After Tears. Niq Mhlongo

she said, pointing at the newspaper on the kitchen table.

      “No, Mama,” I shook my head, “I don’t want you to go to the abo­ma­shonisa again. You know how those loan sharks are, they’ll take all your money if you fail to pay on time.”

      “Actually, I wasn’t even thinking about them.”

      “Am I missing something here?” I asked as I saw her smile. “Does this mean that the supermarket is paying you well these days?”

      “Are you trying to be funny, Bafana?” she asked, the smile vanishing from her face. “What can I do with R21 an hour, huh? You tell me.”

      “Why don’t you join the workers’ union, Mama?” I asked.

      Mama raised her eyebrows and gave me a sour look. She was sweating a bit above her upper lip.

      “Iyhooo! Do you want them to fire me like they did with the others? Ask Zinhle what they did to her before she completed her nursing course. I can’t risk that! Where will I get the money to put the food on the table if I join the union, huh? Those rich bastards don’t care about us South Africans because of the illegal immigrants. That’s why they were so quick to fire Zinhle in the first place, they know it’s easy to get these amakwere-kwere and underpay them. No, I’ve joined a stokvel society and it’ll be my turn next month. I think I’ll make a good profit. It’ll be way too short to pay for your results, but it’ll be something.”

      By that time Yuri had entered the kitchen, followed by my uncle’s dog, Verwoerd. Every time that I looked at Yuri, he reminded me of the slow, painful death of his mother.

      “Stop that!” Mama shouted at Yuri angrily as he started scratching at his little hand until his skin broke. Then she looked at me and said, “He always does that when he’s hungry. I left his food at home in Naturena.”

      “I don’t mind running to the shop and buying him a kota with cheese and a Vienna,” I offered.

      “No, his sickness requires that I feed him a special diet,” said Mama. “He’s only allowed the chicken stew I make with onion, garlic, potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and green beans. I’ll have to leave for Naturena now,” she said, standing up. “You’ll have to make your own breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

      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