Sometimes There Is a Void (68 page)
Read Sometimes There Is a Void Online
Authors: Zakes Mda
The only two things worth mentioning about that event was that as I was greeting some folks who were excited to see me and were congratulating me on the Annual Steve Biko Memorial Lecture that I had given to a standing ovation at the University of Cape Town, I spotted Keneiloe Mohafa. Yes, Keneiloe, my childhood sweetheart. There she was, sitting with her friends who were pointing at me, obviously gossiping about me. The last time I saw her was when she left me in Ohio for her father's funeral and never came back. I went to greet her. I was glad to see that she was doing well and seemed to be very happy. She was my first love.
The second thing was meeting Tony Yengeni, the former ANC chief whip who served time in jail for corruption. I must admit that I have always had a soft spot for Tony Yengeni, not only for the suffering he went through during the struggle but because he was Chris Hani's friend. I always thought he'd had a bum rap going to jail for getting a big discount from Daimler Benz on a Mercedes Benz when a lot of his comrades were getting away with corruption worth millions every day. Tony told me that Limpho Hani would have liked me to write Chris Hani's biography because I knew him more than most people.
âIt is true I knew Bhut' Thembi very well,' I said, âbut only at a personal human level, rather than at a political level.'
âYou can always research the political level,' said Tony. âWe are here, we'll tell you.'
I felt it would be a daunting project that would take me away from my fiction for more time than I could spare. But I knew that Limpho Hani's instincts were correct. My book would have been more credible than the life stories of politicians that I have read in South Africa which pretend that the subject lived a purely political life and had no father or mother or friends or family who contributed, for better or for worse, in shaping the subject into what she or he became.
On our way back from Pretoria we reverted to our ugly selves. This time it was about some woman I smiled and waved at. I remember before we married my mother once called Adele for a private meeting where she tried to talk to her like mother and daughter. She had warned her against jealousy which she said could destroy our marriage. It had happened already and was the bane of my life.
The following week I went to Lesotho to see my mother. I made a point of visiting her at least once a month and taking her some money. Her health was deteriorating to the extent that she had not been able to read the manuscript of
The Heart of Redness
. The neighbours who always gathered in her bedroom had read it to her. My mother was as beautiful as ever, sitting in her wheelchair in her bedroom. She cried immediately she saw me. I held her in my arms. She told me, in the midst of sniffles, that the ANC government had forgotten my father's contribution to the struggle. There was no mention of him anywhere, as
if they were the only ones who fought for freedom, as if he never existed at all. It was like that with her those days, something would trigger the memory of her husband and she would get all emotional.
The Heart of Redness
. The neighbours who always gathered in her bedroom had read it to her. My mother was as beautiful as ever, sitting in her wheelchair in her bedroom. She cried immediately she saw me. I held her in my arms. She told me, in the midst of sniffles, that the ANC government had forgotten my father's contribution to the struggle. There was no mention of him anywhere, as
if they were the only ones who fought for freedom, as if he never existed at all. It was like that with her those days, something would trigger the memory of her husband and she would get all emotional.
âDon't worry, mama,' I said, âhistory will remember your husband. They cannot rub him off its pages, however hard they may try.'
She seemed a bit comforted.
I gave her the perfume that I had bought for her in Paris and spent the whole afternoon with her. I could see that she was becoming forgetful of many significant events in her life. But I didn't take her sporadic loss of memory seriously.
On my way back I stopped in Maseru to see Deborah Mpepuoa, Kittyman's daughter who worked for me when I still had the Screenwriters Institute at Mothamo House. She was very distraught because her husband was in hospital in Leribe.
I decided to take the Leribe route on my way to Johannesburg to see the guy, though I had never met him before. After all, Kittyman looked after me when we were students at Peka High School and saved me from savage hazing. I was walking between the buildings at the government hospital in Leribe when an excited man came running towards me, calling my name. When he got close I saw that it was Dugmore Hlalele in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. But he looked strange. He was thin, almost skeletal, and his rubbery muscles clung desperately to his bones. I suspected AIDS. Many of my friends in Lesotho were dying of AIDS. One of Dugmore's friends, Nthethe, who was a lawyer in Mafeteng had also died in the pandemic. Dugmore was certainly a dying man, yet he still worked as a doctor, healing others.
He brought his hand forward reluctantly, as if he feared I would rebuff it. I didn't take his hand. I reached for him and embraced him. His face cracked into a dry smile. We talked briefly of the old times as he walked with me to the ward I was looking for. He knew Deborah's husband because he was his patient but he had not known the guy was Kittyman's son-in-law.
âI'll take special care of him because Kittyman was a good man,' he said.
I thought he himself needed someone to take special care of him. I didn't ask him if he was still with Ray, nor did I tell him how much I used to love Ray, and how jealous I was of him when I heard he had married her when they were students in Russia.
He walked me back to my car and just before we parted he said, âI am glad to see that you're not like the other MaPeka who are trying to isolate me.'
âCome on,' I said. âWhy would anyone isolate the popular Dugs?'
âThey are accusing me of killing Jama.'
He was not smiling; he meant it. I didn't know that anybody had accused him of killing Jama Mbeki, and I told him so. He told me that the Peka High School old boys who were Jama Mbeki's comrades in the BCP were spreading lies that he sold Jama out to Leabua Jonathan's Police Mobile Unit who then kidnapped and murdered him.
âHe did come to my house that night, disguised in a Basotho blanket,' he said. âBut he left. I don't know what happened to him after that.'
It seemed he desperately wanted me to believe him. I had not heard any of those details nor of the rumours that he was being blamed for betraying his friend, who apparently was on the run and had come to him for assistance. I drove away feeling sad for everyone: those who died for some elusive cause and were buried underground, and those who died but continued to walk among the living as living corpses.
I later heard that Dugmore Hlalele died soon after that chance meeting.
Â
It was a Wednesday morning towards the end of April 2001. Adele was at work and the kids were at school. I was in my back garden near the swimming pool being interviewed for television by a striking South African Indian woman. She was irritated that I was giving elaborate nuanced answers to her questions and she kept on interrupting me. âWe need sound bites. Give us sound bites.'
In turn, I was getting increasingly irritated that she was irritated with me.
âI am an intelligent person,' I said. âI don't speak in sound bites.'
I was about to unclip the microphone from my jacket and call the whole interview off, but the cameraman and the sound woman pleaded with me. They needed the footage for the news that evening. I had won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize for the Africa Region for
The Heart of Redness
and would be going to Ghana to receive my award and perhaps, if I was lucky enough, to get the overall Commonwealth Writers' Prize which would only be announced at the ceremony. The novel had also won the very first
Sunday Times
Fiction Award, so it had caused some sensation. The woman wanted to know what I would tell the Queen of England at the reception if I won the overall prize. I thought it was a silly question and I was in the process of giving her an equally silly answer â that I would ask Her Majesty to facilitate the return of King Hintsa's head which was taken to England by her ancestors who were famous headhunters, and while she was at it she should return all the heads of my ancestors that had found their way into the museums of England â when she pleaded for sound bites again.
The Heart of Redness
and would be going to Ghana to receive my award and perhaps, if I was lucky enough, to get the overall Commonwealth Writers' Prize which would only be announced at the ceremony. The novel had also won the very first
Sunday Times
Fiction Award, so it had caused some sensation. The woman wanted to know what I would tell the Queen of England at the reception if I won the overall prize. I thought it was a silly question and I was in the process of giving her an equally silly answer â that I would ask Her Majesty to facilitate the return of King Hintsa's head which was taken to England by her ancestors who were famous headhunters, and while she was at it she should return all the heads of my ancestors that had found their way into the museums of England â when she pleaded for sound bites again.
âIf she wants sound bites she must harvest them from my answers,' I said, addressing the cameraman and the sound woman. âI am not going to speak in sound bites. I am not some stupid politician.'
I was saved by the arrival of a messenger who was led to my back garden by 'M'e 'Mathabang, my helper. A helper is a South African euphemism for a maid. The messenger had my three novels,
Ways of Dying
,
She Plays with the Darkness
and
The Heart of Redness
, and a message from Charlayne Hunter-Gault that I should sign them for President Bill Clinton. Ms Hunter-Gault was the CNN Bureau Chief in Johannesburg, but also a well-known figure in the history of the civil rights movement in the USA. I think she is great fan of my fiction because she has introduced it to many of her celebrity friends. I once received an email from David Shaw, Glenn Close's husband, telling me that Glenn Close had fallen in love with
Ways of Dying
, to which she had been introduced by Ms Hunter-Gault, and she wondered if she could option the rights to adapt it as a movie. Unfortunately, at that time the novel had been optioned by a British film company, which never exercised the option. In this case also, Ms Hunter-Gault thought
my novels would be an appropriate South African gift for Mr Clinton who was already in South Africa on a private visit after shedding the shackles of power earlier that year.
Ways of Dying
,
She Plays with the Darkness
and
The Heart of Redness
, and a message from Charlayne Hunter-Gault that I should sign them for President Bill Clinton. Ms Hunter-Gault was the CNN Bureau Chief in Johannesburg, but also a well-known figure in the history of the civil rights movement in the USA. I think she is great fan of my fiction because she has introduced it to many of her celebrity friends. I once received an email from David Shaw, Glenn Close's husband, telling me that Glenn Close had fallen in love with
Ways of Dying
, to which she had been introduced by Ms Hunter-Gault, and she wondered if she could option the rights to adapt it as a movie. Unfortunately, at that time the novel had been optioned by a British film company, which never exercised the option. In this case also, Ms Hunter-Gault thought
my novels would be an appropriate South African gift for Mr Clinton who was already in South Africa on a private visit after shedding the shackles of power earlier that year.
The messenger also delivered an invitation to meet Mr Clinton at a reception to be given by Nelson Mandela that Friday. Alas, I had to turn the invitation down. I had two trips that week that were already clashing. One was the trip to Ghana for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize. The other was a long-standing engagement in Nyon, Switzerland, where I was going to be on the jury of Vision du Reel, a highly esteemed international documentary film festival. It did not worry me that I was not going to meet Bill Clinton, though as far as American presidents went I thought he had been the very best. I had met him and Hillary Clinton before when they visited the Market Theatre. I liked them at once, especially the man who had an easy-going manner about him despite the flurry of Secret Service men and our own police who had cleared the place, including the vendors who sold arts and crafts in front of the theatre building.
The Market Theatre is a historical establishment. All the celebrities stop there whenever they visit Johannesburg. I have seen guys like Denzel Washington and Danny Glover going there to see plays or to dine at Gramadoelas, a restaurant known for its South African cuisine.
I decided I wasn't going to Ghana for the prize ceremony. I was going to Nyon instead because I had made that commitment long before they announced that I had won the prize. I went looking for Sello Duiker, who had won the Commonwealth First Book Prize for his novel
Thirteen Cents
. He would be going to Ghana for his prize so I thought he could grab mine as well. I had never met the guy before so I went searching all over Yeoville and found him living in a garret in some old building. He agreed to represent me in Ghana. That was how our friendship started. I became part of his troubled life. But that is a story for another time.
Thirteen Cents
. He would be going to Ghana for his prize so I thought he could grab mine as well. I had never met the guy before so I went searching all over Yeoville and found him living in a garret in some old building. He agreed to represent me in Ghana. That was how our friendship started. I became part of his troubled life. But that is a story for another time.
I didn't regret my choice of taking a rain check on Bill Clinton's party and on the prize-giving ceremony in Ghana. I had a wonderful week in Nyon watching some of the greatest documentaries from all
over the world. By the end of that week I was drained since I had sat in the cinema for hours on end watching one full-length documentary after another. I heard when I visited friends in Geneva that Peter Carey had won the overall Commonwealth prize for his
True History of the Kelly Gang
. I didn't begrudge him; it was a damn good novel. He wrote to me to say he had been looking forward to meeting me in Ghana, which had been his very first trip to Africa.
over the world. By the end of that week I was drained since I had sat in the cinema for hours on end watching one full-length documentary after another. I heard when I visited friends in Geneva that Peter Carey had won the overall Commonwealth prize for his
True History of the Kelly Gang
. I didn't begrudge him; it was a damn good novel. He wrote to me to say he had been looking forward to meeting me in Ghana, which had been his very first trip to Africa.
With this Nyon trip I didn't only miss partying with the high and mighty, I also missed an important visit that took place at my house during my absence. My mother had come to visit from Lesotho, and when author Elinor Sisulu heard that she was around she brought her parents-in-law, Walter and Albertina Sisulu, to see her. Walter and Albertina Sisulu were at my house and I was not there to welcome them. I could have kicked myself. I would have missed the Nyon Vision du Reel Festival for Walter and Albertina. Integrity is not part of the make-up of politicians, but these two had it in abundant doses. I don't normally hero-worship human beings, not even the deified Mandela, but these two are my heroes. Of course, they had not come to see me; they had come to visit my mother.
My mother was still there when I returned from Europe and she had been rejuvenated by the visit.
Fortunately, Elinor was kind enough to take me to the Sisulu home in Linden, a suburb of Johannesburg, to see her in-laws. Walter had many stories to tell me about my father, how they used to be in awe of him as a thinker and a debater and how they learnt a great deal from him. He was disappointed that he wrote to him and to my mother a few times when he was on Robben Island but he never got any response. I don't know why my parents did not respond to those letters, if indeed they received them at all. Walter told me that if my father had been in Johannesburg at the time instead of the Eastern Cape, the young militants who formed the PAC wouldn't have left the ANC. He believed in a stronger ANC that could be reformed from within.
After talking to Walter Sisulu I missed my father very much and regretted the time I wasted avoiding his company. I could have learnt so much.
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