Themba: a boy called Hope

CHAPTER 1

Kwishawa

In the shower

The hard spray of the shower hits my head. Drops scatter. Most of the hot cascade streams over my shoulders, washing soap and foam off my back and belly. My eyes are half closed. The steam smells of chlorine and soap. Deep breaths gradually restore calm. Most of my muscles are still knotted from the effort of the game, a dull ache in my right arm and shoulder, a reminder of the bruises I collected in a fall just after half-time. I don’t think it’s serious.

From the entrance to the team showers I hear Andile call my name. He’s already dressed, but there is excitement in his voice, Themba, come on, move it! The Boss is waiting for you to say congratulations! And all those jokers from the TV - they won’t get another goal like that in a long time! And he adds with a friendly grin, They all want you, only you … Man, have you seen the chicks out there, waiting for autographs at the exit? Today you can have whatever you want, Themba!

Andile Khumalo is much older than me. He’s got to be around twenty-five. He’s the star mid-fielder for Bafana Bafana¹, and not in the least jealous. He’s really happy for me. When I joined the national football team four months ago, he pulled me aside after the first or second training session and said in his brotherly way, "Lumka – watch it, bra’! They just want to try you out but if it doesn’t all work out real cool then they’ll dump you. That’s usually how it goes. Football isn’t really a game – it’s all about money, lots of hard cash. You’re only worth as much as your last star performance here."

Andile is from the Eastern Cape, like me. But he is not from the country. He comes from iMonti, or East London as the white people say. iMonti is a coastal town with a big harbour and it’s even got its own airport. Me and Nomtha – the most important person in my life – fled from a poor little village about two hundred kilometres north of iMonti. It’s up in the hills of Qunu, and it’s famous because Nelson Mandela was born there, in the village of Mvezo on the Mbashe River. There is even a museum in his honour.

But that’s about all there is. Most of the roads are still not tarmacked and many people live in huts built of straw and clay. They try to scrape a living from the poor soil along with all the cows, goats and sheep that are grazing there. Andile never stops teasing me about that: You come from Qunu? Where on earth did you find a place to play football? It’s all hills without a single level field … I suppose you had to change over at half-time, first running up hill to shoot and then running down after the ball, hey?

"Kanye-kanye – exactly!" I laugh in reply. If only he knew. But even then I don’t admit that we only had goal posts made from long branches, and that none of us had any shoes, let alone toks.

All that seems like a hundred years ago. My life with Nomtha in our village in Qunu: Barely ten homes, most of them oorontabile, traditional round huts, scattered over four hills and across two valleys. We were born there, Nomtha, my sister, who is two years younger, and me. The first thing I can remember was the scent of my mother’s skin, and the soft, warm blanket in which she tied us to her back. I can remember the feel of strong grass and damp earth under my bare feet; the scary sounds in the night when the storm battered the thatch on the roof – followed by the calm of early morning, when Mama was the first to get up and break dry twigs to start the fire. Nomtha usually woke up after me. I loved watching her sleep, even then; her long dark lashes, her delicate face with full lips and soft cheeks. Nomtha – she is everything to me, my entire family, at least what there is left of my family since we have left Uncle Luthando and Grandfather, and Mama lies dying.

*

I never really knew my father. I was four or at the most five when he vanished in the mines around iGoli, the huge city of Johannesburg. He simply never came back to us, not even at Christmas as he’d always done before then. For a long time we kids didn’t know why that was, and we made up all kinds of reasons: Perhaps he wanted to come back but there was an accident in the mine. Perhaps he found a new woman, and started a new family far away from us. From then on my mother never said another word about my father. It almost seemed as though he’d never existed, and for years we had no idea why he’d abandoned us in that tiny village in Qunu. One thing was certain: We never wanted to have anything more to do with Luthando, our uncle. Never ever again.

*

Nomtha’s proper name is Mthawekhaya which in Xhosa means She who spreads light in the house. But when she was little, she couldn’t really pronounce her own name, and so we’ve always called her Nomtha…

She’s probably still sitting somewhere out there in the stadium now while all the people are slowly leaving, although I told her exactly how to find the Press Room. But that’s Nomtha – she doesn’t like rooms full of noisy people, and she makes up her own mind about what is good for her, and what isn’t. She’ll wait for me until it’s all over. No matter what happens. No matter what Andile and all the other players of Bafana Bafana have to say. Whether they let me go on playing in their team, or not. She’ll be there at the end of it all.

*

I turn off the hot tap swiftly and hold my breath as the freezing water hits my skin. Then I step out of the shower cubicle, dripping wet and quickly shake my head to get rid of the water in my ears. Andile is still waiting in the doorway. I wonder if he has any idea of what’s about to happen.

"Ndiyeza – I’m coming!" I call out to him as I grab a towel.

He gestures impatiently, but doesn’t move from the spot. While I dry off, he carries on watching me. I pull on my track suit pants and one of our T-shirts. There is no way back now. Not for me.

*

My story begins with Andile and with the three questions he put to me, long before that Press Conference – although I didn’t really know how to answer them. Back then, in the bus, I fumbled around for answers. Although he was incredibly patient, I could tell he was unimpressed. Andile is absolutely the last person I’d ever want to disappoint. Not just because he’s the biggest star in the team, either. It was more because his questions suggested, Perhaps we can really be friends. You’re not a show-off like the others. I can talk to you about things other than chicks, cars and money (which was the usual level of banter among the team). I’m asking you all this because I want to get to know you, and what you care about. Those weren’t his exact words – but I think that’s what he meant.

So my story begins with my decision to give Andile an honest answer to his questions. In spite of the fact that it’s a really difficult thing for me to do. And so I’ll try and explain the long journey I made to get to this point… How all of this happened, my whole crazy life up to that moment under the cold shower …

*

We were sitting on a bus after a long day’s training in the Ellis Park Stadium. We’d been preparing for a friendly game against Nigeria, our great rival, and we’d only known each other for about three weeks. It had been a hot day and our coach, Steve, had been working us hard. The bus was taking us back to our training camp along the dark highway. Andile’s face was lit up now and then by the sudden flashes from oncoming headlights. For a while his eyes had been closed and I thought he’d fallen asleep, like others in the team. But then he nudged me gently and, when I turned towards him, he asked: Themba, what about your ancestors – what do you know?

Although it was a modern bus with aircon and all that, the engine was so loud I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

What do you mean? What’s to know?

He slapped his hand against his forehead, Man, I am talking about your ancestors! Your grandparents and their parents and that stuff … where you come from! Do you have any idea of all that?

I was taken aback by his seriousness and mumbled, What do you mean? I never really got to know my father. And my mother, she’s … I stopped myself then because I’d never told him about my mother, and I certainly didn’t intend to tell him in the back of a bus, of all places. I cleared my throat nervously and threw the ball back, Why – what do you know about yours?

I dream a lot, he said, looking straight at me and speaking every word clearly, although he hardly raised his voice. "Last night I dreamed of an old man who seemed vaguely familiar, although I didn’t know his name. He said: ‘Andile, you are my son.’ And in the dream I answered: ‘Impossible! You don’t look anything like my father!’ Then a huge storm broke over us with lightning and thunder. He held me in his arms and whispered, first in Xhosa and then in English: ‘Umfazi uzalela omye … Every person has many children, and all children have many parents …’ "

And then – ?

Then I woke up, wet through with sweat. My heart was beating like crazy and I could have sworn that the old man was still in the room. But when I put on the light everything was normal. The window was open and it was quiet outside, with not a leaf stirring on the tree.

Andile looked into my eyes as though he was hoping that I could explain his dream – or maybe contribute something from my own experience of dreams and the ancestors. But nobody ever took me into their arms in my dreams, most definitely not an old man.

I often have dreams of being attacked by huge monsters, stabbing at me with spears and knives, and my only escape is to jump from a great height. Or sometimes I’d hear my mother screaming out, the way she screams when she’s running a fever … but in my dreams she’d call out to me and I could never reach her. It was as if I’d been tied down with ropes wound so tightly around me that I could hardly breathe… Eventually I’d wake up after a long struggle to get free, or else Nomtha would shake me awake.

But I didn’t tell Andile any of this, I merely said, Nomtha also believes, as you do, that the ancestors watch over us and protect us… I almost added that I don’t believe in any of that stuff, but I had no reason to offend Andile.

His second question came out of the blue, Nomtha is a great girl! How long have you two been together?

Had I really never told him that Nomtha is my sister? I just had to laugh. Yes, Nomtha really is terrific. I grinned back at him.

He beamed back at me – that famous cheeky grin which features on all the posters and which, if rumours can be believed, wins over the girls in record time.

Ha, he cried, terrific in bed too, eh?

Absolutely great in every respect, I agreed and we both laughed. Then I had to tell him straight, Nomtha is my sister.

At first Andile showed no reaction. He seemed to think long and hard. Then he calmly asked his third question, What does she mean to you?

I couldn’t hold his gaze and looked out into the dark landscape going past on my side of the freeway. I felt his eyes on me and whispered, more to myself than to him, So much …

Andile let it drop. He probably didn’t hear what I said because the engine noise in the bus was far too loud. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to answer him. On the contrary, I really wanted to open up and tell him everything… All his questions about love and the ancestors echoed deep inside me: Where do I come from? How long will my mother go on for? And what does Nomtha really mean to me?

Several times I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find the words. Andile looked at me for a while waiting for a response then leaned back in his seat. After a while, I realised that his body had relaxed into sleep, and that his head was slowly sinking onto my shoulder. He was breathing deeply and quietly. But I remained wide awake next to him and promised myself that one day I’d tell him everything…

One day I’d be able to explain to myself and to him how all this had come about. Then I too closed my eyes and gave my body over to the gentle rocking of the bus. Gradually, shapes and contours blurred in the darkness before my eyes …

CHAPTER 2

Ebuzuku ngasemlanjeni

At night by the river

Where I come from it’s just as lively at night-time as it is in the day. When the animals of the day – including humans – go to sleep, the animals of the night take over. Many beasts of prey hunt at night. And at certain hours of the night, there are spirits who can draw such enormous power from the darkness that they can easily overwhelm you, even if you don’t believe in them. Yes, even those people who think of themselves as rational and sensible during the daytime.

Because night falls swiftly there. Almost without any transition the flame-red orb of the sun sinks into the hills, turning the clouds a fiery orange. Then a pitch black darkness descends, until gradually, the cold and distant light of the moon makes all the shadows dance.

The lions and elephants no longer roam the hills and valleys of Qunu, but there are still lynxes and jackals that raid the chicken coops at night, making off with a goose or a chicken. Sometimes, from a strong branch in a tree, you can see the huge eyes of giant owls, glowing as they slowly open and close. Swarms of bats dart silently backwards and forwards hunting for mosquitoes and other small insects. All along the river the chorus of frogs and toads rises, swelling to a crescendo during the course of the evening, until it suddenly falls silent, as though directed by the baton of an invisible conductor.

It was on a night like this, with Mama already fast asleep after a hard day’s work in the mealie field, that Nomtha and I lay wide awake trying to explain the noises of the night to each other. I wasn’t more than twelve years old at the time and Nomtha must have been about ten.

The scratching on the roof is a gecko, she says quietly so as not to wake Mama.

I think it’s two of them, fighting, I venture.

Could well be! She agrees enthusiastically and tries to make out something above us. Through the tiny window of the small round hut which is home to the three of us, moonlight shimmers on the single photograph we have of Father. My mother always keeps it by her pillow in a shiny metal frame that she polishes regularly.

All of a sudden, we hear a distinct knocking on the mud wall outside, right next to the wooden door. The door has been rickety for a long time, hanging loosely on its hinges, so that even a mild breeze can set it creaking. But this hollow knocking sound is something new. It’s really spooky – weird, I can’t explain it. It seems to come from right inside the dried clay bricks, but also from somewhere far away, and it sounds like a giant fist is trying to make the walls tremble.

Nomtha, however, has already got up and is pulling me along with her. "Yiza – come on Themba, it’s probably a ghost we have to set free!"

Admittedly, I’m curious too to find out what’s causing this knocking sound, but the idea of liberating a ghost does not appeal at all: And what do we do with him when we have freed him?

Typically, Nomtha has an answer: Surely the ghost can decide that for himself …

I know Nomtha well enough to realise that she won’t let it go. As Mama is fast asleep, I move quietly and grab the iron poker we use to stoke the fire. It’s still warm from the cooking of the evening meal. I creep on tiptoe towards the door, with Nomtha right behind me; we hold our breath as we hear it again. There it is, the deep, hollow sound of a fist knocking, or is it the hoof of a huge animal?

Suddenly, there is silence. Has the ghost spotted us? Is it waiting for us to open the door, to drag us off to the spirit world? But Nomtha is still on