SITHEMBELE ISAAC XHEGWANA

IV

Me a black country boy
You a white city girl
A mind whose skeletal birth tub
Are incisive white liberal lies
Offspring of a jailed professor
What did you say was his felony again?

Me
A shy offspring of an overnight union
A garden boy and a kitchen girl
Her
Masquerading as a child nanny
Of the many children
She never owned
Him
A posthumous offspring 
Of the country whose liberty
He never tasted

You

Duty-bound by the city administration
Ours
A dismal relationship
That lost its grip
Even before consummation
City landscape
Adorned with ironic legal attire
Attorneys and senior counsels
Doyens
Of international colonial 
administrations
Mesopotamian 
Egyptian
Persian
Greek
and Roman
How far should the linen be hanged?
How many silver heads should be laundered?
No matter
How many differences we might have
I will never let you
Walk into the ocean
And disappear in the waves
Before we could converse again
Madonna of our times
Marilyn of the lost world
Still
In the midst of everything
And every person
Standing between the two of us
The line that cuts through
our co-existence
The so-called 
Northern hemisphere
And its promulgated twin
The so-called 
Southern hemisphere
That is how the famished 
cartographers
Baptised our spiral landscapes
Begging for too much differences
In the so-called amicable trade 
with the ‘natives’
Stealing the natural resources
Stealing the localised institutions
Of religion
And of culture
And most of all

Creating a hybrid 
Of the quintessence of being
They decided our fate.

In the spirit of love
That we both wish could possess
It is time to catch up
Is there a better way of doing this?
More than reading some few lines?
From my mother’s very long 
long letter?
That once shook me?
That once educated me?
That once comforted me?
She is gone by now
And these lines read like a testament:
“My dearest son

We are well this side
Hoping you are also in Cape Town
Just wanted to say one thing
We are struggling this side
Too much.

I cannot afford the Smart Centre account
Last month I did not pay
As I had to get lunch for your sister
And food for everybody
You know that my son
Don’t you?

This month I have to pay twice the instalment
And all the money is R240
Your brother is going to court on the 9th
I am not sure if you are going to receive this letter before then.
But I thought I should let you know
Anyway, I asked Themba to post this letter.
He is such a hope to us!

I know my son that you shall receive this letter.
For that white lady you told me she is good to you,
She will let you know about the letter in time.
I wonder if you do check the letter box,
Or if you open my letters.
(You already know my hand-writing, don’t you know?)
I will write them anyway!

My dearest son,

We are struggling here.
I know you are struggling too.
But, where can we look my son?
For the sun is too strong for our eyes,
And the universe too wide for a vain quest,
In those western horizons that stole you.

I have just told you about your brother,
He is going to court on the 9th
I wanted to support him also,
I love him also my son.
His hands might have ceased to produce,
His feet might have tired to walk,
And bring that gold from Jo’burg.

But, you remember my son?
He used to take a bus from King,
And go, and go, all the way to Jo’burg.
And travel – for a long time my son!
To bring us gold and joy that we desired.
Did he not bring it?

I am told it does not belong to him,
Although 24 hours he sweated.

Digging that very gold my son!
In the bowels of the earth he shivered,
He knows what it is to suffer harassment.
He was always reminded that he is a Xhosa,
And why should he did money that belongs to Sotho’s and Tswana’s?
And take it all the way to Sebe and Gqozo’s Xhosaland!

Remember my son he suffered,
Remember his return always made your days.
You all fought over his nice clothing.
And every time he came back,
It was Christmas for all of us.

Remember he gave you his only suit,
Although you lost it when you got circumcised.
You still cannot afford to buy that suit my son.
You know that very well.

They say you have nice shops in Cape Town;
They say you have the Waterfront,
They say you have Pick & Pays as tall as the sky.
I still shop at Hoza Stores,
And Pep is still a luxury to me.
I was lured to Smart Centre

By these shrewd girls who come to the hall in Ginsberg,
Where the governments of Botha, De Klerk and Mandela,
Still dish welfare to us.

You told me anyway my son,
That Smart Centre cannot be my contemporary.
But, what could I do my son?
I had to get Christmas clothes for your sister,
She has grown very tall since you left.
She has passed her Standard Six very well.
I am sending you her report my son,
It is confidential, so they say.

You know my son, Simphiwe was crying,
And Nosipho joined the chorus,
They wanted to be like other children.
Remember my son, when it was your turn,
You never had to cry like them.
I was a domestic worker then,
And my sister’s shebeen was flourishing.

You remember that beautiful shirt she bought you?
They called it georgette those days,
I do not think you can still find it around.
Have you ever seen it in Cape Town?
It was very soft my son.

Now, my son,
I have a homework for you
Count for yourself
R230 + R200
You minus from this disability grant –
It is only R490, remember?
If you do that arithmetic properly,
What do you have left?

Nothing my son,
It does not end there, anyway.
On top of that this year I have joined another stokvel.
It costs each of us R100 to be full members,
And two members have lost their loved ones.
One has lost her mother.
You know better my son,
Ubuntu does not give me many options,
I must contribute.
And as a stokvel veteran I have to buy drinks,
Food, for the bereaved.

Keep well my son.
But I want you to count well,
I know you are struggling my son,
But while I am writing this letter we have no food.
I will be waiting to hear from you,
They are all greeting you at home.

Then decide for yourself my son,
Why can’t you count it for yourself?
It is simple arithmetic,
You do not even need Sub A to be able to do that.
But yet the university has confused you.
What will you be anyway my son?
A perpetual reader of those big books?
And me starving to death?
And your brothers and sisters?
And all these many children in my household?

What will you eventually be my son?
Please tell me.
Let me offer my own suggestions. 
Two things will happen to you.
Either your stomach will burst out,
Before you can eat all those books,
For their number is great my son!
I know. 
You were born only yesterday,
And today’s children are ambitious,
Just like you my son.

Do you think those white-skinned men will give you
All those papers?
Forget my son, forget,
For that is their only paradise,
And that is their only strong tower,
Since Rolihlahla is holding the reins in parliament.
They are gripping tight to those chambers.
And my son,
I am told that your university makes things really tough.
Do you think you are going to survive?
There is just no hope for you.

For starters,
You could not even lead those cattle,
And could not handle that plough,
You could not even hoe the ground.
Do you remember my deceased brother?
He should be your role model.

He tilled his fathers’ land,
Alone, he chased those weeds away.
Away! Away! 
From Nongqawuse’s promised land.
That olive-skinned man should be your role model,
With his rough hands he fed us - to infinity,
You must come back to us,
For here we love you,
And the future here is certain my child.
There are cattle for you to lead,
There is a plough rusting to dust,
That my brother left for you as an inheritance.
It is never too late.
Like children of today,
You are too much ambitious,
I know you will never listen to my advice.
Before I forget:
The second thing that will happen is this,
If by any chance you get those papers,
And Rolihlahla’s laws force those professors to crown you,
You know what my son?
They tell me,
Olive-skinned as you are,
When you get those papers and wear those gowns,
When you put that taira on your head,
You become too much expensive.
For Verwoerd’s laws are still alive and well,
That you should till the land,
And your sister wash the nappies,
As me and your wayward father did,
In that world far away,
There is no future for you, my child.

Then it will all be in vain,
You leaving for all these years.
And riding these buses from the dawn of the decade,
(Your very hobby my son).
And me starving to death,
And your brothers and sisters,
And all these many  children in my household.
There is another letter for you,
It is from your sister,
She asked me to shove it in,
So that her brother may read it.
She too has something to remind you about.
Perhaps you have forgotten about those tekkies.
It is tough for her my son,
At school they demand the tekkies.

It is tough for her.
Remember,
I bought you everything your heart desired.

Remember when I nursed her,
You used to fetch water with a bucket from that bore hole,
And sometimes from the Muncushe rivulet,
So that I could wash your sister’s nappies,
And in reward I bought you a quarter-loaf.
Only for your luxury my child.
Sometimes it is tough here,
That a lunch box to your sister is more than a luxury.
By the way your brother is working,
For a local contractor,
(Only for his weekend drinks, that you know),

Do you remember?
That when it was your turn,
You never had to beg my child,
For my business too was prospering.
Remember my old knitting machine worked like a beast then?
And every child in the village used to come to our household?
I dress more than one school my child.
Remember those few bottles?
That my dearest son used to go and fetch in a wheelbarrow?
You my son, do you remember?
They made life better for all of us, including you.

I know you still do not approve of those bottles.
But remember,
You must not disapprove without bringing an alternative.
We are still clinging to these bottles,
As presently they are the only constant we have.
We are waiting for you, my dearest son,
To come up with a better name for us.
You remember that name I gave you?
Actually, the spirits gave to me that name,
For they hoped you were going to brighten our lives.
I am afraid my child,
I sometimes think you do not deserve that name.
Back to the arithmetic,
Please then my child,
Add those two numbers,
And subtract them from that meagre sum.
And add your brother’s bail,
And add the funeral stokvel costs,
For the two stokvel members.
And subtract again my son,

Do not forget your sister’s tekkies,
Did she tell you how much they cost?
Then tell me my son,
How much are we left with?
Not even our lives can be a ransom,
Not even our muddy dwellings,
Not even the few left-overs from my brother’s cattle,
That were my father’s anyway,
And his father’s anyway.
How far could I go?
In counting this beautiful circle?
Of the litany of our forefathers?
Sleeping in those beautiful hills just over there?
OoFakade my child!

I know you are a rebellious child,
You hate the mentality of my people,
Your very people.
You do not believe those spirits exist.
If they don’t,
Who brough you up then?
I know you will say it’s God the Father,
But I will tell you His name,
NguMvelatanci my child, the wide-breasted one,
USifubasibanzi mntwanám!
I know my child you detest such reasoning,
You call them what?... rhetoric.
Which is why you refused to eat those sacrifices,
I offered on your behalf,
When you joined the beautiful brotherhood of ancient Xhosaland.
You still refuse my child,
To sacrifice to these spirits,
For you think there is an eternal sacrifice for you,
Jesus Christ, the Son of Man.
I know Him also my son
But still in all and in everything,
You must not forget your forebears.

Forgive me my son,
I know you love your Lord.
Who told you about God, my son?
Could it be our left-handed prophet, Nxele?
Who after failing to turn the Anglo-Saxon bullets to water?
Was whisked away as a leper to Robben Island?
And to his followers, promised to come back as the son of God?
Amidst many vindictive rumours,
We are still waiting for his return my son.

I am still enquiring from you,
From where did you hear about God?
Could it be from Mlanjeni?
Nxele’s successor, that healer of our land?
But fiercely they fought with your hero,
Tiyo Soga, the missionary who was brewed in Scotland.
Of course I know my son,
You do not have to answer me.
It is not Nxele that you heard from,
Or maybe a discipline of Mlanjeni,
But Tiyo, who was like you in every way.
He loved his God, he rejected our traditions,
He even refused to be circumcised.
He fearlessly served his God,
He fought ‘the demonic spirits’,
Incarnated in Nxele,
Who in turn fought Ntsikana, 
That great prophet of our land.
I know you very well my son,
I carried you for nine months,
You were rebellious even then,
And refused to walk when other children did.
Wena wakhula sesilibele!
You picked up your feet when we all had forgotten,
They all thought you were going to be like me.
Why not, why not my son?
When sons can easily be like their fathers?
But yet they did not know,
Heaven was not happy to give me one life,
Grace wanted to double my existence,
In you my son I find life,
In your works my ideals are perpetuated,
You are me, ungumcephúcandiwe.

As I have already said,
I know that you say you hate such rhetoric,
Me musing about my origin and your origin.
I will teach you one lesson my son,
Although your destiny might be in heaven,
Your feet are still grounded here in our land, 
You still eat the fruits of our land,
And indulge yourself in the honeys of our valleys.
If you may not know,
What actually this means is as follows:
Although you are fighting for the realisation of heaven’s many dreams,
You must know about Africa’s pains.

This great woman,

Who has fed the whole world,
From her bleeding self.
You must know about her struggles,
And her hopes.
Listen to me now my son,
I know your thoughts run conversely,
I know also my son,
That you love humanity at her purest,
That is why colour does not matter to you.
The world is not mirrored only in two colours,
Black versus white.
Your horizons do not only capture two dimensions,
East versus West.
For you vision looks far beyond our human affairs,
And on God’s throne it shall descend.
But, look at you now – 
You are burning my child, you are in fire!

I know,
Like those professors you think I cannot be trusted,
You think my words do not tally,
And my visions cannot coincide.
But, I will always be wiser than you my son,
For the creator endowed me with such a gift.
I might not have reaches to offer,
I might not have to brag with,
But I am wise my son
And that is all I need from heaven.
I know I told you,
That you should know about Africa –
And her struggles,
And her pains, her birth pains
And her great loss,
And her death,
And her riches,
And her many  hopes for a resurrection.

I am not a doomed prophetess for Africa,
Many are there, they are doing the job very well.
Here, I am a representative of the heavens,
And like you, their ideals are my very life.
What I wanted to say is this my son:
Have a good look,
At Africa and her struggles,
And you will be enlightened,
On the oppression of God’s heritage,
Please my son,
Do not misplace moments of joy,

Then
You will know about your very hope.

Yet,
Do not allow deception to capture your mind,
For Africa is doomed.
From dust she come,
To dust she returns,
That is the law of nature.
Have these professors got so much educated?
To forget about simple laws?
Remind them, my son,
For you always tell me,
In their labours you have never found any spark of life
And their theories mean nothing to you.

Before I retreat,
To my familiar silence:
I want you to think hard on these issues.
Most of all,
Always remember,
That all I have been doing,
As from the very first word uttered,
Is to reclaim you.
I want you,
To reclaim this dusty landscape,
Which is the only one,
That lies close to you and your heritage:
The steel- sharp gravel,
The biting cactus,
This itching mimosa
This biting aloe,
These are all emblems,
To prompt you,
To come home again.
We have stories,
Bigger than the m mountains,
Ancient than the rivers,
Much brighter –
Brighter than the Cape skies,
For you to reorientate yourself,
For you to retell.
I want you to listen carefully
To my words,
In motion, biting you.

Why must I fold my arms?
Watch you edified, stolen from me?

By higher forces?
Must I always be helpless, hopeless and faithless?
Why must my birth pains outlive your birth?
My child,
Your exile is my exile.
I can never withdraw myself into a cocoon of silence.
For how long will shut yourself out?
From the habitual feelings of human experience? 

My son,
Come back to history.
My father’s house is a playground,
Come back to us,
We need that hope which is you.