It’s not a question of losing my faith in the man above. But, during these times of indecision, when all answers are proven false, people like Mokete turn to the dead to give us a clue. By that stage I had to agree with him that it is a great mistake to assume that the dead are indeed silent, lifeless and powerless. I see it in the township all the time. The dead are always being asked to step in during unveilings and traditional weddings. We always ask our ancestors for good luck. Mokete had convinced me that there was nothing wrong with what I was doing.
Then one day a miracle happened. As you always said, everyone’s destiny is fixed in advance. It was in October, I remember. In the morning, I went alone to my father’s grave. There were people gathered around it, performing traditional rituals. My heart was beating fast. I parked my Hyundai a hundred metres from the grave. There were five people – two men and three women. At first, I pretended I was just passing. The people around my father’s grave just looked at me and continued doing what they were doing. I walked towards a large headstone a few metres away from them, pretending to be looking for a grave address. My mind was trying to figure out how to approach what I assumed was my father’s family. Finally, I had the courage to walk slowly back to them. All eyes were on me as I came near. I stopped at times to check my heart, which was beating strong enough to burst. As I got nearer, I could see my father’s eyes in one of the smartly dressed men whose hair was receding from his forehead. Finally, I was meeting my father’s family, I thought. Happiness is at last within reach. But my heart was still beating fast with the anxiety of acceptance or rejection.
“Hi, can we help you?” said the man who I thought had my father’s eyes. “I’m Khutso Tseu.”
His eyes looked just like mine: big, round and charming. Maybe that’s what I thought because of the excitement in my heart. They looked just like my father in the picture you gave me. The man was a bit taller than me.
“Hi, I’m Naledi. We have not met before, but the man who is sleeping peacefully in this grave is my father.”
Everyone turned to look at me. They stopped talking and came to where I was standing with Khutso.
“Well, I really don’t know. Teboho was my brother. He was the first born at home, followed by these two sisters of mine.” He pointed at the two light-skinned ladies who approached us. “This is Bonolo and Palesa. I come after them in birth, and then my younger sister, Kamo, and young brother, Thapelo, is the last born.”
“Who is your mother?” asked Bonolo.
“Phemelo Noga. She is from Senaoane and did her high school at Sekano-Ntoane.”
Bonolo shook her head. “I never heard of her.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Yes, she lives in Protea Glen. She is a nurse at Helen Joseph Hospital.”
“Maybe it would be better if we invited her over to our family house in Diepkloof soon,” said Khutso. “She may shed light on this business. You know how we men are. You may find out that our brother had a daughter that he didn’t tell us about.”
He looked at me. “We’re really sorry, Naledi. Our brother died without introducing you or mentioning your name to the family. We think it would be a great idea if you came with your mother in a few days’ time. Let us know when you two can come.”
“I will. Did you ever live in Tladi?” I asked.
“No. Our family has always lived in Zone Two, Diepkloof. My brother studied at Orlando High School. He was working as a ticket examiner for the South African Railways when he died. He was hit by a car in the morning on his way to work. He died there by the Orlando Stadium in 1993.”
“Oh, I see.” I was silent for a while, then asked: “Do you have family in Lesotho?”
“Not at all. Actually, our dad grew up near Mafikeng in North West, but we only go there if there is a funeral or a wedding. My brother had a wife who has since remarried. We think she is the one who did all these gravestone renovations without telling us. We have not been in touch with her since there was a fight over his money and house when he died. She finally –”
“We’ll talk about that later, when Naledi visits us,” said Bonolo, and she sounded unhappy that her brother was divulging their family secrets to a stranger.
My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I realised that your version of events didn’t match up with the reality I was trying to unearth. There was an aching sense of discontent in my soul. I felt that things were falling apart and I wanted to leave. I took Khutso’s contact details, and he took mine. I promised to call him soon. My anguish became a physical pain in my head. I had to drive straight to you. How could you, my own mother, point out a random grave as my father’s? I thought you were my only companion, the only one I could trust and talk to when my so-called husband abused me with his words. How could you betray me like that? What must I tell Mokete? Was this the end of my marriage? These were the thoughts that gnawed at me as I opened your door that day.
You finally sat down with me and shared ghastly things about my real father. You were not looking at me when you told me the story. Yet I could see your eyes going red and imagined the pain that suddenly stabbed at your heart.
“Like most girls who have their babies when they are still green, I also dreamt of love and adventure. But my life was ruined and emptied by that trash bastard.”
I listened while the words sank into my consciousness. I was a child of rape, no doubt about it. This sudden realisation sent a pain to my heart, a pain of anguish. That explained your rage when I asked about my father as I was growing up. I watched you wince involuntarily. I was sure our conversation was bringing to the surface your memory of being cruelly held down by a rapist.
“I dream of him all the time. I’m haunted by that brutal force he exerted on me as he tried to force our bodies together. I have these scary nightmares of him tightening his hold even though I strain to get away. The bastard! He even told me that the way I wrinkled my nose, and the way my body resisted, made him like it more. I have lived in perpetual fear of what people know about me. I knew that this would one day come into the open, but I never thought it would be today.”
When you confided in me, I felt the glowing ember of revenge that was burning in my breast. My veins stood out as if from the effects of a violent poison. I had thought that by refusing to tell me the truth you were deliberately defrauding me. But it was clear that talking about and reliving those memories pained you greatly. That is why you had kept them suppressed for as long as possible.
“I’m going to face that piece of shit,” I remember promising you that day.
“Don’t bother, my beautiful daughter. Men are inferior creatures anyway. They are trash. That’s why God has deliberately not given them a womb. It would have been a huge responsibility for God to have given such a beautiful gift to inferior creatures like men. God came through a woman, remember that. Mary was fourteen years old when she gave birth to Jesus, our God. God is the spirit. You must keep on worshipping in spirit and truth. God regrets having made men because they are easily tempted by evil.”
“That’s the reason I want an explanation from him,” I insisted.
“Naledi, you’re my beautiful daughter. You must know that a mother bears a child with love, irrespective of how she fell pregnant. My parents kicked me out of their home once my belly started showing. I gave birth to you in pain, loneliness and agony. I remember praying to die every day. But you, my daughter, became a symbol of love in the face of agony.”
