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Writer's pictureCAFTA Co. Writer

Beautiful Pain

Written by: Wonga Tsalupondo

 

One afternoon, like every other afternoon before that, I was sitting outside on my verandah, pondering over a cup of bitter black coffee. Deep in thought, I reminisced how not so long ago I was engulfed by an almost palpable excitement encouraged by the prospect of finding myself in a foreign country, where I would indulge myself in activities notorious to that country; I was about to start a garden-fresh life in a place I have never been to before. A place that didn’t hoard echoes of my past, distasteful memories of my upbringings, and a place with no familiar faces that would trigger dormant and stale experiences. It was in that moment that I realized I was right in the middle of the life I’ve always wanted for myself; a life that was uncomplicated, and tranquil.


An envious energy took over that pleasant moment and brought about tragic news that every child dread to hear. My phone rang and a familiar voice I hadn’t heard in 17 years announced itself; my older brother, Tau, was on the other side of the line. Before he could say anything, I had already known by the sonorous wailing in the background what message he was going to convey. My father had died. My reaction was one that took me by surprise. It was callous and unbecoming now that I think about it. Back then, I wasn’t taken aback by the news and I was not sorry either, I was just seething that my peace was disturbed.


With a heavy heart – not due to grief, but due to trepidation of what would my first words to my mother would be after our brutal and unceremonious disconnection almost 2 decades ago – I flew down to the Eastern Cape, to arrive at the homestead the night before the funeral. I was welcomed by my brother – mom and the rest of the extended family were already in their systematically assigned rooms, sleeping. Tau and I reacquainted, rekindling mellow memories of our childhood, engaging in superfluous conversations past midnight.


Tau shook me vehemently awake at the early hours of morning, as if he were about to announce yet another death on the day of the funeral. Tau’s countenance was now illuminated. From a youthful age he had been easy on the eye, now he was hauntingly handsome; his features were definite and derisively arresting. Despite his beauty, he looked uneasy, rigid, and uncomfortable. Looking everywhere but refusing to meet my eyes.


“Mom would like to have a word with you,” he said matter-of-factly, and left.


The sun was out and boisterously shining upon the village. I wasn’t one to believe in superstitions, but I knew this was a bad sign for our family.


The lethargy I was experiencing wore off in that very moment; I couldn’t bear the peculiar sense of apprehension at the prospect of seeing the woman who kicked me out like a rabies-infested dog 17 years ago.


From my room to hers, I had to walk through a hoard of family members and strangers who were up early to prepare for the day. They were going about whispering, some talking aloud, and others laughing. It seemed more of a circus preparation than a funeral one. I knew it was my name escaping from their crude lips, and it was I who made them laugh, but my mind wasn’t focused on them. It was on the widow.


(To be continued...)


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