The Sins of Parents

By Thabo Mooke

Otswakae Rampedi is a young man who has an incessant nagging feeling about his absent father. He wants to know who his father is, to discover his origin and know his ancestral lineage. But his mother is unrelenting and will not tell him her secret and his persistence on the matter drives a wedge between them.

Unable to pursue his dream of becoming a lawyer, due to lack of finances, he works as a gardener and his anguish escalates when his employer’s daughter becomes obsessed with him. The family is determined to protect their teenage daughter and he soon finds himself unemployed with few prospects.

But at last fortune smiles on Otswakae and it seems dreams can come true when he not only finds a way to realise his career dreams but also meets the love of his life. But still he has not let go of his obsession to find his father, and a visit to his great-grandmother plunges him into harrowing and deeply held maternal family secrets that unearth unbearable truths with crippling results.

About the author

Thabo Mooke was born in South Africa in 1950. He was a reporter for both print and TV and has been publishing a community newspaper in Pretoria and coaching aspirant journalists since 2003.

In 1977, he published his poems, including, ‘The thought of dying’ and ‘You Have No Shame’ in the literary magazine, Staff Rider, that was banned by the authorities in 1979. In 2014 he published his poems in the free international literary and arts magazine, The Blotter. He also contributes online, www.cosmofunel.com

Thabo Mooke is married, has two children, and lives in Lichtenburg in the North West Province.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thabo Mooke
• Release date: Mar 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370659517

Thabo Mooke

Thabo Mooke was born in South Africa in 1950. He was a reporter for both print and TV and has been publishing a community newspaper in Pretoria and coaching aspirant journalist since 2003. In 1977, he published his poems, including, ‘The thought of dying’ and ‘You Have No Shame’ in the literary magazine, Staff Rider, that was banned by the authorities in 1979. In 2014 he published his poems in the free international literary and arts magazine, The Blotter. He also contributes online, www.cosmofunel.com Thabo Mooke is married, has two children, and lives in Lichtenburg in the North West Province.

Book preview

The Sins

of

Parents

The Sins

of

Parents

Thabo Mooke

Copyright © 2017 Thabo Mooke

Published by Thabo Mooke Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by the Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Frankie Kartun for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

To my dashing daughter, Keabetswe

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 1

At half-time, both sides were dead-locked at a 1-all draw. His team was waiting for the players of the rival team to come onto the field. He rubbed one barefoot over the other, standing in the shade of the sack material enclosing the makeshift dusty stadium.

He bit on the tapering nail of his middle finger, disconnected from his teammates, then stood up and kicked the ball to the keeper standing between the rickety goal posts.

He gazed at the red earth, with a recurring, nagging question in his mind. He wondered why the hell his surname had no links to his paternal origin. Just like all people in this world, the blood coursing through his veins was his, but his surname was that of his maternal grandfather.

How could he be proud and boast of his own origin when it was all so false? When it was all a farce? Could it be the reason his name suggested someone without a pedigree? Otswakae – ‘Where does he come from?’

A plump usher was standing at the small opening of the sacks. He had a knife-inflicted scar running down his cheek, and his thick, red lips were caressing a thick zol of dagga as he collected the R1 entrance fee. Fans were blowing Vuvuzelas and were still streaming into the stadium, long after the match had already started.

Otswakae and his teammates gathered next to the goalposts and the coach, Bra Chipa, clapped his hands, giving his charges a dressing-down.

Go, boys, go get goals. We need more goals. His charges galloped back to the playing field. Chipa’s hand rested on Otswakae’s shoulder, thus delaying him from dashing along to the field with his teammates.

Lately, Otswakae’s form had deteriorated and Bra Chipa was getting concerned with what could be troubling his player. Nonetheless, the coach thought that this was not the right time to find out. Otswakae was his trump card and it was crucial for the team to win this match.

Otswakae was tall, with broad shoulders and his legs were bowed. He was a dark in colour, with the white teeth of a non-smoker, but had piercing eyes that cowered many opponents. His lips were thick, a stark contrast to his mother’s thin ones. He was handsome and girls tripped over him. He was also a skilled ball-juggler, a menace with his dribbling antics, and opposition players had nicknamed him Pele, after the famous Brazilian football star.

Come on, Pele, said Chipa, You’re losing concentration, man. We could have scored more goals.

The coach shook Otswakae’s shoulder in encouragement. Don’t disappoint me my man, go, and show them who you are.

With hasty consideration, Otswakae replied, Sure, coach, before trotting onto the field of play, before the resumption of the second-half. Five minutes into play, the barefooted Otswakae received a low ball with his head, which he flicked into the air, at the same time turning and kicking it over the head of an advancing defender with his left heel. The defender looked up the sky, confused, as the ball hit the ground behind him. Otswakae drew whistling and ululations from the crowd. He then dashed past the confused defender and trapped the ball as he came face-to-face with the opposition goalkeeper, and the recurring thought returned at that moment. The thought of his real identity suddenly overwhelmed him, as he kicked the ball way above the goal posts.

Some of the fans held their heads. ‘Oooh…!’

Bra Chipa almost rushed onto the playing-field, but stopped at the edge of the coal-ash drawn white line, lest he be cautioned for interfering with play. He walked back, with his hands clasped round his head, as he shook it in frustration.

I bet, whatever is troubling that boy is a lot more serious than I think, he whispered to an uninterested spectator who was standing next to him.

The thoughts of his identity always came at crucial moments. Just a week ago, during a history lesson in class, his class teacher noticed that Otswakae was gazing through the classroom window. His emotions were clawing at his insides, like a hungry bird of prey.

Otswakae, the teacher called to him with eyes that were raging, even though his tone displayed calmness. You are not paying attention.

Otswakae reassembled his mind. I’m sorry, Sir.

Otswakae Rampedi’s side won the match with 3-1 and, thereafter, the players set out on their different paths. There was an overwrought quietness between Otswakae and his friend, Tshepo Lehoane, as they walked home.

The red ball of the winter sun was completing its journey, leaving behind a dusk of unpleasant coldness. A dark, grey sheet of smoke twirled from chimneys of variably-branded coal stoves that were used for cooking and heating. The smog hung over Mamelodi, as if it would suffocate this Pretoria Township with its toxic substances. Residents who perceived electricity to be an expensive commodity, used coal stoves, others lit all sizes of braziers for cooking, as well as to wade off the bitter cold. These sources of energy contributed towards the exacerbation of the pollution on the horizon.

Otswakae and Tshepo stopped at a street-corner vending-stall to buy roasted ground nuts from an elderly woman, who had become a familiar feature at the stall over the years. Seated on a bench near her stall, roofed with a black, industrial, sheet of plastic, and wearing her faded size XXX maroon jersey, the elderly vendor stared at Otswakae, her eyes dancing with curiosity.

What’s with him? You lose today?

"No, Gogo, (Granny) said Tshepo, We won 3-1."

Nobody cared enough to know Gogo’s real name. Her stocky posture upright like a Buddha, she permitted a sardonic smile to cross her face, showing her two remaining and stained teeth that stood out like a devil’s fork, even when she was not smiling. She struggled to rise from the bench with her arthritic knees.

"This is mahala, for free." Gogo put a transparent plastic packet of roasted peanuts into Tshepo’s hand and dangled another one. This one is for him; he must cheer up. Now, go home, go.

"Thank you, Gogo." Tshepo handed the nuts to his friend.

Gogo operated a one-stop stall, which sold vegetables, fruit and roasted or cooked cornmeal. Without having to use a scale, she would pick up a chunk of ox tripe with an old kitchen fork and wrap it in a piece of newspaper for her customers.

Otswakae and Tshepo walked in silence.

Both Otswakae and Tshepo were born in 1976 and were now sixteen years old. Otswakae had a long, dark face and a coy smile that most people thought added to his charming looks. He was born barely four months before Tshepo.

Though they lived on the same street, they had only become friends when, by fate, they were enrolled at the same lower primary school and allocated the same classroom, but once they’d become friends, they were inseparable. It was only in high school that Otswakae and Tshepo went to different classes. Their schoolmates were always perplexed by Otswakae and Tshepo’s friendship. They regarded it as awkward. Tshepo’s father was a taxi owner and his mother a senior nursing sister at Kalafong Hospital, west of Pretoria.

Tshepo dressed for school in white, button-down, Arrow shirts and grey wash-and-wear slacks. He was obsessed with Nike running shoes, which he wore even when he played soccer. His school marks were below average, and he always struggled to move up to the next class, although his teachers thought he was a hardworking student. Otswakae, who was very studious, always encouraged his friend to work hard and helped him with his homework.

Their gazes locked when they stopped outside the gate of Tshepo’s home. It was a face-brick house, with a green-tiled roof, and had three bedrooms, a kitchen, lounge and dining-room.

"Bona mpinchi yaka. Look, my friend, cheer up, said Tshepo. Even big stars sometimes miss goals."

"Sure. I’ll see you in the morning, my outie, my friend." Otswakae’s voice was hoarse and he thought to himself, Tshepo was right, even big stars sometimes miss goals. But, still, he could not find it in himself to discard the incessant nagging thought of his identity.

Otswakae walked home, his hands tucked into the pockets of his faded brown corduroy trousers to protect them against the nipping cold, kicking at the loose stones that lay before him. The street lights of the uniform four-roomed houses shone brightly. Under a lamppost, Otswakae noticed a number of boys squatting on their haunches, with one knee drawn up. The one with the pair of dice hissed Eh. Pop! as he rolled the set of dice onto the ground. The street gambler, with his long bony hands, gathered the banknotes and coins from the ground, in swift movements, with the others stealing envious glances at him. There was imminent trouble written all over their begrudging faces.

As he walked further down the street, Otswakae’s face contorted with pain at the sight of girls about his own age, some even younger, parading in pairs or in threesomes up and down the dusty street. They were chattering and giggling girlishly and Otswakae guessed that they were obviously bragging about their young lovers and their sexual exploits.

Light beamed on the windows of the houses that lined the street and commercial jingles from black-and-white TV sets were audible on the street.

He entered his grandparents’ yard. Walking towards the house, he noticed the family’s black German Shepherd lying on the stoep of the kitchen but, as Otswakae came nearer, the dog scampered to the back of the house. Otswakae was astounded. Usually the dog would rush towards him when he arrived home in order to welcome him. He breathed in, in exasperation, but then realised that dogs can be very sensitive to their master’s negative energy.

The grey, potholed kitchen floor smelt of candle and paraffin wax. For once, there were no dirty dishes or dirty water in the steel bowl left on the table. Pap, in a large, silver pot, on the size eight, Welcome Dover coal-stove, hissed and oozed an appetising smell. Otswakae paused in the middle of the kitchen, relishing the delectable smell of meat, potatoes, onion, and tomato gravy that had been shifted to the far side of the stove to keep it warm.

Otswakae moved to the dining-room. Moipone Rampedi looked at her son and smiled, as he stood next to her at the table.

Look, I brought you and your grandfather some clothes from my work.

Moipone was 37, tall and stout. Her thin lips, on her round, dark face, parted with a genuine smile and love for her son. Moipone’s parents, Ananias and Thokozile Rampedi sat at the table. Torn and sewn clothes, made up of a mix of shirts, trousers, T-shirt, and jerseys, and smelling of washing soap, were strewn all over the table.

Moipone held up a fawn jersey and gazed at Otswakae. "This one is nice, né? Try it on; it will look good on you, because you are the same size as the kleinbaas, the little master."

Otswakae avoided looking at his mother, because the dulling pain of not knowing the whereabouts of his father and his ancestry had not waned and was twisting his face. It gnawed deep into his heart. He took the jersey and went to the bedroom, leaving his mother to select the rest of the clothes she thought her son would need.

Moipone had dropped out of school in Standard Two. She was a domestic worker and appreciated the old clothes given to her by her employer, Mariè Snymaan, which she was always delighted to bring home for Otswakae and her own father. Moipone noticed that Otswakae was offish and had not shown even the slightest appreciation when she’d handed him the jersey. She could not understand her son’s aloofness and coldness.

When Ananias Rampedi and his wife had retired to bed, Otswakae and Moipone sat on a bench in front of the warm coal stove in the kitchen. Both of them could hear the loud footsteps of people in the street, the sounds of shouting, the hysterical screams of women and the whistles of the nonchalant rascals who lurked in the streets at night.

Moipone stole a sideways gaze at her son. You were very quiet all evening, something bothering you, my boy?

Otswakae stood up, walked to the table, scooped water from a bucket with a plastic mug and gulped it down, then sat next to his mother, without looking at her and said, Mama. He cleared his throat, his chest tight with pain. I want to know who my father is.

Moipone feigned shock at this and remained silent, pondering her next words carefully. She could not fathom why her son wanted to know who his father was. Where had this come from, all of a sudden? Her face contorted with anger.

Why do you say that? she asked. Especially now of all times?

Most boys my age know who their fathers are. His voice choked. They know who they are and where they come from.

Why does it worry you as to who your father is? And now her voice was raised and trembling. I’m working hard to take care of you so that you can appreciate my efforts and not worry about your father.

I know that, Mama, but don’t you think that it is important for me to know my identity? Tears began to well in his eyes.

The padding footsteps in the street, the shouting, and the whistles, became louder in the silence of the room that was now engulfed in a heavy tension.

You know what, Otswakae? She stood up. "I don’t have time for your silly nonsense questions, man."

But, Mama, I just want to know...

Just shut up, you hear me? Moipone wagged a threatening finger at Otswakae and stormed out.

His head bowed, Otswakae remained seated in front of the stove, thinking about his next move. He thought that in all probabilities, his mother must have had sex with someone and he was unintentionally conceived, and that now his father was out there somewhere, perhaps even having more children.

Had his mother had a scandalous sexual liaison? The enquiring thought ran in his mind. Could it have been with a married man, perhaps? Was she, in some way, forced to conceal his identity to avoid embarrassing his family? Anyway, why would his mother be so shaken up about it and unwilling to tell him who his father was? Did a sex maniac perhaps rape her? Was he a product of rape, or had his mother conceived him as a result of secret and nefarious sexual encounter with a close relative of theirs? Otswakae rubbed his eyes, and wondered if he was not possibly a product of incest? These questions ran through the boy’s mind like an Olympic relay race.

He switched off the dining-room light and lay on the sponge on the floor. He could not understand why his mother would prefer to keep the identity of his father secret. Did she loathe the man so much that she abhorred even talking about him? Otswakae contemplated finding someone his mother possibly could have confided in about the identity of his father. Was there a possibility, he thought to himself, that his mother could have shared with someone the secret of the man who had impregnated her?’ He wondered if his grandparents knew who his father was, and if they did, would they be prepared to tell him? He also wondered if his mother’s elder or younger sister knew who his father was, and if they would tell Otswakae who the heck he was? Did his uncle perhaps know his father was?

It was late into the night already when his head finally lolled on the pillow.

Chapter 2

Barely two months after the birth of her son, Moipone had left him in the care of his stay-at-home aunt. Otswakae’s grandmother, Thokozile Joyce Mtshwene, had given birth to four children, three girls and a boy. Thokozile had given birth to her first daughter, Mooinooie, at the age of sixteen on a farm in Bethal, in the Eastern Transvaal.

Mooinooie was born outside wedlock. Her grandmother, Selina Mtshwene, named her Mooinooie, an Afrikaans pet name denoting a beautiful maiden. But soon after they came to live in Mamelodi, Mooinooie’s name became the butt of the of the township folk, so she preferred rather to be called Mooie. She was pretty indeed, with a lighter-than-usual complexion, eyes that seemed to smile even when she was not in a good mood, thick, kissable lips that made her wide mouth more African, and a sharp pointy nose. She had a pair of long, beautiful, well-shaped legs that made her glide when she walked and a curvaceous body that made many girls use the notorious figure-belt just to emulate it. She was never too shy to flaunt her beauty at any given moment. And this trait magnetised lust from the boys her age, as well as envy and jealousy from other girls and even from her younger sisters, who could not attract comparable suitors.

Both married and single, as well as fashionable men vied for her attention, and they were always prepared to spend money to help her to maintain her impeccable style of dress. Mooie’s beauty attracted suitors who did not mind getting into brawls, sometimes even into violent fights over her. She steadfastly dismissed her peers’ subjective insults that she was barren because, at the age of 32, Mooie still had no children, and had never married. She rather preferred the ‘vat and sit’ arrangement, cohabiting with men who had deep pockets.

Thokozile’s efforts to put her daughter on the straight and narrow were futile, often resulting in heated arguments. Over time, Thokozile would craft venomous insults which she hurled at her daughter and labelled her ‘lo nondindwa’ – an insult often reserved for someone considered an incorrigible whore. In earlier years, as he was growing up, Otswakae always had been astounded at this and could not understand why his grandmother regarded his aunt as an unrepentant slut.

One morning, while Thokozile was clearing the