After Tears

Four: Thursday, November 25

19 Four Thursday, November 25 the following morning, before she went to work, Mama passed by our house in chi again. to my utter astonishment, she asked me to draft an advert for the sale of our house. At first I thought my ears were playing elaborate tricks on me, but when she insisted that I should send the advert to the Sowetan newspaper offices in Industria for publication the following day, I realised she was serious . I was completely against the idea because uncle Nyawana was still living in the house and although my elder uncle, guava, was in jail for arson and assault, he was still part of our family and it was his house as well. I thought it was unfair of Mama to decide to sell the house without speaking to my uncles. “But Mama, have you discussed this with my uncles?” I asked. “there’s no need to do that now. Besides, both of your uncles have rDp houses, in Snake park and Slovoville respectively. It’s only a matter of time before they leave this house for their low-cost houses.” “what about the family history in this house? I’m sure we’re not that desperate.” “You need your results so that you can start earning a salary for yourself, don’t you, Bafana? this house means nothing to the kind of money that you’ll be earning once you’ve become an advocate. You can buy thousands of these houses in just one year,” she said, trying to convince me. “Anyway, all the memories in this place are bad ones. Both your grandparents died here and your uncle guava 20 went to jail straight from this house. there are no good memories here. Just don’t tell your uncle about our plan yet.” “okay, how much shall I advertise it for?” “what do you think? I mean, there are no improvements; it’s still two bedrooms, a dining room, a kitchen and a small yard. the house isn’t even plastered.” “But houses are expensive nowadays, Mama.” “Make it forty thousand then.” “okay, fine, Mama.” As I was talking to Mama in the kitchen I looked out through the dirty window into our small, dusty driveway and saw priest Mthembu approaching. he lived in the house at the corner of our street and preached nearby at the roma church. Looking at the black briefcase that he was carrying, I guessed that he was on his way home from his night shift at the croesus yeast company. My uncle had just come out from the toilet after doing his morning ritual and was now smoking a zol under the apricot tree. As priest Mthembu approached, I called out to my uncle. “A-ye-ye, uncle! Sek’shubile! Danger! the priest is here,” I warned him, expecting him to put out the zol that he was smoking. “Yeah, Bafana is right. what will the priest say when he sees you smoking dagga, huh Jabu?” said Mama. “he’ll probably think that we don’t have any respect in this house.” “priest Mthembu knows very well that I don’t respect him. he once said to my face that I’m a heathen and will not go to heaven,” responded my uncle. By a stroke of luck, priest Mthembu didn’t hear my uncle as he had seen someone he knew and had stopped to greet him. 21 “And I stopped attending his evangel when he started preaching that Jesus was not the son of Mary and Joseph, but the son of god and the holy Spirit,” continued my uncle, puffing away at his zol. “we argued a lot about that, Advo,” he said, almost in a whisper, “and that’s when I stormed out of his church because I can’t be taught lies.” he threw the remainder of his zol on the ground. “Shhhhhh, Jabu! he’s already here,” warned Mama, going into my bedroom where she had left her handbag. within seconds priest Mthembu was knocking at the steel kitchen door. “oh my boy, I heard that you had arrived from cape town and I thought that I should come and welcome you home,” said priest Mthembu as I opened the door to him. “thank you very much, Baba Mfundisi. I was thinking of coming to your house yesterday, but then I thought you would be at work,” I lied...