in it, I saw the words Residential Permit Holder written on the outside in black. Inside there was a black-and-white photograph of the old man when he was still middle-aged. There were also fingerprints, the old man’s date of birth (which happened to be 1928), his race, sex, names of his previous employers and their addresses, how long he had been employed there and so forth. In one section the pages were stamped in red, stating Permission Request Denied or Permission Request Granted.
Mama turned to the next page which was headed Lawful Dependants. Three dependants as well as their ages were mentioned. The old man’s wife was called Tseli and she had been born in 1941. Their son Tumi was born in 1960 and the other one, Pule, was born in 1963. The document was stamped with the words Urban Dwellers. There were also two pink cards with the children’s names on them and they bore the official stamps of the primary schools they had been attending. In the permit I also saw our house number again: 9183, Chiawelo Extension Two, Soweto.
His papers looked genuine although they were old.
“Is this what you call a title deed, huh?” Mama asked with an expression of pure scorn on her face.
“Yes, that’s it,” the old man replied, but at that moment Uncle Nyawana came limping through the door carrying his syringe in his hand.
“Jabu, listen to this old man here. He says he has come to occupy this house because it’s his and he leased it out to our parents in seventy-something. He shows us these old papers and a dompas, and expects us to believe him,” she said contemptuously.
“He’s mad,” my uncle declared, tapping at the side of his own head with his finger. “I told him a month ago already, when he was here before, that we have the title deed for this house. I forgot to tell you about him because I didn’t think it was important. He’s mentally disturbed.”
“I have a title deed in my room and it says the house belongs to my father, Sbusiso Kuzwayo,” said Mama. “Do you hear me? Sbusiso Kuzwayo, my father,” she repeated. “Go fetch the title deed, Bafana, it’s in the suitcase in the wardrobe.”
Within seconds I was back with the title deed. Mama was right, the house belonged to Mr Sibusiso Kuzwayo, my late grandfather, who passed away in 1992. According to the document, the title right of the former council house was bestowed on him on the 10th of June in 1989 at the cost of R1 300. There was no indication in the document that the house had once belonged to some John Sekoto. Mama showed the document to the old man with confidence.
“Ahhh, I sensed this was going to happen,” said the old man, flushing with rage. “I knew it. Your father arranged that title deed when he heard I had been committed to Weskoppies.”
“That’s not important now, is it?” interrupted my uncle. “It’s your problem if you think that my father robbed you of this house. Don’t make your problem ours. My father knew you were mad, but this house legally belongs to the Kuzwayo family, so you must fuck off.”
The humiliation on the old man’s dark face was plain, but my doubts about his claim had started to abandon me. I believed him. When I looked into his eyes again I felt pity for him and, in that moment, I began to dislike my uncle and Mama’s attitude towards him. The manner in which they talked to him was disrespectful and Mama had raised me to always be respectful to the elders.
“But it’s my house. You have no right,” insisted the old man.
“Uyabhema yini, mkhulu?” asked my uncle in a condescending tone. “I think you must have smoked a lot of zol because you don’t listen! I told you not to come here again with your bullshit stories. It seems you didn’t take me seriously then?” he said, his tone full of manufactured anger.
The old man didn’t answer, but he looked intimidated.
“Now, let me be fair with you, madala, because I hate bullshit! I tell you for the last time,” Uncle Nyawana shouted impatiently, as if he had reached the limit of his tolerance with the old man, “if you want to know what the devil looks like, just come here again and I’ll show you. Do you hear me, madala? I’ll cut your crazy head off with that axe over there and feed it to my dog, Verwoerd.”
The old man stood up, but his eyes were darting into the four corners of our kitchen.
“But I want my house back. I’m giving you two months’ notice,” he insisted nervously. “If I have to go to the highest court in the land to get back what is rightfully mine, I will,” he said, standing at the door. “I can’t allow somebody to be the proud owner of my house. The umbilical cords of my two sons are buried in this yard.”
“Who do you think you are to come here with your old useless papers and claim this house is yours, huh?” Mama demanded angrily. “Hamba! Go away!”
I felt very sorry for the old man as he walked out of our house with the submissiveness of a man who had just lost a fight. I watched him turning his head to look at both ends of the street as soon as he was at the end of the yard. It was as if he were debating with himself which way to go.
SIX
Wednesday, December 1
The following day I found myself sitting behind our family house next to Uncle Nyawana’s fruit-and-vegetable stall. In his left hand, my uncle was holding what he called his dream notebook, which he used to play fah-fee. Verwoerd was curled at my uncle’s feet with one eye open, watching me. I was sitting on an empty beer crate that was turned upside down. A pair of shears were on the ground in front of me as I’d been busy trimming the lawn since eight that morning. I was just about to wipe away the sweat that was streaming down my face when my cellphone started to ring and the name Mama appeared on the small screen.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Hello, baby, how are you this morning?”
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“Listen, I’m calling to ask you for a favour. I can see that your uncle is not concerned about it, but I am. I want you to go to the local Housing Department.” She paused.
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know exactly, but I think it’s somewhere in Joburg city centre. I’m sure you’ll find it. I want you to go there and make certain that we are the rightful owners of the house.”
“Okay, Mama. When do you want me to go there?”
“As soon as possible, today or tomorrow at the latest.”
“Okay, I’ll go tomorrow morning,” I said. “It’s already late today and the queue there must be very long by now.”
“Please do that. I’ll see you in the morning . . . Oh, by the way, I saw a job advert in today’s Star. There is a company that is looking for a legal adviser. That’s why we have to get your results as soon as possible. The house must be sold or else you’ll lose out on opportunities like this one. Your profession is in high demand, Bafana. I’ll come with the newspaper in the morning.”
“But, Mama, I think they’re looking for people with some experience”
“Oh, they only need two years’ experience and that’s nothing, you meet all the other requirements. Just tell them that you’re fresh from one of the country’s biggest law schools.”
“Okay, Mama. If you come with the advert I’ll
