Written by: Wonga Tsalupondo
To be honest, I was a bit surprised when my older brother called saying that our mom wanted to see me. I know you’ll ask yourself what’s surprising about a mother wanting to see her son; and to be frank, again, her and I never had the best of a mother & son relationship. It was, and still is, a vile one. We barely see eye to eye. Every time we’re under the same roof, it is quite inevitable that we’ll end up in a brawl, eating each other’s heads. That’s what I’m expecting for our unorthodox rendezvous; though I’m looking forward to something a little different, something more cordial. Something more motherly.
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“What an understated and lousy outfit you’ve got on,” she said in a sardonic tone, when I entered her hospital room.
The weather outside was a chilly and almost morbid weather; I was draped in a nice, casual and comfortable all-black outfit: a soft hand-woven sweater, paired with hand-woven Lenin trousers and suede loafers on rubber soles to finish off. To me, it wasn’t a remarkable outfit, but it wasn’t that understated either. I was quite disappointed when she highlighted that, but I wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction.
“Well, good morning to you too, mother. I’m doing great! How are you?” I said. “That would’ve been a better way to start off a conversation. Exchanging niceties is popular even amongst strangers. But thank you for the compliment.”
“Oh, please!” she said, waving her hand at me as if to dismiss me, “I wouldn’t expect such a grand and righteous retort from a dissolute like yourself. I’d honestly expect nothing more than less from you. And, to be fair, that outfit is quite inconsiderate of you, considering the fact I might be on my death bed. But dear,” she said, ushering me with her hand to take a seat next to her, “thank you for coming. I didn’t expect you would.”
I looked around, for my brother, maybe; maybe if he was in the room, the palpable tension and awkwardness between my mother and I would be less than it was, or nonexistent even. He, too, could be the mediator between mom & I, whenever one said something harsh and callous to the other. Something that either of us, my mother & I, are incapable of. Alas, my brother was not in the room, it was just she and I. And... oh dear!
Less confident and more insecure than when I entered, I made my way to the seat that sat adjacent to her bed, much closer to her bed than my liking. I sat and moved it enough for her not to reach her hand to touch, caress, or maybe even slap me. I have known her long enough to be aware of her unpredictable and violent nature. And even though she seemed frail, I still couldn’t put my trust in her, so it was best to sit as far as I could.
“So why am I here?” I said, breaking the silence.
At this point she was looking on the opposite side of her, where the window and view of the Table Mountain stood. She seemed contemplative, as if she was thinking about why she’d called me in. The more I looked at her, waiting for her response, the more I saw how gaunt she looked. Her right cheek was sunken and plastered on her face, so much that both sets of her upper and bottom teeth were virtually traceable. What I assume to be her zygomatic bone was protruding, oddly protruding. She was gravely sick. She was suffering and for a minute, I felt sorry for her.
“There’s somethings that I want to say to you,” she finally said, still looking away at the distance. “Things that I’ve been meaning to say. I don't want to take them to the grave, so I asked Issa, your brother, to call you on my behalf and ask you to come and see me, since you are hardly ever here. There’s a lot I want to say; I don’t know where to start. But wherever I decide to start, I want you to be patient with me.”
Silence fell upon us. I had nothing to say to her, at least not at that moment; I was reserved. I sat awkwardly anticipating what she had to say. While I waited, my mind and eyes wondered around the room. On my right hand side stood a tiny white table, on top of it was a carafe filled with seemingly cool water which I wished was wine instead. There was also a tray neatly layered with a bunch of grapes, two apples, two bananas, and a little bowl filled with dates. I knew from the orderly manner of which the fruits were presented that it was my brother's work. He obsesses over everything, to the point of it being unhealthy. I was just about to make my way to the little table when mother finally spoke. But because I was more interested in what she had to say than the delectable fruit at the corner of the room, I remained seated.
“When I was pregnant with Issa, your father was still alive and well. Strong as a bull,” she finally said, reminiscing. “He was a lovely man. Your father. He was loving and he had a wise and big heart. He had a big heart that one,” she said, with a light cackle, “He didn’t just have a big heart but he put it to good use. He was very generous. If we weren’t well off, he would have given away the little we had, maybe even sold his arm just help others. He was a giving man, he gave unrestrainedly and did so with a pure heart. It’s no wonder things had always worked in his favour; the universe was giving back to him, abundantly too.”
Although this was a sweet and heartfelt recollection of my mother’s memories of my father, I didn’t see why she told me this. I had my fair share of my father’s memories, and they were just as tender.
“He was just like you,” she said, cutting my thoughts. “He was as soft as you are. I see him in you.” She was silent for what seemed like forever before she spoke again. “When I was pregnant with Issa, we, your father and I, used to pray a lot. Pray about what we want our baby to be like, what we wanted his future to be like, and whatnot. We prayed almost everyday for a healthy delivery. At first - because it wasn’t our thing to pray - we grew tired. Days, weeks and months would go by without us saying a prayer. It was mundane, but, too, most days your dad wasn’t around. He would stay out late or not come home at all. No texts, no calls. I didn’t want to be the one to breath down his neck, so I’d let him be. The pregnancy must be burdensome for him, I’d tell myself. Whenever he stayed and slept in, we would pick up again, pray as if the Second Coming was at our doorstep.
“When Issa was finally due, we prayed more than we spoke to each other. I have even forgotten what we prayed about most of that time. But it was surely a momentarily liberating experience. It was comforting. The day your brother was due, I was alone. Your dad was MIA. He wasn’t available on his cell and his friends didn’t know about his whereabouts. He showed up after his son had shown up and had already been named. Issa, God is salvation. When he, your dad, finally showed up, he was ebullient, childlike; he seemed like someone who had had a quick fix. Something told me that he was having an affair. But the little things, like hair strands, foreign and strong perfume scents, and misplaced lipsticks on the collar of his shirt, common things like that, weren’t there. None whatsoever. At one point I had even told myself that I was paranoid. I remember, though, when he bent over to pick up Issa from his cot beside me, I caught a whiff of a fresh smell from him, as if he had just stepped out of a shower. I would’ve understood if he was an athletic person, but he wasn’t. That’s when I knew.”
She paused, as if to allow me to digest this revelation of my father that I was privileged to be oblivious to. It was disheartening to hear such about him. I saw him as an honourable and faithful man. I wanted to ask her why now and why wasn’t Issa with me to lend ears to his father’s shenanigans, but then again, Issa has always been his favourite son, no matter how much both he and she would say otherwise; so he must have either have been told already or he was saved from these deplorable details of his father.
(TBC...)
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