In the year 2017, The Witness, a South African based newspaper company held yearly True Stories competition, in which readers could write their true life stories for a winning prize. As a creative human, I decided I should write one of my stories, I entered the competition quite often, eliminated in the semi-finals at most times; this story is the one that took me through to the finals. I want to post it here as it was back then.
“Life, death and the hand of fate”
BORN A STEREOTYPE
It’s strange how at the moment you need something the most, it comes through. Similar to most black children in my “Rainbow nation” South Africa, I too was raised to a father who denied me. Growing up to the age I am at now, I only ever met my biological father four times.
1. Order
I was about 6/7 years old when I heard my mother fighting with Thulani, who at that time I believed was my father. She called out to me. She had packed all her belongings including mine, and we were leaving. She reached, I reached out and we left. Goodbye Copesville. Weeks later my mother constantly kept reminding me that when I get to court, I must say my father is a man called Fani and not Thulani who I had believed was my father. As a child I listened, confused; hours later we got inside the court and there he was, Fani an older reflection of my own face. That was the first time I met my biological father, across the court denying that I was his child.
2. Behind bars
Months, if not years passed without having seen the man’s face again. It Was almost Christmas time and my mother called my older sister from my father’s side; in chatter between the two I was being led by my sister to my second meeting with my biological father, so I can ask for some Christmas clothes, which in black people language refers to money. We reached his work place somewhere in Willowton if I remember, we waited for what felt like hours and then I saw this huge figure of a man walking towards us as we stood by the gate. I hid behind my older sister, the gate never opened; he stood behind the gate bars. Somewhere in the conversation Christmas clothes were mentioned, he reached into his pocket and called out to me “Mfana, woza la” (come here, boy) didn’t even use my name. I creep towards this man; he gives me a R10 note. To be fair at that time R10 was worth a lot more than it is now. I took it, ran back to my sister. Ironically my sister would be the same person that brought us together years later for our third encounter.
3. Lifetime sentence
I grew up with other men I called father, and some felt like strangers, some tried giving me love, but there was always something in me that told me, I technically don’t have a father, especially when other kids in Primary and High School would place their fathers on podiums as heroes. In Standard 10 (Grade 12), I was 16 years old when I was called to my grandmother’s place to come see my older sister. She was very ill, I arrived after school sat next to her, and I could not recognise her. Her body had lost its former glory; she talked to me like I was still her little tiny brother; tears fell from my face slowly. I asked her if “her dad” had come to see her, she said ‘NO’. I was angry, my eyes began to twitch, a reaction I usually have when I am really angry, I began to bulge in my jaws. She looked at me and she talked to grandma about how grown up I was, that I will be a great man someday. I cried some more, mixed with anger I was basically a wreck. I left, a few weeks later she passed away. On her funeral day I came back to grandma’s house. I don’t know why I was going to the back yard but I did; as I turned around the corner there he was, my biological father coming out of the loo. I was angry, I wanted to jump him right there, shove him back inside the lavatory with his head facing down. Of course I did not. I walked closer, he walked closer. He said NOTHING, not Hi! Hello! Sawubona! Mfanami! Nothing just looked through me like I was tissue that he had wiped his ass with, perhaps the tissue meant more at least he held it a bit. That was it, he vanished again.
I always found it strange that for black people (stereotyping I know), you tend to meet distant relatives on mostly three occasions: Traditional events, Weddings and Funerals, more in funerals than the latter.
4. Death
I was now a young adult, well I grew up really fast as I had to play the man/father for all my siblings, from my mother’s side, not a rare thing really so I was a “man”. I was in varsity 20 years old (2011), living on Financial Aid, I mention (FA) because it is important in this true narrative. I was paving my own journey as a man. Walking in the street towards a private residence, Aloes by South Gate Spar, by the ‘robots’ I see my grandma in a Cab. I knock and
greet as I pass, she asks the driver to stop. She opens the door and throws herself to me in tears “Ubabakho useshonile mtanami” (You father has passed) I am here admitting that no emotions fell upon me, I only felt sorry for grandma’s tears. She wanted me to come with her, I lied about school work. I didn’t want to go to the funeral, I saw no point, and my mother begged me so we went together. We agreed she would be sitting next to me the whole time. As we sat under the tent people kept coming to me, most in tear kept crying “He looks exactly like him” and they would cry even more. I sat next to people who I believed were strangers, we all stood up to look at this man’s face for one last time. The strangers walked before me, my turn came I walked closer and there he was, the fourth time I was meeting my biological father in a deep sleep never to be disturbed. I looked at my own reflection. For a brief moment, just a moment, I felt sad for him. He will never get to know how cool I was, I told myself. I went to sit down again with the strangers, only to be told that these strangers were my own brothers and sisters. Here we were meeting each other for the first time, I was taken back, and so many children this man gave life to. I was told that there were children who weren’t here. I felt angry again, I had brothers and sisters who names I didn’t even know, what a waste of lifetime of bonding.
We traveled by bus to his final resting place, in my pocket I had a R10 note. Here is what my plan was: when the coffin went down I was going to give this man the only amount of money I ever remember him giving me in my own hand. I was going to basically tell him thank you for nothing basically. People sang, people cried, prayers were said, soil was thrown in, and people began walking away towards the buses, so they could go eat. I stayed behind; I reached in my pocket, pulled out the R10. My mother screamed out to me “Thiza (my nickname), asambe” (let’s go) I told her I was coming. I looked at this R10…and I couldn’t, it felt like I was holding a grudge. It was at that moment that I let it go, the whole father thing, the whole abandoning me thing, I said “I forgive you man” folded the R10 back in my pocket and left.
In 2015/6, I owed a lot of money to UKZN, my mother had no money, and FA was no longer funding post-graduates. I was doing my MA. I left MA half-way. My mother didn’t know this, got a job as a lecturer at a College. The money was only able to pay my rent and other small needed things. I get a call from MIBFA that I am one of the beneficiaries for money that my
biological father left behind. I didn’t want it. I know, I was struggling, I needed money; I told my mother I didn’t want it. She looked at me and she told me “but I need it.” I said “I don’t” she told me that I do “For school Thiza”. Turns out she knew I owed a lot of money to the school, she had taken her own saved up money to give me to pay varsity back. I took the man’s money. I paid for part of my education. In June 2018 I handed in my dissertation. When I look at how strange it is that a man who had never been there my whole life came at one of the most crucial times. I look back at what supervisor said “Sometimes fate does strange things at the times we need it the most”
There are many events and actions that happen in our lives; these are forever embedded in our skin, our thoughts and our pursuit. We should choose the ones that define us, and let go of the ones that hinder.
Written by JC Zondi