EPISODE 9 I sobbed a river with my head under the pillow, hiccups, snort sniffing and all that jazz. Even when I tried stopping, the chief of tears department would not entertain my request to have the water pipes blocked. In-fact I suspected that my tear ducts had somehow burst. I even tried comforting myself: “Mxm, itidimalle wena Gomzito, ga o sa ratiwe gao ratiwe, ga gona se o ka se etsang…” (Mxm, quiet down Gomzito, if you are not loved, then you are not loved. There’s nothing you can do.) But even self-cheering didn’t work. But, something worked like a charm alright, my mother’s 1999 Toyota corolla pulling up the driveway. The last time I cried like this was when I was about five or six. My grandmother bought whole wheat bread for breakfast one morning by mistake, old age. There is nothing irritating than grains on the bread. My granny refused to remove them “ke tla simolla kae tota Gomolemo? Hee-e man, wena o rata go tlhola o panne motho jaaka tonki, jaa ngwana Monicca, jaa!” (Where will I even begin Gomolemo? Nooo man, you enjoy slaving a person on a halter like a donkey, eat Monicca’s child, eat! ) Did I not cry from morning till noon? Did my tantrum side not get all up in arms? But grannies have seen it all, they’ve raised their own siblings and our mothers remember? She wasn’t shaken at all, she had this accent that just emphasised unnecessarily “…ga o lle madi man, fokotsa metsi ao, a fokotse, a fokotse. Ke one ago tsentshang.” (You don’t cry blood man, drain that access water, drain it, drain it. It’s driving you crazy) I just threw the plate against the wall and the rest is history, you know how grannies roll, using the back of a shoe. So now I had my access water drained. I expected my life to be less crazy per my granny’s theory. My mother’s angry quarter-heels tapping the floor down the passage reversed all my tears right into my sockets fast. Even the drops that already soaked the pillow reversed back to where they came from. The last time I saw this woman was from the back of a police van and that latest memory of her made me a little nervous. By the time she opened the door, I was standing in the middle of my tiny room with my shoulders hanging in the air and my body hair standing. I was ready to throw myself in my mother’s arms if she let me. I learnt soon enough that my neutral and composed mom just came to deliver an ultimatum and confiscate my phone. Mxm, as if I knew where that cheap phone was. I began to look for it and found it switched off in my dressing cupboard. God confiscated Mish. My father confiscated Neo, then Rose from me and now this? My mother had always been the centre-point, the place I can always go back to and re-group… my peace. But even she just came to take, and give nothing at all. Now how long would I just have people taking, and taking and taking from me? Why were they stripping me of my sanity? Why were they playing push-pull, push-pull with my emotions? “A founu e nkatamele” (let the phone get closer to me) just like that, no how are you, nothing. My shoulders dropped and I swallowed my spit, you know I had to, before mistakes happen. My mother being the definition of class and beauty that she always had been, stretched her hand towards me and bat her eyelids like a beauty queen being crowned Miss-universe “a e tle!” (let it come). Her voice was without a trace of anger at all. She had the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit that is spoken about in the book of Peter. I know that scripture because lately any note providing ‘beauty tips’ called for my attention. She concluded, “from now on you’ll behave like a child Gomolemo, poo ganke di tlhakanela saka” (A team of oxen can never share a cattle-barn) If she didn’t confiscate my phone, I’d plug the charger on the socket behind my side table. While it’s charging, I’d insert my headphones and put my Zahara on blast, (((Umthwalo wam uyandisinda….Ndiyacela ndiphathise…Lula isandla sakho…Andifuni ukufana nabanikezela…Uuuuuuu Uyandisinda…aaaaa..Ndinxanyelwe lixesha…Ubomi buyandixhesha Ndiyakhubeka…Ndifuna ukuphakama…Ndifuna ukubaleka…Uuuuuuu Uyandisinda ..Emhalbeni…Kugcwele ezizinto...))) We met in half an hour at the traditional table. My mother brought takeaway food with. I wasn’t looking forward to sharing anything with my father at all. I can’t believe I hadn’t staged a home butlery just for that table yet. If there’s anything irritating me than grains on the bread, it’s this table. Why couldn’t people have their suppers where-ever they wanted? I settled, and I would have enjoyed my meal in peace if my father wasn’t so action-packed. He took long and heavy breaths. He tapped his feet under the table making it wobble. He made silly exclamations like “Hhhhm” and all that while staring at me. I had to cut the silence in half and take my share with me to the room. I couldn’t deal. I cleared my throat, “Mama, ke kopa go botsa?” (Mama, can I ask a question?) She studied both my father and I. Then she said impatiently, “Botsa Gomolemo, botsa ma rata helele!” (Ask Gomolemo, ask gossipmonger….) I didn’t waste time, “…go sharp gore papa a nketeke ga wena o ile mmerekong?” (…is it okay for papa to hammer me while you are at work?) I supported my question with a breaking, fragile voice. Lol, my mother’s hands shook uncontrollably. Her jaws tightened as she planted her anger on my father’s face. I knew I touched a nerve. My father looked at me with utter helplessness. I eyeballed him a look that said: “who’s action-packed now?” … “Ke nnete Mosa?” (Is it true Mosa?) My mother’s voice rose. I stood in slow-motion and straightened my backbone, eyes still on him. I grabbed my take-away and salsa(d) back to my room, leaving the ticking bomb to explode on its own. “Nkarabe Mosa…” (…answer me, Mosa) In seconds voices hit the top of the roof. Someone banged a fist on the table. Chairs dragging as they stood… they blamed each other for Mish’s death. Someone strutted down the passage, another followed, doors banged. I sat on my bed and ate my food in peace. He started me and he knows it. THE END!!!
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 09:59:40 +0000
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