After Tears. Niq Mhlongo

home that he would never work for white people and therefore there was no reason for him to be educated, but in actual fact we all knew that he was just too lazy to look for a real job.

      “Don’t listen to Dilika, my Advo!” Uncle Nyawana said, smiling. “Let me tell you a secret. In our time we were only educated to speak Kaffirkaans. That’s the reason I was at the forefront of the 1976 Soweto uprising with Tsietsi Mashinini and others.”

      We all laughed, but PP’s deep-throated laughter drowned every­body else’s. We knew that my uncle wasn’t telling the truth. I guess he was probably out in the township robbing people when the uprising occurred.

      “Read my lips, these kids of today are lucky,” interrupted Dilika. “Just look at Advo! Young as he is, he’s already going to be an advocate.”

      A wide smile spread to every corner of my uncle’s light-skinned face.

      We were now in Chi and Zero turned into our street. We passed the Tsakani meat market which, as usual, was crowded with people roasting their meat, washing their expensive cars and drinking alcohol. From the open window of the BMW I could smell the appetising scent of braai in the air.

      Next to the meat market was a beautiful pink house that, some five months earlier, had been an ordinary four-roomed township house belonging to a woman we called maMshangaan. It had been extended while I’d been away, and in addition to the high walls and the paved driveway, the house also had a satellite dish on its tiled roof. I concluded, without asking my uncle, that the owner had become a serious businesswoman, who no longer sold smiley namanqina.

      My uncle’s dog, Verwoerd, was sleeping under the apricot tree as the BMW entered our small, dusty driveway. Uncle Nyawana got out of the car first and immediately the dog jumped towards him and nuzzled his hand. But Verwoerd wasn’t impressed by my presence. As soon as I climbed out of the car, he gazed at me once with his jewelled eyes, then wrinkled his black lips up to show his fangs before he started barking.

      “Hey, voetsek, Verwoerd! Uyabandlulula! You discriminate! This is my laaitie, you no longer remember him?” my uncle said, trying to silence his dog.

      THREE

      Wednesday, November 24, Soweto

      I was still in my boxers, the first cigarette of the morning between my fingers, when I heard someone approaching the house. I knew that it was Mama because she walked very slowly with a heavy tread. I hadn’t expected her to visit us so early in the morning as a few months earlier she had moved in with her lover, Uncle Thulani, in Naturena. In fact, she was three-and-a-half months pregnant with his child.

      When I heard Mama’s keys jingling at the door, I immediately pressed the burning tip of my cigarette with my fingers to extinguish it. Only my uncle suspected that I smoked and I didn’t want Mama to find out.

      “Hawu, hawu, hawu! Now that I live in Naturena, Jabu has turned this house into a breeding ground for cockroaches,” Mama protested loudly, using Uncle Nyawana’s real name. “Sies, man!” she said to herself. “Where are the men of this house? Is anybody home?”

      I didn’t answer. I could hear some kwaito coming from inside my uncle’s room and I thought that he would answer, but he didn’t. I guess he was still in the toilet outside.

      My uncle would lock himself inside the toilet for about an hour every morning. Inside he performed a strange ritual which involved syringing himself with warm water mixed with Jeyes Fluid. He was convinced that by doing his ukupeyta he would clear his mind and be able to focus on his business as a fruit-and-vegetable vendor at the back of our house. He also believed that ukupeyta and ukupha­laza were the only ways to get rid of bad luck and township witchcraft. In a way I regretted ignoring his advice. Maybe I would have passed my law exams if I had listened to him, but, unfortunately, I just found his morning practice of ukupeyta and ukuphalaza very funny as he would repeatedly curse every time he drove the hollow needle into his arse.

      In the kitchen I heard plastic bags rustling and then, a few seconds later, Mama burst into a personal rendition of a kwaito song by Bongo Muffin that was coming from my uncle’s radio.

Thathi’s sgubu usfak’ezozweni.	(Take the drum and put it in the shack.)
Ufak’amspeks uzobuzwa . . .	(Put on your glasses and you’ll feel . . .)
Ubumnandi obulapho.	(The joy that is there.)

      I laughed inside my room as I imagined the meaning of the song and my overweight mother singing it. She paused and called my name again.

      “Bafana! Are you still in bed in there, my son?” she shouted.

      “I’m here, Mama.”

      “I haven’t seen you for ages. Wake up and come have breakfast with me while we chat. I want you to tell me everything about Cape Town, and I mean, everything. I bought you a newspaper as well. They’re looking for a legal adviser in this advert.”

      “I’m coming, Mama.”

      “Sheshisa! Hurry up! I’m dying to see how my boy looks. Five months is a very long time for a mother not to see her son. And Yuri’s here too.”

      Yuri was my ten-year-old cousin whose mother, Aunt Thandi, had died of Aids-related diseases at the age of twenty-seven. Aunt Thandi was Mama’s younger sister. On her death certificate it said that she had died of tuberculosis, chronic diarrhoea and pneumonia.

      Two days before she passed away, my sickly Aunt Thandi had called me into her bedroom with a feeble wave of her thin hand and asked me to help her remove a big rock from her chest. She had been coughing badly; coughing up slime and blood.

      I still wish I could have helped Aunt Thandi to remove the rock but I didn’t see any such thing when I got there. When I tried to tell her about the rock she asked me to help her turn over, but I was afraid of touching her. She was so thin and weak that I was sure that if I touched her, I would catch her disease.

      My family had chosen to believe Aunt Thandi’s infection was a result of negligence by the hospital. It was said that some time back, before Yuri’s birth, Aunt Thandi had been involved in a car accident and had lost a lot of blood. At the hospital she was given a blood transfusion and that was how she had contracted HIV.

      “Wow, look at you! I like that complexion,” said Mama as soon as I walked into the kitchen, wearing my fur-lined slippers. “Come here and give Mama a big hug.”

      She squeezed me hard against her enormous pear-shaped breasts as if I had been lost for a decade.

      “You look fine too, Mama.”

      “So, tell me about your university results,” she said, as soon as she let go of me. “I know that my boy has done well. I can’t wait to see you in a suit with that black gown that lawyers and advocates wear in court!”

      “Eeee-eh . . .” my reply was slow to come, “that’s what I was hoping to discuss with you, Mama.”

      “What happened? Do you want to take me to the graduation ceremony? I don’t mind going to Cape Town with you even though I’m like this . . .” She rubbed her belly. “It would be a great opportunity because I’ve never been to the Mother City. I was talking about it with Zinhle when we saw a nice dress at Southgate Mall the other day. I wanted to buy it specially for your big day.”

      “No, Mama. The university has withheld my results because I owe them money,” I lied. “So, until I’ve paid them, they won’t give me the results.”

      “That university is very greedy! How do they think you’ll become an advocate without your results, huh?” she asked crossly. “Tell them that you’ll settle your debts when you’re working as an advocate next year. I’m sure they can give you an extension?”

      “I tried that, Mama, but they wouldn’t listen to me.”

      “Ag, shame, my baby! Don’t stress . . .” She tried to comfort me by hugging me again. “I’m sure we can make a plan.”

      I shrugged and looked at Mama.