Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree

By Niq Mhlongo

“This apricot tree has multiple souls that fill me with wonder every morning and enchant me by afternoon. This tree has bitter-sweet memories, just like the fruit it bears.” If the apricot trees of Soweto could talk, what stories would they tell? This short story collection provides an imaginative answer. Imbued with a vivid sense of place, it captures the vibrancy of the township and surrounds. Told with satirical flair, life and death are intertwined in these tales where funerals and the ancestors feature strongly; where cemeteries are places to show off your new car and catch up on the latest gossip. Populating these stories is a politician mesmerised by his mistress’s manicure, zama-zamas running businesses underground, a sangoma with a remedy for theft, soccer fans ready to mete out a bloody justice, a private dancer in love and many other intriguing characters. Take your seat under the apricot tree and be enthralled by tales that are both entertaining and thought-provoking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kwela
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780795708381

Niq Mhlongo

Niq Mhlongo was born in 1973 in Soweto. He has a BA from Wits University, with majors in African Literature and Political Studies. His novels, Dog Eat Dog (2004), After Tears (2007) and Way Back Home (2013), were followed by a short story collection, Affluenza (2016). Dog Eat Dog was translated into Spanish and awarded the Mar de Letras prize.

Book preview

Niq Mhlongo

Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree

Kwela Books

MY FATHER’S EYES

The bizarre address you gave me some ten years ago is still stuck in my memory. I don’t expect you to remember it, because it was in a weird location. And, after all, it did not really mean anything to you. But 93/574 Avalon Cemetery still rings in my mind today. I should have known better than to ask you about my father. Although I was twenty-seven years old and married, I was still so naive. I had been naive about marriage and children as well. But that naivety – and my happiness – was shattered with the birth of Fufu. Mokete was convinced it was my fault that our daughter was born with cerebral palsy. He insisted that I must find my father and appease my ancestors with traditional sacrifices to make things right. Normally, a goat and traditional umqombothi beer for the ancestors is enough, he told me. If not, he threatened to leave me.

I was surprised to learn that Mokete consulted a traditional healer behind my back. He was advised that our Fufu would heal if I found my real father. This came as a shock to me, as it did to you. Mama, you raised me the Christian way, but there I was fooling myself that I was married to a fellow Christian. I still know some verses of the Bible by heart, including your favourite:

Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.

That’s Mark 11:24. I really don’t know how Mokete changed so much. Do you still remember how I met him in our church? We were both eighteen years old when I noticed him at The Grace in Pimville. You were very sceptical about our intention to marry then. When he proposed, at the age of twenty-two, you said we were still very young. I guess you were right. But, like a supportive mother, you gave your blessings anyway. You said maybe it was God’s will. I still remember your words clearly.

Naledi, my child, you have to be patient, quiet and listen to your inner voice of reason. Don’t make decisions that you cannot take back in life.

I recall that moment when you looked at me sadly. Your mouth twisted as if you had pain somewhere in your body. I hope it’s not too late to rediscover the world now.

As a devout Christian, I had every right to refuse when all of sudden Mokete told me to go and consult a traditional healer. I remember that it was just before Fufu turned three. We still called her Fufu, because she seemed too small and helpless to have a name like Fundiswa. I mean, she could not walk, could barely talk, and was in a wheelchair and on constant medication. That’s when Mokete told me he had been warned that we would never have healthy children. Not unless I found out who my real father was.

Do you remember the call I gave you, crying, late that night? Like me, you were confused as to what my absent father had to do with my future healthy children. You tried to reason with Mokete on the phone. You made him aware that we were Christians and believed in the word and power of God. You also reminded him that you only gave him the go-ahead to marry me because he was Christian too. But did he listen to you? No. He was adamant that this was my problem. You reminded him of our pact with God.

There are some things about tradition that Christianity cannot solve, he responded.

I really don’t understand why we black people have to slaughter goats and cows to ask ancestors for money, employment and things that are beyond us by nature, like Fufu’s disability, for example, you reasoned with him. Some of our ancestors died poor, without education, or employment, but we still ask them favours anyway. Some were just useless beings here on earth, but we still believe things changed for them after dying.

But just because it doesn’t work for you doesn’t mean you must judge those who believe in it, like my family, he countered. Jesus died thousands of years ago without a house or a job and yet we pray and ask him for a job and a house. Non-Christians are not judging us for worshipping him, so why do we judge them when they believe in their ancestors?

Mama, I entered this religion because of your silent influence. You took me to church when I was still young. I got used to it, and was happy that Christianity swept away my boredom and lone­liness. I remember the psalm you used to recite to me:

A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation. God setteth the solitary in families: He bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in a dry land.

That was Psalm 68:5–6, King James Version. It dispelled the shame of my weaknesses, great and small.

What do you want from his relationship? you asked wearily, as if it were an effort to talk about him. This husband of yours sounds abusive. You look emotionally exhausted all the time, my dear daughter. Remember that men are made from dirt; they can’t help it if they are dirty.

We all have our wounds, but must go on living, I said to you.

You put your fingertips on my cheeks. But you had no idea then that life was weighing down on me like a bag of wet cement.

Three days after Fufu’s third birthday I told you how I felt. It was as if the life within me was being destroyed, piece by piece. I did not want to quarrel with my husband any longer. Mokete’s people had a meeting with you. You couldn’t stand my constant humiliation and the despair any longer. You told Mokete’s people that you were going to do it. I believed you were really trying your best to save my marriage if you were even prepared to talk about my father. That topic was banned in our home. You often flew into rages over it, and seemed unbearably raw and irritable when it came up.

That’s when you reluctantly gave me the address, 93/574 Avalon Cemetery. Even though you did it out of love for me, I could feel the loathing and contempt you had for the man in the grave. That was after a week of pestering you to help me save my marriage. Mokete’s people had been on my back like an irritating tick. They wanted to know the date of the traditional ceremony and sacrifice so that Mokete and I could solve our marital problems. The claws of loneliness and desperation were sinking deep into my skin. I must admit that somehow your gesture and willingness to help me find that stranger called my father filled the emptiness in me. I’m still thankful for that. Oh yes, it felt like I had just emerged from my long slumber of loneliness, despair and lethargy.

You know me very well. Ever since you raised me in Protea Glen, it didn’t bother me that I didn’t know my real father. I just didn’t care. Most of the kids I grew up with did not have fathers. Some still do not have fathers today. But I was happy that you were finally forced by my circumstances to introduce me to my father’s family. I knew you hated him. I stopped asking about him years ago because I was afraid to trigger your anger. The topic never lasted for more than five minutes before you would dismiss it curtly.

He was a complete piece of shit, an asshole, that son of a bitch! A dog! Trash, like all men are.

You hated him with an intensity that was frightening to me. But you always cut short those angry curses. Now let’s go and buy some ice cream and pie, my beautiful Naledi, you would say.

My heart would be contented when you said that. I guess you’re aware that I also never wanted to see or know my father. I was only forced by the conditions of my marriage to pursue it. That’s the reason I was glad when you told me for the first time that he was dead. But, dead or alive, it made no difference to me. Whatever would please Mokete’s people was welcome. I understood the hatred that showed in your face when you took Mokete and me to my father’s grave at Avalon. I mean, he had been hidden in your memory for more than twenty-seven years.

I still remember kneeling before a gravestone with the inscription Solomon Teboho Tseu, 1961–1993. You just stood there and looked away as if haunted by dreams. I watched you as you kept opening your mouth and snapping at emptiness. Or were you cursing the grave in silence? It was only the three of us at the graveside. You told us that my father was killed in 1993 during the Inkatha and ANC political violence by the Jeppe Hostel inmates. When I asked you about his family, you said he came from somewhere in Lesotho. You had never been there yourself, but you remembered the name of the village as Pitseng. Young and ambitious when you met him, you became pregnant with me at the age of fifteen.

I was busy pulling up the weeds around the grave when you looked me in the face and said, You’ve got your father’s eyes, my angel. Your words sank beautifully into my consciousness. It invoked the superstition that was always tucked away in my memory about fathers. I used to think that all fathers have big bright eyes to warn and frighten their daughters when they become naughty with the boys. My friend Morwa’s father used to warn and frighten us with his big eyes when he caught us talking to boys along our streets. Even Mokete has these bright, charming and mischievous eyes.

Thank you, Mama, for connecting us.

From now on, I shall do what’s right without hatred or bitterness, you promised. I remember seeing you smile, with tears streaming down your face, when I asked you questions as we drove home.

Where did my father live here in Soweto?

In Phiri, not very far from Koma Road, you replied.

Can we arrange to see his family soon so that we can plan the ceremonial sacrifice? Mokete asked.

That won’t be necessary, my son.

It’s important to me that I get to know and understand my wife better, he insisted.

My son, don’t worry when you don’t understand your wife or women in general. That’s because men were asleep when a woman was made by God.

You said the words with a certain weight on your heart, which I think you still wanted to remove.

His family sold the house here and moved back to Pitseng without telling me. That’s why I’m still angry with them. Naledi and I still have to go to his home in Pitseng.

I understand, and I’m glad you did this, said Mokete.

He was moved by your gesture on that day. When we dropped you off at your house, he smiled and kissed me in front of you. That’s something he had stopped doing a long time ago. You invited us inside to show us photos from your schooldays and apologised for never speaking about my father when I was growing up. See this photo? you asked, pointing at the young man. See, you have your father’s eyes. Mokete gave me a long hug and looked into my eyes.

At home, he kept playing me Womack & Womack’s Eyes. I guess he was impressed that I had my father’s eyes. Weeks had gone by without a friendly look from him or his family. No kind words had passed between us for so long.

When I returned from my father’s grave I could feel that my body was light. I walked with a spring in my step. I kept looking in the mirror to examine my eyes, my father’s eyes. You said I have my father’s eyes, remember. You don’t know what that meant to me. It was not your fault you didn’t know exactly where his family was, I thought.

My child, the past is gone, forget it. The present is here, you said to me.

At least I knew that my father lay peacefully in Avalon Cemetery, stand number 93/574. Every second day after you introduced me to his permanent address, I used to go there and talk to him. I tidied his grave and removed the weeds. Even the people who worked at Avalon knew me. I used to buy fresh roses from the women at the gate and lay them on his gravestone. Sometimes I would go with Mokete, and on a few occasions with our Fufu.

We were still waiting for you to be ready for our trip to Pitseng. Mokete understood. I had kept that picture of you and my father at the Sekano-Ntoane High School. You were still learners then. My favourite was a picture of you and my father at the Senaoane Swimming Pool, wearing shorts. I would take it out and Mokete and I would look at it.

At times, I would cry on my father’s grave for him to at least spare Fufu. Whatever grudge you two had, she should not be the victim. She knew nothing about it. The guys who wander around Avalon with spades on weekends looking for piece jobs also came to know me. They knew I would come without fail. I used to give them eighty rand every Sunday to help me take out the weeds around the grave, wipe the tombstone and pile more soil and stones on to maintain a mound.

Do you remember that stormy February in Soweto? I had a strange dream about my father’s grave sinking. When I went there after the rain, I found out that indeed it was sinking. There was water all over and part of the stone had cracked. I got my guys at Avalon to redo it. I even went to that hardware store by the Protea Gardens Mall to buy a bakkie full of soil and cement to fix the grave. I spent around two thousand rands to have the job done properly. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would never approve of such a thing. But when I showed you the pictures of the grave, you turned your head away gently. I saw a tear coming from your left eye. Moments later, you went to your bedroom and lay face down on the bed.

When I came to check on you, you looked up with tears on your face and said, Naledi, my beautiful daughter, the past bears the future, as the mother bears her child. Don’t go on living in the past, my daughter. This life, you hesitated, as if giving your imagination time to pursue dark horrors, has treated me with neither kindness nor gentleness.

What do you mean, Mama? There’s a break in even the deepest gloom at times, I said to you.

I knew I should not have told you what I did to my father’s grave. When I left, you seemed to be coiled in on yourself, as though you were jealously guarding a secret. That afternoon I went to the grave again with Mokete. The wind blew fiercely as evening approached. The bluegum trees roared and crackled as if being consumed by fire. Then the wind changed. Mokete remained strong while I shivered and rubbed my hands together. As we left the grave and drove off, I’m sure I saw a blurry figure as I looked back at my father’s grave. The figure disappeared among the tall gravestones not far from my father’s.

When we got home, our daughter was in high spirits. Mokete told me that it was probably because my father had seen what I had done for him, by fixing his sinking grave.

From that point, Mokete started pressuring you and me to go to Pitseng to look for my father’s family. But you said we should start our search for information at Sekano-Ntoane High School. Unfortunately, no records existed of Solomon Teboho Tseu. The principal told us they were probably destroyed by the students during the protest for textbooks. She was a new principal. A few of the teachers knew who you were, but didn’t remember any Solomon Teboho Tseu. We tried to locate his friends, but you remembered only one of them, who had since passed away. Mokete was becoming impatient and said we should go to Lesotho soon. But I reasoned with him, saying that Lesotho was a big place in which to locate a person who had died in South Africa.

I didn’t tell you this, but I went to my father’s grave again. This was after I had a series of nightmares. Mokete’s healer gave me medicine that she said I must chew, swallow the juice, and then spit on my father’s grave. On that day, I swear I saw a vulture take off from his headstone. There was lots of birdshit