PAPA HAS A SPECIAL PLACE on Aunty’s living-room wall. There aren’t too many pictures on the wall. There’s one of Jesus nailed on the cross. The one of our Zion Christian Church minister. And then there’s Papa, with his big smile and gigantic afro grabbing everyone’s attention.
He’s dead now. It’s 22 March 1996, so Papa’s been dead for nearly ten years. I hardly know anything about him, because I was still in Mama’s womb when he was killed. Who murdered him? I don’t know. Ask that Apartheid guy Verwoerd; oh yah, he’s dead too. So I don’t know. All I know is that Papa died fighting Apartheid. I’ve asked my aunt, Papa’s sister, about it, and I’ve accepted that she knows nothing either. “What are you going to do if you find out, Mdu? Are you going after the people who were behind it?” she asked.
So I left it at that. Still, I always look at Papa’s photograph on the wall before heading to school. I don’t know why I stare at it so much. Maybe I’m searching for answers. For hope. Something.
Getting out of bed, I stumble over my eldest cousin Marothi on the floor. He’s still sleeping, never mind that we have to be at school in an hour. My twin sister, Ntsiki, and my other five cousins have already left. There’s no bread in the kitchen, of course.
I knew Ntsiki and I had entered the house of hunger the first day we arrived at Aunty’s house, a monthafter Mama’s burial. I was four when I found Mama outside our house in Mamelodi. She was just dangling there, under the mango tree. The only movement was in the leaves, a cold breeze blowing against her stony cheeks. They say I wept and howled for all my ancestors to hear.
Aunty’s house is not in Mamelodi, but in Lenyenye township, Limpopo. This is where my father grew up before heading to Gauteng. This is where he is buried. And this is where Papa has a street named after him. Aunty never wants to talk about my parents. Not Mama’s suicide, not Papa’s murder, not anything.
When we arrived here, our first supper was white samp with mango atchaar. Aunty sat my six cousins, Ntsiki and me on the floor. She placed one bowl in front of her youngest male child, Daniel, another in front of her youngest female child, Nomsa, and one big bowl in front of Marothi, the eldest. Then she went to the kitchen without saying a word. Ntsiki and I sat there hungry, waiting for our bowls to come. When I turned to look at Marothi, I saw my other three cousins had joined him, eating from the same dish.
Five minutes later, Aunty came back into the living room. “Why aren’t you two eating?”
I looked up at her, puzzled.
“You think you are too good to eat with them?”
I shook my head.
“Eat!” she said, roughly grasping our hands and pushing them towards the bigger bowl, now empty.
“There is no more,” Ntsiki whimpered.
“You will sleep on empty stomachs, ke!”
Six kids, one dish: the fastest to chew claims the most food. Aunty’s a genius.
So today, I’m not surprised that there’s no school lunch for us. The only time we get lunch is the week Aunty receives the child-support grant.
Walking to school, I see Moshole ahead of me. He’s always swinging his suitcase, for everyone to see that vele his father bought him one. His father is not even a hero or anything. He’s just a loan shark, and he drinks like nobody’s business. So basically Papa was a hundred-times-better man. I’ve heard rumours that Moshole’s father killed women and men with his white boss during Apartheid. Even today, he threatens to butcher people when they don’t pay back the money they borrow from him. I’m telling the truth, strubob, I’ve heard the stories. I’ve also overheard Aunty say, gossiping through the wire fence with our neighbour, that there are ghosts in his house. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.
I pass Dineo, the White Girl, waiting in front of her big house for her school’s minibus. She’s not white, but so yellow that her lips are pinkish-red. I notice her hair is nicely tied together with a dark-green ribbon. We call her “the White Girl” because she doesn’t speak Khelobedu like the other kids in this township, just English and Afrikaans. That’s what they speak at her school. She doesn’t even want people calling her Dineo. She wants us to say “Dinny”, because that’s what they call her there. I don’t understand this. I also don’t understand why she doesn’t speak Khelobedu anymore. I mean, it’s not like she moved to another country where nobody knows her language. She only started going to that school last year anyway, when the white schools started accepting Black kids.
I don’t want to lie, I’d like to go to Dinny’s school. Everything is better there, I’ve heard. Better textbooks, better classrooms, better teachers, way better toilets. But it’s expensive – so expensive only Dinny in this entire township goes there. Her mother can afford it. Mine is dead, and Aunty is poor.
Dinny tugs at the grey flask she’s holding under her arm, not even looking at me as I walk past. She shouldn’t act like she’s better. I mean, her father is Uncle Abobo, a mad man. He wears rags and pushes a wheelbarrow full of dirty bottles on these streets every day, mumbling “Ah, bo, bo” with saliva dripping out of his mouth. Aunty says he was bewitched. We call him Uncle out of respect because, despite his illness, he was once a rich, educated man who owned a taxi business. When his madness kicked in, his whole family disowned him.
Damn it, Moshole just saw me.
“Mduduza! ... Hey, Josia!” he screams.
On 27 April 1986, which in 1994 was declared Freedom Day, my mother named me Mduduza Zungu Junior. Josia is my nickname. At first I thought it was an insult about my appearance – that I look like Josia Thugwane.
I don’t know why Moshole tries to befriend me. My best friend, Sporo, says he hangs out with us because nobody wants to be his friend, because his father is a killer; and also to stand out, so girls notice him. He might be right, since his school uniform has no holes and is always so clean you’d think he wears a new one every day. And I see how Moshole looks at my sister; he looks at her with those eyes, those longing eyes, and he thinks I don’t know that he wants her.
He calls me for the second time, standing in the middle of the road like he owns it. I pretend not to hear him. “Mdu!” he calls again. He’s good at screaming; I can’t avoid him forever.
“Sho, mpintji!” I yell back, walking faster.
When I get closer, he sees the empty container I’m holding behind my books in their Tastic rice bag.
“You are going to line up for that food again today?”
I don’t respond. What does he think? That I’m carrying an empty container to school to collect education in it?
I should be rich. I should be living in a mansion. That’s how I see it. Other children of struggle heroes seem to be rich. They go to private schools. They speak English in nice twanging accents. They swipe cards and drive cars. And when they show up at school, the other kids bow at their feet. But here I am holding my yellow container, ready to run for my life. Five minutes before lunch time, almost all learners – except the snobbish ones like Moshole – stand at the classroom doors, waiting for the smug bellboy to stroll to the principal’s office to fetch the tin mug and white polished stone. He bangs the mug loudly, signalling it is time for lunch. The teacher commands us to pray before we eat.
No one really prays. God can excuse us. We are starving while he sits comfortably in the clouds, watching. I can hear my classmates murmur faster than the speed of light, “In the name of Father, of Son, Holy Spirit … de, de, de, dim ... amen!”
Boy, do we run. Some kids with slow legs fall on their faces, and no starving child gives enough of a damn to stop – they’d rather jump over their friends’ heads. I’m not worried about the food running out, though. The benefit of having two family members at the same school is that one of them has to let me into the queue. The irritating part is, if the old women who serve us see you pull that stunt, they’ll embarrass you in front of everyone – “Hey you with the dirty uniform! Who do you think you are? Patrice Motsepe’s son? Go to the back of the line and line up like the others!” – and you have to awkwardly walk all the way to the back. Then, as if you didn’t just stand in that long queue for quite some time, the old ladies morosely put insufficient food in your container, like you’re responsible for their crappy mood, and yell, “Next!”
Our Mandela government is so generous, to feed poor kids like me. On Mondays, the government lunch is brown samp with hot, yellowish soup. On Tuesdays, dry bread with peanut butter. As if we’d forgotten what they served on Monday, on Wednesdays it’s samp again, white with a hot, brownish soup. Thursdays is pap and minced meat. And on Fridays, pap with oily green cabbage – but sometimes, if the old women are in a good mood, the “Johanne 14” is so well cooked and delicious that you lick your fingers afterwards. Today is Friday, a good day to be alive and hungry.
I made it to the queue. My intestines have formed a knot by now. I am number six in the line and my classroom is far from here. That’s why my friends call me Josia Thugwane: I run faster than castor oil on a hot day. When I was in Grade Three, these four white ladies from overseas came to donate food and clean water on Sports Day. We don’t have Sports Day at our school, but that day there was Sports Day because white people came to visit us. When I placed a stunning first in running, the women were so happy they took pictures with me and wrote my details in a funny little book. They promised to come back to take me to one of the schools in town, like where Dinny goes. I am sad to inform you I am still waiting.
In the line, I’m standing behind one of the big boys who have been in primary school all their lives. This is the fourth time I’ve been stuck behind him. He always has an unpleasant exchange with the old ladies.
“Why are you still standing here?” one woman asks him.
He responds in his deep voice, “Ghe starter dilo dje? Are you going to give me more?”
The woman tries to ignore him. “Next!”
I move closer, lifting my container in the air. However, the big man blocks me and stands firm, looking into the pots. “You think this will fill my stomach? I am hungry. This food is not your mother’s, but the government’s.” He adds angrily, “We see you every day stealing the leftovers in huge containers to feed your families. Give me more food or else.”
Or else what? I always wonder. The old lady mutters inaudible ugly words, but puts more food into his container. He walks away with a grin. Bastard. The elderly women have every reason to be intimidated: he looks like a mad dog. One of his eyes is not really an eye, it’s a marble. They say he lost his left eye to firecrackers during New Year celebrations. Others say he took it out himself with a sharp knife when he was a child, so that he could look at himself through his own eye. I believe it; he seems like a stupid man.
The hot moisture from the pots heats up my face as I move closer.
“How are you today, Zungu?” This one with no teeth always greets me, because she knew my father. She claims she took care of him at crèche.
“I am fine.” I always hesitate to ask for more, but this time I bravely say, “More, more Mamazala ...”
She examines my face, smiles, then dishes up more food.
“Thank you, thank you, God bless you,” I say, stepping away. The oldies are in a good mood today. Not wasting any more time, I take a bite.
Sporo, Matloga and Thapelo find me already sitting on our bench. Since Grade Three, no one sits here but us; we’re in Grade Five now. If we find anyone here, they know they have to stand up and leave, no negotiations. My cousin Marothi always sits with us at lunch break, although he’s older than all of us and in Grade Seven. I think this is because he doesn’t have friends.
Moshole comes over with his lunch. We all pretend we don’t see the viennas, cheese and white bread he opens in front of us. He never offers us any of it.
My twin sister suddenly stands in front of me, her lips white as if she’s coloured them with chalk. “Mdu, I didn’t get food.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Teacher sent me to fetch her glasses at her house again. The food is finished now.”
That’s what she gets for being the smartest in her class. I give her some of mine, and quickly lick my oily fingers.
Moshole is gazing at her with those annoying eyes. He desperately opens his mouth: “Will that be fine, Ntsiki? Don’t you want bread? ... Apple juice?”
Ntsiki looks at the food I gave her for a full five seconds. Then she says to Moshole, “Please.”
He stands up and gives her his whole lunch. She looks at me with apologetic eyes, and awkwardly hands my container back to me. She smiles at Moshole, mumbles a “Thank you” and walks away.
After school, I’m still not surprised to find that there’s no food at home. Aunty is sleeping with Nomsa and Daniel under the naartjie tree that leans over the two-bedroom house. In the children’s bedroom, I take off my white school shirt and pull on my favourite T-shirt. On the back is written, “Rest in eternal peace, Comrade Mduduza Zungu, 1957–1986”. On the front is Papa’s face, looking depressed. He is not smiling like on the photo in the living room. I like this one because he’s not pretending to look happy for Apartheid.
My friends are waiting for me at the gate. We’re going beer bottle hunting, like every Friday when we’re craving chips with vetkoeks. We are not mad in the head though, like Uncle Abobo, who just collects bottles for no reason. If Thapelo, Sporo, Matloga and I find empty discarded bottles around the township, we go to Thibo’s shebeen next to the shopping centre to exchange them for money. Thibo gives us four-tiger: forty rand. It’s enough to buy a litre of Fanta orange, chips, and vetkoeks for the four of us. Thapelo has already begun our mission: he grabs a Hansa bottle from the street corner and puts it in a plastic bag.
Today, we’re taking advantage of Moshole’s thirst for my sister and his desperation for friendship. He’s promised us eight bottles. And since his father is not only a killer, but also a drunk, I know we can get even more.
I often think of telling Moshole how I really feel about him. I think of letting him know, face to face, that he’s just kak, even though he has a better lunch and school uniform than all of us. I think of yelling at him that his father is even a bigger kak, and that one day he will be a big kak just like him. But today is not the day to tell him that, since he’s helping us.
First, we’ll cross Moshole’s street, Mduduza Zungu Street, which is the fourth street from mine. We’re going there to fetch what was promised to us. Then we go through Apollo Street. By the time we search the eighth street, Stadium Street, I know we’ll be rich.
A nice-looking Mercedes car slowly drives past us. When we notice the white man wearing red shades in the driver’s seat, we all run after him, waving and shouting excitedly: “Lekhowa! Lekhowa!” We’re happy because usually the only time we see white people is when we go to town, where they live.
He waves his hand and smiles like a celebrity. The back windows of the car are quickly opened. He has company: two boys who look the same age as us. Both of them are wearing our national rugby team T-shirts. As they stick their heads out the window, the wind blows their fluffy hair. I notice how lively their laughter is, how happy their faces are.
Then, out of nowhere, the white boys start throwing bananas through the windows. Giggling, “Catch, catch!”
Matloga and Thapelo carry on waving at the kids and catching the bananas. Sporo and I slow to a walk. Sporo picks up a rock and aims it at the car, but he misses. I also pick up a rock to throw it at the car, except the rock is too heavy, and the car is way too far now, so I drop it.
We catch up with Matloga and Thapelo down the road. I can see the fury on Sporo’s face. But we pick up the bananas, because our stomachs are growling. We carry them down Mduduza Zungu Street, to Moshole’s house. He is waiting for us at his gate with our bottles.