.’ And guess what? After the event, when they came to pick me up, they told me that they’d loved my performance. They had watched me on stage the whole time. Before that, I had never rapped or performed in front of them, and I couldn’t believe they’d watched me without my knowledge. If I had known they were there, I would have felt embarrassed. In hindsight, I am glad they saw me perform.

Si was an exceptional grandmother to my children, Ditshupo and Kgosi, and always spoilt them rotten. Sometimes she’d even book me and my wife into a hotel so that she could have the kids all to herself at home. If you didn’t know us, you would have thought my wife and I existed only as a lift club to transport the children to her. My mother simply doted on them. I used to joke and say, ‘Nna ge (What about me)? Before your grandkids were born I used to be the main guy, mara ke tswile fashioneng mo (but it looks like you’ve forgotten about me).’ We’d laugh about it.

She never said no to Ditshupo and Kgosi. They got everything they wanted, much to their parents’ horror. There isn’t much to do in Kimberley, but Si took them to every cool, child-friendly place she could think of. She loved taking them to the movies and would let them eat takeaways all the time. One year, Ditshupo and Kgosi visited her during their school holidays and picked up quite a bit of weight – I imagine they were force-fed day and night. My children and their grandma had some beautiful times together; I am sure they miss her as much as I do.

Si had attained her second doctorate by the time she passed. Like me, she never settled – she was always pushing herself to be better and achieve more. I admired the way she pursued her goals and then knocked them out the park. I miss listening in on the intellectual conversations she and my dad used to have. Because they were both academically inclined, they connected on that level, which I always found interesting and special.

Rest in peace, Si. You did an amazing job raising me, Tumelo and my own children, and I know you are smiling down on us every day. We miss you dearly, and even though your loss still hurts, we will continue your amazing legacy.