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- Herausgeber: Jonathan Ball
- Kategorie: Ratgeber
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
My name is Nozibele Mayaba, and I am HIV-positive. I am a devout Christian who did everything by the book: worked hard, got good marks, found a steady job and helped to make life better for my family. In our neighbourhood, I was the girl other parents pointed to as a role model. Until a few months before my diagnosis at age 22, I was a virgin. Women like me don't get HIV. But then I did. It took me years to accept my new reality. Speaking out freed meand completely changed my life. Being HIV-positive wasn't my first challenge and it won't be my last, but it has been the hardest. It also taught me an important lesson: behind every statistic is a person with a name, a family, a story. This is my story. My name is Nozibele Mayaba, I am HIV-positive, and I am still positively me. An HIV-positive diagnosis may no longer be a death sentence, but it still changes everything. In this frank, vulnerable memoir, as told to acclaimed writer Sue Nyathi, activist and TV host Nozibele Mayaba talks about finding purpose when you think your life has come to an end.
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Nozibele Mayaba
withSue Nyathi
JONATHAN BALL PUBLISHERS
Johannesburg • Cape Town
Contents
To the reader:may you find parts of yourself in this book.
Preface
‘Who would you tell if you had to test positive?’‘My mom!’ I blurted out without hesitation,’
When I took the test, it was only because I wanted that first-aid kit. I had always loved freebies, and anyway, I had only been with one man, with whom I planned to spend my life. There was no way it would come back positive.
It did.
The man I had been with was someone with whom I was deeply in love. We were a devoted couple and had spoken about marriage from the get-go. I had kept myself for him. So, no, the result couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. There was no way I could be HIV-positive.
I would have a second test. And a third, and a fourth.
They all came back positive.
That was the lowest point of my life. After all, I had always been the good girl. I had never given Ma any problems. In fact, I had worked harder than most: at school, over the weekends in Dad’s supermarket, and then at home. I was the ‘Pick me!’ girl who had sat close to the front of the class at school and university, who had, unprompted, done extra readings and additional exam papers, and who had studied when everyone else was partying. I had outworked my peers, so there would be no excuse but to do well. And when I had worked over the weekends, it had been with the single aim of ensuring that we had enough money for food.
I was also a devout Christian who had been raised by Ma to be conservative in my views, my dress and my behaviour. It went without saying that I would save myself for marriage.
So, no: this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was a church girl. I was the girl who parents used as an example to discipline their children. I was my family’s pride.
And yet, the test results were positive.
What would the rest of my life look like with my HIV-positive diagnosis? How would I live with it? Could I live with it? What would become of everything I had worked for up until that point? What about my high-flying career that had taken me to Germany, New York, Norway – places that were supposed to be out of reach for a girl with my background, but which I had dreamed and worked into being?
Most importantly, how would I ever tell Ma?
As for you, what you intended against me for evil, God intended for good, in order to accomplish a day like this, to preserve the lives of many people.– Genesis 50:20
ONE
WE ALL COME FROM SOMEWHERE
My foremothers
It begins with my mother.
Who I am and who I’ve become is in large part because of her influence.
Sindiswa Fezzie Mbukanto was a small-town girl from Sterkstroom in the Eastern Cape, a place so hidden it’s often eclipsed by the neighbouring towns of Molteno and Dordrecht. Named after the Hex River, which traverses the town, its establishment served as a new missionary post for the Dutch Reformed Church. I believe this is where my family’s religious roots were formed.
Situated on the main railway line that runs from the coast to Johannesburg, Sterkstroom was a convenient place for those eager to find better opportunities in the City of Gold. My mother’s father was one of them, and he set off to the big city to find a job that would make life better for his family.
He is yet to return.
It was left to my grandmother, Makhulu Nondiyazana, to raise their children on her own. They had five; the first a boy, Stanley, followed by Nombulelo, then my mother, her younger sister Nonkazimulo and finally Zamuwonga.
Sadly, Makhulu did not live to see them grow into their own. She died when they were teenagers. I have always believed her death to be premature: that she folded from the stress of being a single parent. A consequence of my grandfather’s abandonment, it is a legacy that still lingers with us today.
Orphaned and stranded, my mother and her siblings were forced to make a living on their own. Her two elder siblings sought work in neighbouring cities. Unknown to my mother then, she would never again see her elder brother.
It was left to Ma to care for her younger siblings in the mud-hut family home. These circumstances forced her to become an adult before she was mature enough to fully accept this huge responsibility. Ma recalls how tough it was: they couldn’t even afford paraffin to light the lamp to illuminate their home. Meals were cooked on an open fire, and these were sparse – umphokoqo, eaten with sugar and water. They could not even afford shoes and Ma spent her teenage years barefoot.
This child-headed household was shortlived, soon their uncle forced them out of the house and sold it for his own bene–fit. Bereft and homeless, Ma and her siblings hopped from one relative to the next, seeking refuge. Some of these relatives had promised to send them to school but none of these promises materialised. Instead, Ma was made to clean their homes and tend to their children so the orphaned siblings could earn their keep. Intuitively, she knew that her value lay in the labour she was able to provide but she had no idea that this would land her in an unsolicited marriage.
While cleaning her uncle’s yard one day, she caught the eye of an elderly matriarch visibly impressed with her as she tended to her chores. The woman was full of praise and admiration for the young girl. Soon thereafter, a delegation of men from the Amaqwathi clan arrived at her uncle’s house seeking her hand in marriage.
Ma had no idea who she was marrying. There was no courtship, no romance; nothing preceded the proposal. Cows were paid, the union sealed, and it wouldn’t be long until my mother would be a married woman at just 22 years old.
My mother told me that the only reason she went along with it was because she yearned for a sense of belonging and thought this would give her that. As an orphan, Ma was delighted that her fiancé’s parents were both alive, and she imagined would soon become her parents too. Most importantly, she would finally have a home to call her own.
After the festivities of the wedding, Ma was ushered into her new role as a Qamngana makoti. But the dream of having her own home was quickly dashed when she discovered that they would live with her husband’s family. Umyeni wakhe, Lulamile, being the first to get married made her the only makoti in the Qamngana household.
Ma’s mother-in-law ruled with an iron fist. Ma had to wake from her marital bed at dawn – always the first to rise – to begin her household chores. The first of these tasks was to bake bread for her father-in-law, who insisted on a fresh loaf every day. She had to knead the dough the night before in preparation, and because of this, she was always the last person to go to bed. While the bread was baking, she would heat up bathing water for her father-in-law, so he could leave for work at 6 am.
Once all of this was accomplished and he’d left, it was her mother-in-law’s turn – to be served with breakfast in bed, no less. Her meal always consisted of a cup of tea and a bowl of soft maize meal porridge.
Ma’s duties did not end there because she had to see to her sister-in-law’s children as well. While their mothers tossed and turned in their beds, Ma toiled tirelessly and readied the kids for school.
She always did what was required of her. She had to climb mountains to collect firewood, something she hated, but even then she did not express her frustration with or disappointment in her treatment. Ma was polite and never back-chatted anyone. No, she prided herself on her humility.
Deep down, she really hoped that by being compliant she would ultimately win her family’s affections, though her diligent work often went unnoticed and unappreciated. To add to this, there was her ‘failure’ to conceive, which was always keenly observed. Five years into the marriage and there was still no pitter-patter of little Qamngana feet.
Rumours of her barrenness took hold. While these were at first whispered, they soon became loud and, for Ma, visceral. My mother often tells of a day when the family dog gave birth to a litter of puppies. Her mother-in-law quipped that even the dog was more fertile than she.
It was this supposed infertility that sparked her husband’s infidelity – which was accompanied by abuse, both verbal and physical. Ma noticed that even through all his extramarital affairs, none of the women involved bore children and no woman ever showed up claiming to have had a child by him.
One morning, though, while Ma was busy with her myriad household chores, one of her husband’s girlfriends did arrive. The woman strode into the yard, looking for Ma and shouting all sorts of profanities, most being about her inability to conceive.
The words stung.
Ma, usually compliant, snapped and retaliated by hitting the woman. This led to a full-on fight, with the two women clawing each other in aggression.
The ruckus drew her mother-in-law, who Ma assumed was coming to her defence, to fight in her corner, but instead, the older woman began to pelt her with her fists, clearly siding with her son’s girlfriend. When her mother-in-law felt that Ma was not submitting, she grabbed a string of barbed wire and used this to whip her.
Cowed, Ma shielded her face with her arms but the barbed wire landed on her neck, tearing her skin. It is a scar that my mother wears to this day.
Her husband eventually purchased a two-bedroom house a few streets away from that of his parents. While this put some distance between Ma and her mother-in-law, they remained in the vicinity, which allowed the family to continue their interference in her marriage.
Ma was fully aware that her husband feared and respected his mother in equal measure. And this meant that he would neither stand up to her nor come to Ma’s defence.
Their newfound independence did nothing to cultivate any intimacy in the marriage. If anything, the relationship continued to deteriorate, with her husband’s faithlessness becoming more blatant.
Nearly 10 years later, Ma decided she had no choice but to escape her oppressive life and marriage. She did this alone, under the cover of darkness and while her husband was working a night shift. She gathered the few belongings she could carry and quietly escaped that miserable life. That is how she exited her marriage.
How I met uTat’akho
Ma took refuge with her elder sister, Nombulelo, who had settled comfortably in Port Elizabeth (called Gqeberha today). Her home was a shield from the blustery winds as well as the abuse. Sis’ Nombulelo was married to a reverend who led a large church congregation at the Presbyterian Church of Africa.
Following her marriage, Nombulelo had taken over responsibility for the family’s two younger siblings: Zamuwonga was employed as a construction worker, while Nonkazimulo, like my mother, was unskilled and did the domestic chores in her sister’s home in exchange for a wage.
Ma was determined not to become a burden to her sister, and she wanted to forge a life of her own. The challenge was that Ma was illiterate. She could neither read nor write, and she could not speak either Afrikaans or English. These obstacles made her unemployable. While this stalled her job search and her ambitions for independence, it motivated her to start learning Afrikaans.
For the greater part of this transitional period, she was housebound, which would turn out not to be the worst thing for her future. The house was always bustling with church people, and one day Ma caught the attention of a handsome man who frequented the house looking for uMfundisi. Usually the two spoke within earshot so Ma was able to glean that their conversations were mostly about church affairs.
One day, he arrived at the house when both uMfundisi and Sis’ Nombulelo were out running errands. He introduced himself as Malathisi Garlick Mhlanga and said he would wait.
That was how he came to speak to my mother. It was a conversation that would change her life.
The attraction between them was palpable. A spark had been lit and would not easily be extinguished. He was a short, sturdy man with a charming smile.
My mother described him as a handsome man, light in complexion, with a warm personality that she couldn’t resist. What he lacked in height, he made up for in presence. He was from Alice, a small town that had grown from a military encampment into a sprawling university town. Like my mother, he was a product of a large family; he was the third child of nine. Unlike Ma, he had grown up in a traditional two-parent nuclear household, headed by Maxolo and Boy Mhlanga.
On completing matric, he had moved to Port Elizabeth in search of employment. He was recruited by Aspen as a general worker and was among the first crop of black people to work for the big pharmaceutical company in South Africa. Quickly he’d built up a network of contacts, and they, coupled with his job experience, enabled him to secure an influential job with the local municipality. He was responsible for the allocation of houses in the township. I would later discover that a street was named after him – a testament to his standing in the community.
He was a very enterprising man, with business acumen, and his first foray into entrepreneurship was in the transport sector: he acquired several taxis for the purpose of transporting school children. Through his influence and connections, he managed to use his role as an Isibonda to secure a semi-detached house for Ma in Ilali Ebomvu, Red Location Township, in New Brighton which was the first urban settlement for the black populace in that region.
Red Location Township got its name because it was built from corrugated-iron sheets that had been painted red. The structures were the remnants of the dismantled concentration camps in Uitenhage that had once housed Boers during the South African War. Just as the material was recycled, so too was the trauma: often referred to as the ‘umbilical cord’ of New Brighton, the place became a battlefield in the struggle against apartheid. Many young people from here became activists and infrastructure would often get blown up as part of sabotage campaigns by underground liberation parties.
Not only did Garlick ensure that Ma finally had her first home, but he was also instrumental in securing her first job, at a well-known restaurant, and her second one, as a housekeeping assistant in one of Port Elizabeth’s oldest hotels. She remained in this role for five years before moving on to work as a cleaner in a government hospital, a role in which she would retire.
Over this period, their relationship evolved into a romantic one.
‘Are you aware that he is a married man?’ her sister asked. ‘He has a wife and a daughter.’
Ma was still married too, despite her separation from her husband. At this point, however, my mother admits that she was a ‘gone girl’ and couldn’t let go. Yes, she felt guilt about the affair. After all, she had experienced first-hand what infidelity had done to her own marriage. Still, this did not dissuade her from repeating what she so despised.
They all attended the same church so Garlick’s wife Nomthunzi soon heard of their romance, but she pretended to be oblivious to what was going on, which eased Ma’s conscience. They could be at the same church conference and Nomthunzi would not even acknowledge Ma, let alone the affair.
What my mother did not realise then was that she was neither the first mistress nor would she be the last, a truth Nomthunzi held at her fingertips. Nomthunzi had seen women occupy and vacate her marriage to Garlick like tenants with long-term leases. Outwardly, she acted like she was unmoved. She was part of the bekezela generation of women who endured all kinds of abuse in a marriage because that was the expectation for being a good wife.
It was only when Nomthunzi finally divulged the ugly truth to Ma about her husband’s many lovers that she became aware of Garlick’s multitude of mistresses. There were often fights among the mistresses as they jostled for Garlick’s affections.
Ma checked out the competition: to her humiliation, she learned that all his other concubines were professionals; a large majority of them were nurses. It was clear that Garlick had a type, and she was the exception. Yes, she worked in a hospital, but she was only an uneducated cleaner, and she felt herself to be the butt of many disparaging comments: ‘What is the esteemed Mr Mhlanga doing with a woman like that?’
Of course, Ma felt terribly insecure: at 35, she was not growing any younger, and there was still the issue of her barrenness.
When Ma fell pregnant in 1983, she was overjoyed: it erased years of mockery and dejection about her inability to conceive. She felt vindicated knowing that the news would reach her in-laws, and even more so when she gave birth to a boy. There had been no Mhlanga heir until then, and a boy was considered a blessing, even if the circumstances of his conception were condemned.
Nomthunzi had in the meantime given birth to two more girls, and she could not compete with the arrival of a boy.
Ma christened the boy Malathisi Junior, to the annoyance of the other mistresses. No matter: this cemented her place in the family as an official mistress.
She was also very close to Nosipho, my dad’s sister. Her and Dabawo, Dabs, became strong allies.
I arrived in 1990, like an afterthought, even though my mother insists she wanted a daughter too. My birth was considered insignificant, as my father already had several daughters: Nomthunzi’s now three, and a fourth, three years my senior, with another mistress.
My mother was 41 when she had me, and the pregnancy was considered high risk. I was a breech baby, and my mother had to have an emergency Caesarean section. Because of the operation, Ma only attended to me a week after I was born.
I was christened Nozibele because she felt I was born purely out of God’s grace, zizibele zeNkosi. This replaced the original plan to name me after uDabs.
At our births, my mother registered my brother and me under her marital surname because, she said, she did not want to go through the ordeal of involving my dad and his family in the registration process. By law, only if the father has acknowledged paternity may the children be registered under his name; this is also applicable when the couple is unmarried.
Later, when I asked her why she had not registered us under her maiden surname, Mbukanto, she said, ‘It didn’t matter. Legally, I was still Qamngana. You were my children and you were going to use Qamngana!’
So we carried the Qamngana name but without the association to the Qamngana family. We were never introduced to her husband and his family, most likely because of the circumstances surrounding their estrangement, but they didn’t challenge the legitimacy of us using their name.
Our association to the Mhlanga’s was just as fragile. Even though our father could have done things traditionally by paying ilobola for us to be acknowledged as his children, he did nothing of the sort. In order for us to be recognised by our paternal ancestors, a cow would need to be slaughtered, but again, nothing like this was ever done.
My dad never claimed us.
I would spend my whole life waiting to be claimed by him.
Our household dynamic
Ma tells me that the first two years of my life were spent in Vuku Street in KwaZakhele, Port Elizabeth. After that we moved to Ngandle Street, KwaMagxaki, about ten kilometres away, and a place where I have my first memory of home. Once again, Dad had facilitated the move for Ma. It signalled Ma’s progression in life, as this Port Elizabeth suburb had been established to accommodate the burgeoning black middle class in the mid-1980s.
The houses in KwaMagxaki were mostly occupied by professionals, entrepreneurs and civil servants. If you owned a house there, there was a perception that you were in a high-income bracket and consequently were attributed a high-class status. Ma, who was still a cleaner, did not fit into any of these categories, but being a government employee meant she qualified for a state housing subsidy. This was given in the form of a grant that could be used as a deposit on a house, ultimately reducing the monthly mortgage payments.
While Ma may have had an entry point into this prestigious housing market, she was not insulated from the other hidden costs that came with living in such an upmarket place. The rates and water bills were hefty, and so were the costs of maintaining the property. Our single-storey two-bedroom home, with its TV lounge, indoor bathroom and kitchenette, was the smallest house; it was surrounded by spacious double storeys that looked down on us. Ma was determined that when she had saved enough money, she would do the necessary conversions and extend the house into the big yard.
After my birth, my mother saw the need to have someone in our house who was older than my brother and me, and with whom we could grow up. One of her distant cousins – an unemployed alcoholic who had several children she could not take care of – agreed that my mother could take in her eldest daughter.
Zipho was 10 years old when she became part of our household. She had no identity document and her mother was not proactive in trying to get this for her, so my mother became her legal guardian and she was adopted into our household under the Qamngana name. Since there were only two bedrooms, I had to share with Ma, while Zipho and Malathisi slept in a double bunk bed in the other room.
Zipho was illiterate, as she had been forced to drop out of school to take care of her younger siblings. As ‘deputy parent’, she had to take on adult responsibilities from a young age. When she joined our household, she quickly assumed the role assigned at her previous home. Even though she was close to Malathisi in age, she was our primary caregiver when Ma wasn’t around. She would be the first to rise, and would prepare me for school. After I was clothed and fed, she would drop me off at creche, before heading to school herself.
I had always assumed she was my biological sister until one day I overheard Ma explaining to a friend what our relationship to her actually was. This did not diminish my love or respect for Zipho.
When we were children, our dad was a visitor to our home, not a resident. He appeared like mist from time to time; his visits were not consistent, and as I grew older, they became more sporadic. Sometimes we could go for weeks on end without a whiff of him. His protracted absences only served to intensify my longing for his presence. Every day I would wake up with renewed hope: ‘today is the day’. When he was a no-show, I would drown in disappointment. This cycle would repeat itself until he eventually turned up.
I lived for the days when I would come home from school and find Dad’s red bakkie parked in our driveway. I would not be able to contain my excitement, which would froth and bubble over. And yet, from his arrival until the time he left, he would be sequestered in my mother’s bedroom. She was the only one who enjoyed the full pleasure of his company, while we children waited on the sidelines, burning with anticipation for him to appear.
When she emerged, scantily dressed in a petticoat and bra, I knew it was time for him to leave. It did not matter how late it was, I would wait up for that moment just to get a glimpse of him. All that enthusiasm would finally culminate in the moment when I said, ‘Goodbye, Daddy!’ We never had real conversations beyond these perfunctory pleasantries.
I was 10 when my father’s visits came to an end. It happened unexpectedly.
I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother’s bed outside the gate, in the street. Ma was pacing frantically up and down, agitated. I was confused and filled with panic but I knew better than to ask what the matter was. I had borne the brunt of her anger by asking questions that I imagined to be innocent until I saw her response.
That day, she waited for Malathisi to arrive back from school, and together they carted the bed to an open field. Back home, my mother sent him off to buy matches and a five-litre can of petrol, but when they returned to the field to burn the bed, it was no longer there. It had probably been taken by homeless people who had stumbled across a bed in mint condition that had apparently been thrown away.
A few days later, Ma sat us down and told us that she had found Jesus. ‘My beliefs require me to live a holy life,’ she explained sombrely, ‘which is why I threw out the bed.’
I didn’t know what she meant, because I always assumed that she already lived a holy life, and usually I knew better than to probe further – Ma was a firecracker and wouldn’t have hesitated to carry me out and burn me with that bed – but she was calm now and I decided to ask why she’d thrown it out.
‘Because I did a lot of dirty things in that bed,’ she replied candidly.
‘What kind of dirty things?’ I asked, taking advantage of her responsiveness.
‘Nozibele!’ she said, in a strong tone that warned me that I had gone too far. ‘Listen to what I am saying and just keep quiet!’
She then told us that our father would no longer be welcome in our home.
It felt like a pile of bricks had been placed on my chest: I could hardly breathe. I rarely saw my dad anyway, and now the thought of never seeing him again was breaking my 10-year-old heart.
I demanded to know, if he could no longer visit us, if I would be allowed to visit him.
‘What did I just say to you?’ my mother hissed.
I cast my eyes down, careful to hold back the tears.
It was only when I was much older that I began to make sense of our family dynamic and the shame that came with it. Society has always judged women who have children outside of wedlock, so you can imagine the double judgement levied on my mother. She was slut-shamed for being a married woman who had conceived children in an adulterous union. Our legitimacy was therefore always being questioned.
Absent father
I strongly felt my dad’s absence in my life. He was absent in all spheres: physically, emotionally and financially.
While I tried to assuage the first two aches, there was nothing I could do about the third, which impacted us severely. There was no maintenance money paid to Ma every month for our upkeep. There were no groceries delivered to our home each week to make sure we did not go hungry.
‘Inoba uTata wenu ucimba nitya ntoni?’ The question was rhetorical, of course, and we knew better than to respond to it, because she would inevitably answer it herself: ‘Yena uphila kamnandi ulibele unabantwana abanini!’
Ma recalls a time when she asked him for food, and expired groceries were delivered, some with weevils in it. This made Ma bitter and angry, and she articulated this whenever she mentioned him.
I harboured none of this bitterness towards my father. I just missed him. For the longest time I was oblivious to his shortcomings; I did not realise the full impact of his neglect until I witnessed how it changed the trajectory of my brother’s life.
Malathisi had decided that he wanted to study law. I suspect he had been inspired by Sis’ Noluthando, our neighbour. She worked as a court interpreter and was studying towards her law degree. It was a long-cherished dream of his but one my mother couldn’t fund. So Ma referred him to our dad, who we knew had the financial capacity to fund Malathisi’s studies.
Just hearing my dad’s name mentioned sent me into an emotional tailspin. It had been months since the bed-burning fiasco and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to see Dad. I cried hysterically, begging my mother to let me accompany Malathisi.
Ma folded, much to the irritation of my brother, who did not want his little sister tagging along.
During the taxi ride, Malathisi cautioned me not to say a word once we got there. I nodded numbly, just happy to be afforded the chance to be in my dad’s presence.
When we arrived, he was standing outside his supermarket, Lithalethu Spar, talking to a friend. The minute I spotted him, I was dizzy with exhilaration. I had a picture of my dad etched into my mind and the details had not changed. He was still the most beautiful man I had ever seen. I resisted the urge to throw my tiny arms around him; I knew that would piss off my brother because Malathisi did not relate to Dad the way I did.
In his greeting, Malathisi was curt and aloof. He made no attempt to hug or shake hands with Dad. He did not even address him as ‘Dad’ or ‘Tata’.
‘Go and wait inside for me. I am still finishing up here,’ Dad said to Malathisi. He reached out his hand to me and pulled me to stand beside him.
Dad’s supermarket was strategically located near a busy intersection used by hordes of people every day. I took pride in the knowledge that the world would see me standing with my father. I wanted to capture that moment in my head forever. My palms were sweating but I did not let go of his hand. I closed my eyes and prayed that he would not let go of mine either. He didn’t. The moment validated my existence.
Malathisi clearly disapproved and wanted me to follow him inside but I clung to my dad’s side. Anyway, Dad was the older person in this equation and I did not want to cause offence.
When he’d concluded his conversation, we made our way to his office at the back of the shop.
‘Nozibele, are you hungry? Have you eaten?’ Dad asked me.
I wasn’t hungry. We had eaten before we’d left home; Mom had made sure of it. But here I was, in a supermarket, being asked what I wanted. Whenever I accompanied Ma to do the grocery shopping, I was not allowed to ask for anything because she did not have the money to pay for my whims. I considered myself lucky on those rare occasions when she would buy me a chocolate.
So I told Dad I was hungry and he sent me into the supermarket to get whatever I wanted.
I skipped there euphorically. The smell of frying chips and freshly baked pies and cakes was intoxicating. I ordered a Cornish pie with its golden crust. When I bit into it, the pastry crumbled in my mouth, and pieces of meat and vegetables swimming in thick gravy oozed out. I could not resist the oily chips drenched in salt and vinegar. To indulge my sweet tooth, I ordered a slice of chocolate cake. Then, to quench my thirst, I had a glass of orange juice. I lost track of time.
My brother found me an hour later, gorging myself.
The look on his face immediately communicated that he was unimpressed. ‘Nozi, let’s go!’
His face was taut with anger. I knew not to argue with him. With great reluctance, I extricated myself from the food and followed him.
As we were making our way out of the bakery section, we heard the click of heels drawing closer. I could not see who they belonged to but I smelled her scent before I saw her.
‘Molweni,’ she greeted us with authority. ‘Ngubani na lo?’ she added, peering at me as I hid behind my brother.
‘NguNozibele,’ responded Malathisi. His tone was unchanged from moments earlier – flat and hostile.
I was afraid, thinking the woman had been sent to reprimand me for ordering all that food.
‘Molo Nozibele,’ she said, sinking down onto her haunches until she was my height.
I was not sure whether I should respond, given my brother’s earlier warning not to speak.
‘Bulisa!’ he admonished me, urging me to greet her.
‘Molo,’ I complied meekly.
‘Molo, Mama,’ she corrected. ‘Ndingu mama wakho.’
I looked at my brother, seeking reassurance and uncertain whether I was meant to acknowledge this woman as my mother.
He offered no guidance. ‘Masambe!’ he said, grabbing my hand and pushing past the lady, paying her no attention.
I could not fathom the source of his irritation, and why it was being directed at this woman who purported to be my mother. I was annoyed by our hasty exit because I had not said goodbye to Dad or finished my food. There were so many unanswered questions brewing in my head but I knew my brother would not entertain them.
Once we were outside, he flagged down a taxi and soon we were on our way home. There, Ma demanded to know how things had gone. Malathisi said it had not gone well. He told Ma that our dad’s wife did not want to pay for his education because he had been born out of wedlock.
Ma laughed; it was dry and brittle, laced with sarcasm. It was then that I discovered that my father had a new wife. uTata had divorced his wife of more than 20 years to remarry a woman 17 years his junior. Now I understood why Ma kept referring to her as ‘lamntana’, like she was a child.
‘Utheni? What did he say?’
‘He said he would call me,’ replied Malathisi.
‘Uyaxoka! Phofu, bendilinde ntoni kuye? Woyiswa kukondla abantwana bakhe.’
The week progressed and we were on tenterhooks waiting for that call from Dad. It never came.
In her rage, Ma dragged Malathisi to the supermarket to have an audience with Dad. I did not go with them because I instinctively knew my presence would be most unwelcome.
When they returned hours later, I knew the discussion had gone awry by the pained look on Ma’s face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was crying uncontrollably.
I was shattered: it was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry. Her tears resulted in mine. I never wanted to see Ma like that and I felt useless and helpless. In that moment, I wished I could grow up so that I could work and shoulder some of Ma’s responsibilities. I realised that everything boiled down to money, which we just didn’t have, and that my dad, who did have money, wasn’t willing to provide us with any. That was the most painful lesson during the first decade of my life.
I wanted to reach out and hug Ma, but I was numb. I was also afraid of how she might react to the gesture. Expressing affection was not done in our family. There were no hugs and kisses or ‘I love you’s’.
I would be much older when I came to realise that my love language was physical touch and words of affirmation – things I was starved of growing up.
Downgraded
I was 16 when we lost our Magxaki home. By that time, Ma had accumulated a debt of about R50 000 on her municipal rates, and the municipality was threatening to cut off our electricity if she didn’t make payment arrangements soon. Ma thought her only solution was to sell the house, pay off the debt and start afresh elsewhere.
A property agent would have to view and assess our home. To ease the process, Ma decided to use Pam, a lady who stayed close by and who worked for a local property agency. Ma trusted Pam but she would learn, to her own detriment, that she was anything but trustworthy.
As small as our house was, it had a big yard, which meant it presented new homeowners with the possibility of an extension. Properties in the area at the time ranged in selling price from R200 000 to R400 000, depending on the size, appearance and location. Our house was valued at R200 000. Ma calculated that if it sold for this price, she would be able to pay off the municipal debt and pay a deposit on a new house.
Negotiations got under way with a potential buyer, but, for the most part, Ma could not understand the complicated legal jargon. Ma started getting suspicious, and things turned sour when she couldn’t get clear answers from Pam about the progress of the deal. The house was negotiated at R200 000, but Ma was told she would only receive R45 000 from the sale. The more she questioned the transaction, the more Pam became wishy-washy with the details.
In frustration, Ma demanded that the deal be stopped but she was informed it was too late as the sale was already at an advanced stage. She tried to get Dad involved but he told her there was nothing he could do. The house was sold and we were given notice to move out.
Ma used R25 000 of the proceeds of the sale of the Magxaki house to buy a semi-detached, rundown corner house in one of the most dangerous streets in New Brighton township. Ma couldn’t have been thinking straight when she made the decision to buy a house there: we had lived in nearby KwaMagxaki for most of my life, and I had heard the New Brighton gangster stories that often made newspaper headlines.
Like the previous house, the new one had two bedrooms, but the kitchen and TV room were one open space with no discernible delineation. There was no bathroom and we shared an outside toilet with a neighbour.
