After Tears. Niq Mhlongo

seconds I was back with the title deed. Mama was right, the house belonged to Mr Sibusiso Kuzwayo, my late grandfather, who passed away in 1992. According to the document, the title right of the former council house was bestowed on him on the 10th of June in 1989 at the cost of R1 300. There was no indication in the document that the house had once belonged to some John Sekoto. Mama showed the document to the old man with confidence.

      “Ahhh, I sensed this was going to happen,” said the old man, flushing with rage. “I knew it. Your father arranged that title deed when he heard I had been committed to Weskoppies.”

      “That’s not important now, is it?” interrupted my uncle. “It’s your problem if you think that my father robbed you of this house. Don’t make your problem ours. My father knew you were mad, but this house legally belongs to the Kuzwayo family, so you must fuck off.”

      The humiliation on the old man’s dark face was plain, but my doubts about his claim had started to abandon me. I believed him. When I looked into his eyes again I felt pity for him and, in that moment, I began to dislike my uncle and Mama’s attitude towards him. The manner in which they talked to him was disrespectful and Mama had raised me to always be respectful to the elders.

      “But it’s my house. You have no right,” insisted the old man.

      “Uyabhema yini, mkhulu?” asked my uncle in a condescending tone. “I think you must have smoked a lot of zol because you don’t listen! I told you not to come here again with your bullshit stories. It seems you didn’t take me seriously then?” he said, his tone full of manufactured anger.

      The old man didn’t answer, but he looked intimidated.

      “Now, let me be fair with you, madala, because I hate bullshit! I tell you for the last time,” Uncle Nyawana shouted impatiently, as if he had reached the limit of his tolerance with the old man, “if you want to know what the devil looks like, just come here again and I’ll show you. Do you hear me, madala? I’ll cut your crazy head off with that axe over there and feed it to my dog, Verwoerd.”

      The old man stood up, but his eyes were darting into the four corners of our kitchen.

      “But I want my house back. I’m giving you two months’ notice,” he insisted nervously. “If I have to go to the highest court in the land to get back what rightfully belongs to me, I will,” he said, standing at the door. “I can’t allow somebody to be the proud owner of my house. The umbilical cords of my two sons are buried in this yard.”

      “Who do you think you are to come here with your old useless papers and claim this house is yours, huh?” Mama demanded angrily. “Hamba! Go away!”

      I felt very sorry for the old man as he walked out of our house with the submissiveness of a man who had just lost a fight. I watched him turning his head to look at both ends of the street as soon as he was at the end of the yard. It was as if he were debating with himself which way to go.

      SIX

      Wednesday, December 1

      The following day I found myself sitting behind our family house next to Uncle Nyawana’s fruit-and-vegetable stall. In his left hand, my uncle was holding what he called his dream notebook, which he used to play fah-fee. Verwoerd was curled at my uncle’s feet with one eye open, watching me. I was sitting on an empty beer crate that was turned upside down. A pair of shears were on the ground in front of me as I’d been busy trimming the lawn since eight that morning. I was just about to wipe away the sweat that was streaming down my face when my cellphone started to ring and the name Mama appeared on the small screen.

      “Hi, Mama.”

      “Hello, baby, how are you this morning?”

      “I’m fine, Mama.”

      “Listen, I’m calling to ask you for a favour. I can see that your uncle is not concerned about it, but I am. I want you to go to the local Housing Department.” She paused.

      “Where’s that?” I asked.

      “I don’t know exactly, but I think it’s somewhere in Jo’burg city centre. I’m sure you’ll find it. I want you to go there and make certain that we are the rightful owners of the house.”

      “Okay, Mama. When do you want me to go there?”

      “As soon as possible, today or tomorrow at the latest.”

      “Okay, I’ll go tomorrow morning,” I said. “It’s already late today and the queue there must be very long by now.”

      “Please do that. I’ll see you in the morning . . . Oh, by the way, I saw a job advert in today’s Star. There is a company that is looking for a legal adviser. That’s why we have to get your results as soon as possible. The house must be sold or else you’ll lose out on opportunities like this one. Your profession is in high demand, Bafana. I’ll come with the newspaper in the morning.”

      “But, Mama, I think they’re looking for experienced people.”

      “Oh, they only need two years’ experience and that’s nothing, you meet all the other requirements. Just tell them that you’re fresh from one of the country’s biggest law schools.”

      “Okay, Mama. If you come with the advert I’ll try to apply,” I said hesitantly, afraid to disappoint her.

      “All right, baby, but you really must apply for this job. Let me read the benefits to you,” she said excitedly. “The salary range is R290 000 to R350 000 per annum. Uh, there is a thirteenth cheque as well and all they want is your LLB degree. That one you have, baby. They also need basic computer literacy and good listening skills, which I’m sure is nothing to you.”

      “Fine, Mama, I’ll try.”

      I finished talking on my cellphone and put it on the brick next to the lawn. My uncle was standing right behind me, but he seemed to be concentrating on his notebook rather than on the conversation I had just had with Mama.

      “So, tell me, Advo, what did you dream about last night?” he asked, scratching out something in his notebook with his pen.

      “Let me think, Uncle,” I responded, wiping away the sweat that was running down my face with the T-shirt that I was wearing.

      “We don’t have much time, Advo,” he said, his eyes swinging in the direction of maMfundisi’s house. “That Chinese man, Liu, is coming in thirty minutes to collect all the bets.”

      “Okay, give me a minute to remember, Uncle.”

      “At ten o’clock that Fong Kong will be here.”

      “All right, that dream is coming now, Uncle.”

      He looked down at my watch, which he was wearing without my permission. Impatiently, he tucked his crutches under his arms and limped towards the low fence. He put his right hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun.

      At the corner of the street a group of women had gathered and, within seconds, Priest Mthembu’s wife, maMfundisi, appeared. Not only was she Priest Mthembu’s wife, which is why we called her maMfundisi, but she was also the person who ran the fah-fee game in our part of Chi. I had heard from my uncle that her husband wasn’t aware that she was involved in fah-fee. The money bags that she was carrying were to be given to Liu.

      Upon seeing maMfundisi, my uncle shouted, “I’m on my way, maMfundisi! Please wait for my bet!”

      My uncle gave me an impatient stare as if he had just found a fresh reason to be angry with me.

      “Please hurry, Advo! Liu will be here any moment now.”

      “Okay, Uncle, it was a bad dream that I had last night and I’m not sure if I should tell you about it.”

      “That’s fine, my laaitie, every dream has a number and a meaning in this game.”

      “All right, Uncle . . .”