Khutso would have calmed down by then and have realised that he needed the clothes, which was what I thought. But Khutso took them all to the back garden and set them alight. When he came back into the house my uncle asked him where he had taken the clothes, but Khutso didn’t answer, just shook his head and went back to his room.
My uncle’s curiosity got the better of him and he checked outside and found the clothes going up in smoke. Though he didn’t know everything that had happened between Khutso and my aunt and my grandmother, the burning of the clothes pissed him off. He went to Khutso’s room.
“Khutso, why are you burning your clothes?” my uncle asked in a tone that told everyone he was not really interested in an answer.
“Told her I didn’t want them any more.”
“You think you can just burn clothes because you don’t want them?”
My uncle’s intention was to punish Khutso. He took off his belt and hit him once but Khutso hit back with fists and then they were fighting. Unfortunately my uncle was a little drunk and by the time my grandmother got there he was lying on the floor and his blood was all over the place. Khutso and his uncle had fought and Khutso had won the fight.
It made me proud, very proud of Khutso, that he could stand up for himself and defend his ground. At the same time I felt sorry for my uncle, that it had come to this, but, truth be told, he’d had it coming. He had long ago forgotten that he was our uncle; he disrespected Khutso and me all the time, treating us like things I don’t have a description for. As the saying goes, “what goes around comes around”, and this was how it came around.
My grandmother didn’t know what to say – she was speechless, as was my aunt – but they had learned to respect and fear Khutso.
Dad (Part Two)
We got to a mall, went to a restaurant and ordered as he continued asking me question after question.
“Dear, where is your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one.”
I answered without hesitation, but he didn’t believe me because he repeated the question.
“My dear, where is your boyfriend?
“I said that I do not have.”
He had asked many questions about me but I hadn’t asked him anything.
“I have been asking you question after question, my dear ... Don’t you want to ask your father anything?”
“Do you love us?”
I asked this without consideration. It was the first thing that popped into my mind; it just shot out of my mouth. I felt foolish because he was my father, why would he not love us, but it was too late to take it back.
“Dear. Mokgethi. Love has nothing to do with you, your brother and me. You are my children, I am your father, and if that is not love then it surpasses love.”
The next question was “Why are you not with us?”, but it was foolish to ask that half knowing the situation between him and my maternal family. I wanted to ask if we could come and live with him, but that, too, felt foolish. We continued eating in silence; it was as if he was waiting for me to ask another question. And I had a billion questions, but I just wanted to enjoy the moment with my dad, not bother or be bothered.
“Is that all you have to ask?”
I stole a look at him, wanting to say “Dad, can we just forget what has passed and just be that which we can be?” Maybe he saw it in my eyes.
“You do that too, just like your mother.”
“What?”
“Your mother used to look at me just like that.”
Then he drove me to the taxi rank so that I could get a taxi home. I felt sad that he was dropping me at the taxi rank but I smiled all the way anyway.
“If you need anything, dear, call this number and tell the person who answers the phone what you need. If he asks who you are, tell him that you are dear to me and he will help you.”
A hug. I suppressed my tears. I really wanted to go with him. “Dad, can I come with you?” was on the tip of my tongue; I wanted to cry like a toddler when its mother leaves. He called my name again, just like he had the first time.
“Mokgethi. My dear, don’t cry ... I love you too much.”
I wanted to ask him to say those words again, but it felt kind of out of line.
When I got home, his son was there. I looked at him, taking in their similarities.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Khutso asked. “I am a natural charmer, I know, but for heaven’s sake, you are my sister and I am your brother. Please, don’t look at me with those eyes.”
“Today I dreamed of your father ... He said that I must give you a hug and tell you that he loves you.”
“When you dream about him again, tell him that I love him too, very much.”
“I am serious.”
“And I am very serious too.”
I wished that I could have given him a hug right then, but he wouldn’t have liked it much. At least I told him that the rabbit loves him.
Pieces of Mokgethi
Statements about Mokgethi:
Mokgethi is a beautiful girl, though she likes to pretend that she isn’t.
I always say that I am not beautiful, I just suit myself beautifully. I have a light complexion and I am tall enough to be a model (at nearly one point seven metres). I am not proud but I know I have a body, a body that makes all men think impure thoughts. How do I know this? Although my breasts are small, they started to develop when I was ten and by thirteen they had fully developed. They have been like this ever since and ever since the men cannot keep away.
Any part of me that I dislike? Yes, the fat. I am not saying that I am fat but sometimes I want to be thinner. Maybe it is because of outside influences, advertising. Most of the time, though, I am very fine and happy with myself.
Part of me that I like the most? It could be my brain, my thinking ability. But my brain is in my head; I cannot see that as part of me. The part of me that I like the most is my belly. It is the flattest belly that one could ever ask for. Just below the ribs it sucks itself in, so that on any given day I can eat as much as I want and it comes out only just a little bit. Unlike other people, I never suck in my belly in public – I don’t need to; it is always belly-sexy-licious.
Love my nails, my hands, though I am only growing the smallest nail on my left hand and my thumbnails at the moment. In this part of the world a girl has chores that are not nail-friendly. When I was in private school I grew them all and then painted them black. As soon as my grandmother saw this she demanded that I cut them immediately. When I asked her what was wrong with them she just got angry, so I cut them, but even when they are cut short they are still hand heaven and men notice them before I even say a word.
Mokgethi
