I had ever felt before.
“Mokgethi.”
I held my breath as the moment went by in milliseconds. He let go and the reality that he was going to leave soon hit home.
“How are you? You are so grown up, my dear.” He looked me in the eye, wiping away my tears. “Do not cry, my dear. Do not cry. Your friend said that you needed a fatherly hug.” He looked at me again, trying to regain his composure, fighting his own tears. “Where is your grandmother?”
“She went to work.”
“Let’s go for a ride, my dear.”
On our drive he asked me question after question.
“What do you want to do after matric?”
“Study further.”
“Study further? Studying what?” He glanced at me, not willing to take his eyes off the road.
“Actuarial science.”
Then he asked what actuarial science was and what an actuarial scientist does. He smiled at my explanation, obviously happy with it.
“Where do you want to study this actuarial science?”
“Oxford University.”
“Oxford University?”
“Yes.”
He took his eyes off the road, not just stealing a look but really looking at me. “And who is going to pay for this?”
“I am hoping to get a scholarship.”
“How?”
“My grades are going to do it for me.”
“But why do you want to go to Oxford?”
This is the question I expect whenever I talk to anyone about studying at Oxford University and I have my reasons why.
“Because from there I can go anywhere in the world and not be confined to a specific country.”
He looked at me again and then back at the road, holding a smile.
“Let your grades talk for you, my dear. Maybe they can make me sell this car for you.”
“Maybe? Maybe, on what level?”
“What do you mean?”
“Three A plus, four A plus, five or six?”
“I said maybe, my dear Mokgethi.” He paused. “And what is your grandmother saying about all of this?”
“She does not want to hear about it. She is saying that I am going to nursing college because she does not have any money.”
“No way. Education has no price. It is as one’s life: priceless.”
I smiled at this; at least my dad understood my position. Then he asked about the family.
“Did they ever tell you about me? Did they ever say anything about me?”
“Not much and when I ask it spoils everything because they don’t want to talk about you.”
“Did they ever tell you why they hate me?”
“No.”
“Do you know that they hate me?”
“No, but I once heard my aunt saying that we are the children of a snake, and I know that my uncle chased you away one day when you wanted to see us.”
“She told you that you are the child of a snake?”
“She was angry and shouting at Khutso.”
Then silence fell on us. I felt like asking “Why do they hate you so much, Dad?” but something stopped me and so we covered distance in silence instead. Finally he said:
“One day they will tell you about me, about why they hate me, but if you want to know the truth, come ask me, because I was there with your mother. They were not there. You were there too but you were too young to remember anything. But they were not, and what they think they know comes out of hurt and anger at other things.”
There was nothing I could say to this so silence fell on us once more.
“How is Khutso?”
“He is fine.”
“Give him a hug and tell him that someone who loves him said ‘I love you’, but do not tell him anything more than that.”
Khutso
Khutso – he is a mixed-up kid. He has two opposing characters: one Khutso is violent and the other Khutso is sweet. There is nothing I can tell him during the day. That’s when he is the violent, powerful Khutso. He does not take commands from anyone. He is too sensitive and that makes him rebellious.
The sweet Khutso is the most beautiful boy I know. His voice is a perfect baritone, very hard and rough when he is talking to a male and very soft and respecting when he is talking to a female. He doesn’t change it intentionally, it just happens as he is talking and I don’t think that he hears the difference. He can sing too – lead a song with his heavy baritone – but unfortunately he does not like to sing often, only when the mood takes him. At church they wanted him to be part of the choir but he just shook his head and told them that he cannot sing.
Sweet Khutso makes me very angry by being playful. I will hit him hard but he will still be very playful. I will shout and hit him again but he will keep irritating me until I am tired and so angry that I want to cry. Then he will give me a hug and sing a freestyle “My Love Is Your Love”:
’Cos your love is my love
And my love is your love
It would take an eternity to break us
And the chains of Amistad couldn’t hold us
Mokgethi, my love is your love
My life is your life
Khutso will forever and ever be your love
Because even eternity can’t break us
My love is your love
And your love is my love
Everything is all right as it will forever be
Everything is all right ’cos my love is your love
Then I will still be looking at him, unwilling to laugh, fighting the urge to hug him and he will say:
“Mokgethi, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“You are lying. Since when?”
Then he will walk out of the door.
He is my brother, why would I not love him?
Sometimes Khutso will call me to come and sit with him on the sofa. This is only when he wants to share it with me, though, because if I call him to come and sit with me he never wants to.
“Come sit with me?”
“No, I am not your boyfriend.”
But if I don’t call him, he will just come.
If there is one thing that he likes more than anything it is to share my plate. He will pretend that he does not want to eat, but when I start eating he will come and eat with me. When we have finished my food he will go and get his plate and we will share his food too. But if I don’t want to share my plate, I just have to call him. He will not come then and that is the trick.
I fear that Khutso is going to lose his way. Not because he is hanging out with a bad crowd, smoking dagga, like my uncle says he is. Khutso does not hang around with potheads; this is just my uncle’s way of not facing the problem. No, I fear that Khutso is going to lose his way just because of the way he is. They push Mokgethi around all the time but they cannot push Khutso an inch