Adopted Country, Adopted Son

By Frank Hubbit

It is no easy task to adopt a child, especially across different races, nor is it easy to be adopted. Jake and Nkanyiso have to work much harder than either of them probably expected to become a family of two. Just as they are becoming settled after some trials, Nkanyiso informs his adopted father that a male teacher has been sexually harassing him at school. Jake does his best to protect his adopted son, but neither of them is really prepared for the onslaught when Jake complains to the school.

Each of them has to deal with the others different world view. Jakes respect for Zulu customs does not extend to funding Nkanyisos mothers training to become an isangoma; money is too tight. Nkanyiso wants to believe that no spirit can harm him, as Jake says; but the dark sorcerer hounds him continually, and he starts to despair.

It is a story of bad things happening to ordinary people. An adopted father and an adopted son against the background of a country still coming to terms with democracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482803426

Frank Hubbit

The author visited South Africa in 1985 and then came back to stay in 1986. He played a small part in the country’s transformation, working in the townships around Durban as a monitor/mediator from 1992–1995. In 1997 he became an educator and still enjoys the challenges of teaching.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Frank Hubbit.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4828-0341-9

                eBook           978-1-4828-0342-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Toll Free 0800 990 914 (South Africa)

[phone] (outside South Africa)

www.partridgepublishing.com/africa

CONTENTS

Characters

Prologue

Part One

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

Part Two

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Three

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Dedicated to the memory of ‘Seth’:

A true friend always dies before their time.

CHARACTERS

FAMILY

Nkanyiso Edwin Khumalo: main character; ‘Nkanyiso’ comes from the Zulu verb ‘ukukhanyisa’ which means ‘to light up’. The surname is a type of clan name.

Winifred Banqobile Khumalo: Nkanyiso’s mother; ‘Banqobile’ comes from ‘ukunqoba’ which means ‘to conquer’.

Nobuntu Khumalo: Nkanyiso’s elder sister; ‘Nobuntu’ comes from a Zulu word that means ‘humanity’.

Nhlalo Khumalo-Ngcobo: Nkanyiso’s younger half-brother; ‘Nhlalo’ derives from ‘ukuhlala’ and means something like ‘a place to live’.

Zinhle Khumalo-Ngcobo: Nkanyiso’s very young half-sister; ‘Zinhle’ is a shortened form of ‘Zinhle iziNtombi’ which can mean ‘girls are beautiful’ or ‘it is good to have girls’.

Mrs. Albertina Ngcobo: Nkanyiso’s aunt on his mother’s side.

Thobani Ngcobo: Nkanyiso’s cousin; ‘Thobani’ comes from a Zulu word that refers to ‘humility’.

Xolo Ngcobo: cousin and eldest son of Nkanyiso’s aunt; ‘Xolo’ comes from the Zulu word for ‘peace’.

Jake Anderson: main character; Jake was born in England and came to South Africa as a ‘church worker’. He became a South African citizen after 1994.

Charles Anderson (‘Chas’): Jake’s brother who is three years older than him.

Miriam Anderson: Jake’s younger sister – she is 18 months younger.

Mbeki Ngcobo: one of Jake’s Zulu brothers; stepfather of Nkanyiso and common law husband of Banqobile Khumalo. ‘Mbeki’ means approximately ‘watch him’ in Zulu.

Mfundiso Ngcobo: Jake’s Zulu brother who took over as ‘head’ of the family homestead. ‘Mfundiso’ derives from ‘ukufundisa’ to teach.

Philemon Ndlela: one of the Ngcobo brothers, through the mother only.

Nkululeko Ngcobo: one of Mbeki’s sons by another woman; ‘Nkululeko’ means Freedom.

Busisiwe Ngcobo: Jake’s Zulu sister, the only daughter of the Ngcobo family; ‘Busisiwe’ means ‘blessed’.

FRIENDS

Noma Mbhele-Kirk: long standing friend of Jake.

Jack Kirk: Noma’s husband.

Sam’kelisiwe Mbhele: Noma’s daughter; ‘Sam’kelisiwe’ means something like ‘she is one of us’.

Zanele: Noma’s granddaughter; ‘Zanele iziNtombi’ means something like ‘enough girls’.

Banele: Noma’s grandson; ‘Banele abaFana’ means something like ‘enough boys’.

Mrs. Jessica Longman: 70 year old widow; friend of Jake.

Khulekani Zondi: special friend of Nkanyiso; ‘Khulekani’ means literally ‘Be free!’

Sipho Zondi: Khulekani’s younger brother; ‘Sipho’ means ‘Gift’.

Jabulani Ngubane: good friend of Nkanyiso at his old school, though a bit of a troublemaker; ‘Jabulani’ means literally ‘Be happy!’

Nomphumuza Mpanza: a girl Nkanyiso travels with on the bus to the Howick school; ‘Nomphumuza’ derives from ‘ukuphumula’ which means ‘to rest’.

Nhlanhla Gumede: a classmate (boy) at the Howick school; ‘Nhlanhla’ means literally ‘Lucky’.

Thabane Ngcobo: a classmate (boy)

Ntombi Ngwenya: a classmate (girl); ‘Ntombi’ means literally ‘girl’.

Siduduzo Kunene: a Grade 11 learner at the Howick school; ‘Siduduzo’ comes from ‘ukududuza’ which means ‘to comfort’. He becomes Nkanyiso’s friend as a way of getting close to his white guardian.

S’bonelo Ndlovu: a cross-country runner at Jake’s school who befriends Nkanyiso; ‘S’bonelo’ means ‘example’ and ‘Ndlovu’ is the Zulu word for ‘elephant’.

EDUCATORS

At Nkanyiso’s Township School

Mr. Vilakazi: English teacher; he is accused of raping a 12 year old Grade 8 girl.

Mr. Bhengu: Math teacher; alleged predator on young boys.

Mrs. Zuma: Nkanyiso’s Zulu teacher and class teacher in 2012.

Mr. Gumede: the principal of the school.

Mrs. Ngubane: Human and Social Sciences teacher.

At Jake’s School

Mr. Seth Chetty: an English teacher who is also a very good friend of Jake.

Mr. Grant: the principal of the school.

Mr. Winterbourne: academic deputy-principal.

Mrs. Johnson: deputy-principal and counsellor.

Mrs. Gleeson: librarian.

Mr. Nkabi: Math teacher.

Ms. Joan Hwelette: Life Orientation teacher.

Ms. J Peterson: Nkanyiso’s Grade 10 Business Studies teacher.

DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION OFFICIALS

Mrs. Mdladla: her job is to pursue the ‘case’ of sexual harassment against Mr. Bhengu.

Mr. P Nyala: Mrs. Mdladla’s director; he arranges a meeting between Jake and Bhengu; a high ranking official.

Ms. Saline Moodley: head of Psychological Services, the section that is supposed to assist learners in psychological distress.

Mr. Sunus Antimul: chairperson of the investigation into Jake’s complaints.

Ms. Mavis Neser: head of District – a high ranking official.

Mr. Jonathan Nene: local manager of schools in Howick area of KZN.

MISCELLANEOUS CHARACTERS

Tara Kirstein: a monitor from Holland working with Jake in 1994.

Jonathan Mbanjwa: youth leader in Ndwedwe, a large rural area north of Durban.

Mhlengi Ngcobo: NIM monitor who works with Jake in 1994.

Phakamani Zuma: Nkanyiso’s half brother from Impendle.

Victoria Pienaar: organizer at Nkanyiso’s running club.

Justice Madlala: cross-country runner at Nkanyiso’s running club.

Musa Ndlovu: KZN athlete from Durban.

Mme Cele: isangoma inducting Nkanyiso’s mother.

Mr. Ngubo: Mme Cele’s husband.

‘Touchy’: Siduduzo’s nickname for one of the thugs at school who keeps questioning about Nkanyiso. Real name in story: Nkosinathi Zuma; ‘Nkosinathi’ means ‘God is with us’.

Sanele Zuma: Nkosinathi-Touchy’s younger brother.

‘Wallflower’: another thug. Real name in story: Bhekumuzi Zondi; ‘Bhekumuzi’ means something like ‘watch the homestead’.

Dr. W B Hanson: Jake’s ‘family’ doctor.

Dumisani Ngubane: a friend that Nkanyiso makes at the Cape Town conference.

Johnny Robot: Siduduzo’s nickname for a particularly nasty thug seeking the elimination of Nkanyiso and Jake.

Sandile: Johnny Robot’s driver and ‘sidekick’.

Nduduzo ‘Zeke’ Kunene: Nkanyiso’s classmate at Jake’s school and fellow cross-country runner.

Sinothando Mabaso: Nkanyiso’s girlfriend who makes a bogus claim to have been kidnapped.

Mme Ngcobo: the isangoma ‘across the river’; a relative of the Ngcobo family.

PROLOGUE

April 1994

On the 27th of April 1994, at about 4.30 am, two cars were speeding along the main freeway out of Durban, South Africa, heading west up the first long hill that led out of the city. The vehicles were obviously traveling together, since the lead Toyota Corolla made no attempt to pull away from the Ford Escort following, and the Ford in its turn was not trying to overtake. Dawn was beginning to break behind them, and a few dark patches of cloud were becoming more pronounced as the sky turned a lighter blue, chasing away the stars. It was an extraordinarily picturesque spectacle: the two vehicles pacing each other up the hill, clearly with joint purpose, occasionally passing a slow moving truck or van, against the backdrop of the receding city slowly coming to light, itself bordered by a sea just starting to sparkle. A perfect moment, the breaking dawn capturing an unexpected tranquility as the early morning glow revealed an ocean, a city, a landscape, each enhancing one another with a promise that even modern humanity could live in harmony with nature. It was a very fitting start for a nation about to embark on the first fully democratic elections of its turbulent history.

Jake Anderson, driving the Corolla, was very aware that this was a pivotal moment and the queasy feeling in his stomach told him that he was very much a part of it. His passenger, a slim blond from Holland, was sitting quietly, either tired after the early start or experiencing very similar feelings to Jake’s and very wisely deciding not to discuss them. In her mid-twenties and very pretty, especially wearing a pair of light coloured shorts that showed her tanned legs to good effect and went well with her white shirt, covered by the light green ‘Network of Independent Monitors’ jacket they both wore, Tara had proved to be a decent companion in the last few weeks, mercifully unlike some of the ‘violence safari’ tourists that Jake had ferried around in the last year or so while trying to do his real job of monitoring and mediating in some of the most violent areas of the country. She and her companions were of a different breed who seemed to appreciate that they were a part of something much bigger than themselves, helping a country to make a massive transition into a new era. Miss Kirstein did not ask ridiculous questions like, ‘What do you think will happen now?’, which Jake had neither the enthusiasm nor the prescience to answer, but accepted her role of supporting him in whatever he was trying to do from day to day. He had taken her into some dangerous situations, and she had proved herself to be very cognizant of her importance as an overseas observer, imposing restraint on police and warring factions, while never imposing her own views, but rather accepting whatever Jake proposed as the best thing to do at any given moment. Even her beginner’s questions had been restrained and non-intrusive.

How did you become involved in NIM? She had asked this while they were driving to observe a rally in kwaMashu, the biggest township north of Durban.

Jake had his response off pat, after numerous repetitions. I came to South Africa in 1986, as a church worker, he said, and I worked in a rural area outside Pietermaritzburg, where I learned Zulu. At the beginning of 1993 I applied for a job in Diakonia, as a violence monitor, and we are linked with the Network of Independent Monitors.

Is the Network really independent?

Well, to be honest, the Network is quite strongly aligned with the ANC, said Jake, as he navigated the car through the part of the freeway that linked the N3 with the N2, glancing in the rear view mirror to check that their companion car was still with them. But for my part, he continued, I do my best to be as impartial as possible; since that’s the only way we can work with all sides and do something to stop the violence. I knew I was doing my job properly when I heard last year that some of the members of one group were accusing me of being a spy for another group.

Isn’t that a bit dangerous, asked Tara.

Jake gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile, saying, I think the best answer to that is, Yes and No. A lot of people want someone who is truly impartial, because they know that such a person has a real chance of keeping the possibility of negotiations alive, though there will always be some, on both sides, who simply want to win, and they might not like me very much.

And what do you really think?

Another smile. If you’ll forgive me, Tara, said Jake, I practice keeping that to myself. In the context of trying to stop people killing one another, what I think doesn’t matter; it’s what I do and say that might make a difference.

There was a pensive pause, and then Tara offered a smile of her own. I understand, she said, you’re trying to be a professional.

Jake was not feeling very professional as he navigated the car north along the N2 to Verulam. It was lighter now, though there were a few grey streaks in the west that daylight still had to overcome before claiming the day. They remained a lonely pair on the road, he and his follower, even if they were passing vehicles slightly more frequently than twenty minutes before. He wondered where those stray cars and vans were going, on this day of days, when all the people of South Africa were finally being given the opportunity to cast their vote for the government of their choice. He actually had very little idea of what he was going to do, despite – or perhaps because of – the briefing he had attended in the Durban office at 4.00 am. According to a phone call that the Durban coordinator of NIM had received around midnight, members of the Independent Electoral Commission had refused to enter Ndwedwe, because they did not feel safe. That was not surprising, since seven of their number had been tortured and killed three weeks previously.

He had been observing the situation in Ndwedwe a couple of days previously, eventually stopping a khumbi emblazoned with IEC – Independent Electoral Commission − stickers, and suggesting to the occupants that driving through the area at speed and tossing leaflets at the people was not the way to go.

Look at them! exclaimed Jonathan Mbanjwa, indicating the khumbi disappearing in a cloud of dust. Jake was standing with the local youth leader and a small group next to a spaza shop, having left Tara in the car to go greet him, warning her to keep the engine running. When we try to flag them down they don’t stop.

I think they’re a little bit nervous, said Jake. This was as close as he dared to mention the recent killing of IEC officials.

They are punishing us for joining the elections.

There was no comment Jake could make to that, so he said simply, I’ll try to talk to them.

A short and sharp ‘car chase’ ensued before he was able to persuade the occupants of the IEC vehicle to stop and talk. He tried to explain that since Inkatha had joined the election process as the Inkatha Freedom Party, they were no longer massacring Independent Electoral Commission representatives, but they might just set the khumbi on fire out of frustration at not getting the information they now needed about how to vote. It had probably been a wasted effort, and Jake acknowledged to himself that he could have been more diplomatic, at least not mentioning the word ‘massacre’. He had also been concerned, though, that the khumbi really could become a target after his brief conversation with the local Inkatha youth leaders.

It was no surprise, then, that he was now driving into the Inkatha dominated area, which had a couple of small ANC enclaves, wondering what he was going to do when the rest of the country was about to go to voting, and the area he was heading to had no IEC officials to start the process. The Durban coordinator of NIM had specifically asked him as the resident ‘expert’ on Ndwedwe, to ‘do whatever he could’.

They had just driven through Verulam and were taking the main road to Ndwedwe.

Did you pack the bullet proof vests? he asked Tara, suddenly.

Oh my god, I can’t remember!

Jake quickly scanned the road ahead for a place to pull over, and as he did so he said grimly, If those vests are not in the boot, I’m going to wring your neck.

They stopped, and got out of the car together to check the boot. It was out of the question that they travel back to Durban to pick them up; fortunately, there were two neatly laid out, and Jake checked that each had a metal plate front and back. He walked back to the second car, which had pulled in behind them on the lonely road.

Sorry, he said to Mhlengi, we just had a minor panic about the vests.

This brought a smile to the man’s face. We are just following you.

When they were back on the road, a chastened blond bombshell asked, What exactly are we going to do?

Jake bit off a terse, ‘I don’t know’; he was feeling guilty about his lapse, knowing that he had been unfair to this young woman who was certainly as nervous as he was. He thought for a moment and said, We visit the polling stations and see what’s going on; I’d prefer that we stay together but we may have to split up to get a proper picture.

In fact, splitting up was not such a problem since both cars now had phones installed which allowed them to contact a call center and therefore each other, but there was an immediate safety in numbers that Jake was unwilling to give up, unless there was a good reason. They were now coming into Ndwedwe proper and a vista of rolling hills, dirt roads and small rivers in the many valleys. The cars trundled across a concrete bridge spanning one of the larger streams. There was little activity in the area, since it was only a little after 5.30 am, though a few young boys could be seen herding groups of cows to their pasture grounds. They drove past a couple of schools that Jake knew were designated as polling stations, but there were no people in evidence and Jake had a terrible sense of foreboding of what might happen if no voting took place in this whole area. Inkatha had been on a war footing for a long time, and a mistake in a place like Ndwedwe could turn the whole province into nothing less than a bloodbath. At eight o’clock they passed the spaza shop where Jake had met Jonathan Mbanjwa. There were no customers at that time in the morning, which was unusual, and the whole area seemed unnaturally quiet, deepening Jake’s growing disquiet. He got out of the car and went to speak to Mhlengi.

It doesn’t look good, does it? said Mhlengi in response to Jake’s questioning look. Why don’t we go back to that first polling station?

Good idea, Jake agreed, and they drove back along the dirt road until they came to the school they had passed more than an hour previously. There was a KwaZulu Police vehicle parked just outside the front gate of the school, an armoured nyala that Jake knew carried six or more personnel, and he guessed that they would be well armed on a day like today. He hoped that Mhlengi Ngcobo remembered well what they had agreed on if one or other of them ran into trouble, and would get the hell away and call it in if he were suddenly arrested, or worse. He parked a little distance away from the nyala and got out of the car, wondering again why he did these things and hoping that this was not a good day to die. As luck and the terrible sense of humour of the universe would have it, he saw the station commander of the Zulu Police coming out of the school building, accompanied by a civilian who was probably the principal of the school.

There, said the commander, indicating Jake as though he were the answer to a prayer he had made a moment earlier, you can open your polling station now.

But is he an IEC official? questioned the principal of the school.

Of course he is, replied the commander impatiently, with a glance at Jake that promised serious consequences if he did not agree, Have you not seen him patrolling with the Independent Electoral Commission these last few days?

Jake said nothing, but waited to see how this would play out.

Sir, said the principal, eyeing Jake hopefully, can I open the polling station now?

Please do, he said firmly, I’m sorry if I’m a bit late, but you know how things are.

The principal smiled and turned back to the school to get things organized, while the commander and Jake shared a look that said they both knew that each had done the other a favour, and they would be watching one another carefully for the rest of the day. Jake was then taken aback to receive a smart salute from the station commander, and he immediately went back to the cars, noting with pride that Mhlengi still had the engine running.

We split up, he said quickly to his colleague. We have just received the authority of the head of police in all Ndwedwe to open the polling stations, or he has acknowledged our license to do it; whatever. We split up and open every polling station we can find.

What if someone says we’re not IEC? said Mhlengi uncertainly.

Jake looked at the nyala, which was driving off to another destination. Come on, Mhlengi, he said, everyone wants to do this. Follow him, pretend he’s escorting you, and do whatever it takes to get voting started.

Mhlengi’s doubts vanished in a grin as he put the car into gear, Whatever you say, boss, he replied, using the hated terminology in a most affectionate way, while Jake closed his eyes and mouth against the inevitable dust as the car sped past him in pursuit of the police vehicle.

January 2001

If there is such a thing as a cosmic observer, she or he - assuming that gender designations are applicable to such a one – might like to enjoy a bit of light relief from the serious business of auditing our world by checking out the early morning antics of little human boys in rural spots across Africa as they lead the family cattle out to pasture for the day. It would surely bring a smile to the visage of even the most humorless inspector of human affairs to watch as these young boys untie bad tempered cattle and calves from their nightly resting places and then proceed to drag and be dragged to some spot where the same cattle and calves can graze for a few hours in the day. The sight of a six or seven year old, whose height hardly reaches the haunches of said cattle, loosening a wooden stake that he had driven into the ground the evening before, and then leaping to catch the rapidly disappearing stake and rope, only to be dragged headlong by a bull, cow or calf that senses freedom; such a spectacle must be a cure for even the most severe melancholy. Add to that the view at the other end of the process, when the same boy has to tether the same reluctant animal to a patch of pasture, one can only assume that the body of celestial auditors grants the witnessing and recording of such events to those of their number who have rendered service above and beyond the call of their duty.

Two such six year old boys were walking along the paths between large clusters of homesteads that adorned the rolling hills around Impendle just after first light. They had completed their task for the morning. Each of them carried a long thin branch that was at least a meter taller than they were, which they had used to swish at the cows immediately in front them to keep them moving, and each had a pocket full of stones in their threadbare shorts which they would throw at any of the cattle who paused on this or that side of the track to grab an early munch of grass. It was about six in the morning, and the sun was well up in the sky, promising a warm, even hot day on the hills.

Look, said Phakamani, that cow is heading for the Khumalo’s gate!

Nkanyiso took a bigger stone out of his pocket and hurled it at some grass growing tall beside the gate. It swished past the cow and thudded into a clump of grass, alarming the offending animal enough to make it turn aside. He rushed towards the gate, brandishing his long switch threateningly and shouting, so that the goat reluctantly trotted up the path a way without entering the homestead.

Ngaa! You can’t even hit a cow that’s right next to you, called Phakamani from behind.

Not true! responded Nkanyiso hotly, I deliberately missed and hit the grass to frighten it away.

Phakamani was grinning as he came alongside his companion. You missed, he jeered, and we were lucky not to get chased by old man Khumalo for going into his yard early in the morning.

Well, I know what I did, replied Nkanyiso. When you throw something, you never know where it’s going to go, unless it drops right in front of you.

Phakamani’s grin turned into a nasty frown and Nkanyiso quickly shut up. They had both been woken up at daybreak, though one had managed a nice cup of tea and some buttered bread, while the other had been fighting with a particularly skittish young calf. Nkanyiso’s tummy was rumbling and he looked to his brother to provide some relief, though he might not get anything if he annoyed the other too much so early in the day. He refused to ask these days, since Phakamani was very annoying about how much trouble it was to ‘steal’ something for Nkanyiso to eat. He usually liked to wait until Nkanyiso asked whether there was anything, and then he would hand him the crust of bread, sometimes buttered, sometimes not, saying, One day I’m going to get whipped for this. They both knew that would never happen, because Phakamani was living with his mother, while Nkanyiso was an orphan child living in the homestead on sufferance, and while he did not know what that meant, he understood it made him very different from his brother, since he had no mother to protect him from the ire of uncles and neighbours, and no one to prepare him tea and bread before they took the cows to pasture. Odd days of hunger had taught him never to question his brother’s good will or test him too far.

On a day like today, Nkanyiso and Phakamani would play around the homesteads until late afternoon, and then they would go to look for the cattle and drive them back to the family homestead. It was not a bad way to spend a warm summer’s day, and the two of them had built a decent ‘car’ out of planks of wood and other bits and pieces, so that in their imagination they would drive recklessly through the country with a few friends, once they had tired of teasing each other for a while. Around midday they would argue about who was going to check the tethered cows, bulls and calves, usually beginning with the claim, ‘I did it yesterday, so it’s someone else’s turn.’ When they were close to the family homestead, the two boys sat on a rock that gave them a good view of their surroundings. At least Phakamani sat on the rock while Nkanyiso sat with his back against it, accepting a slightly subservient position since his brother was the one who might have some food.

Gosh, I’m starving, announced Phakamani. Nkanyiso said nothing. This was a delicate moment as regards eating, and if Nkanyiso made any comment that he had been the one to lead the cows out of the yard enclosures while Phakamani was being fortified with tea, bread and butter, he might have to wait until midday before he was able to assuage the growing hunger in his belly.

Luckily I also managed to grab some extra bread. There’s even a bit of chicken from last night. Do you feel like having something now? asked his brother. There was a hint of cruelty in the tone that suggested Nkanyiso had better make amends for his earlier bragging if he wanted a bite.

"I am hungry," he said, in a voice that he hoped was apologetic enough for any perceived slights.

The two boys chomped happily on some bread and chicken wings, their differences forgotten in the simple pleasure of chewing what meat there was off the wings while sitting on or by the rock. There were no clouds in the sky, and even if that augured a hot day and perhaps a storm in the afternoon, Nkanyiso was content in his turn, enjoying the sight of the homesteads around them and in the distance below gradually coming to life as people wandered here and there; children began to sweep yards, women chatted as they began the day’s washing, and neighbours, male and female exchanged greetings and news across fences. Nkanyiso and Phakamani would soon do a few chores and then head off to where their own personal BMW awaited to take them careering through the countryside on different adventures, to be followed by a cooling dip in a nearby stream. At times like this, Nkanyiso was quite happy that life was good, and the problem of being an orphan in his aunt’s household was a passing annoyance that his ancestors – and his own mother – would sort out in their own good time.

PART ONE

For my brother, Chris:

I don’t think we liked each other as children, but we became friends as we grew older.

CHAPTER 1

December 2012

21 December 2012 was not the end of the world after all, and Jake had to confess the next day that he was slightly disappointed, though not particularly surprised. He once told a colleague at school that he probably preferred that the world end dramatically, rather than carry on without him, a rather selfish point of view, admittedly, and not entirely untrue. At fifty five – well, fifty four actually, but his birthday was just over a month away, and he was trying to come to terms with that – Jake knew that he was not very happy with his life, and he did not have that many years left to fulfill any of the promises that his earlier years seemed to hold. The oval face that greeted him in the mirror for the morning shave was slightly fleshy and certainly mid-fifties and he had developed a paunch that he kept promising himself that he was going to get rid off, but never quite managed to start the necessary exercise program. He kept his white hair short because he thought that it looked ridiculous when it became an unruly mop at the sides and back. He supposed he had led an interesting life, but the last ten years or so as a humble Math teacher in a not so humble school had really been marking time until something more interesting came along, and nothing did. He consoled himself that he had certainly touched a number of lives in a good way, and it had been quite exciting at times, but there were plenty of bad memories, none of which kept him awake at night, though they tended to pour quite a lot of scorn on the idea that he was basically a good person. Jake could not remember the last time he had felt any passion about anything worthwhile – there were always tea-cup storms in a school of one thousand learners and more than fifty teachers - but it was a sad indictment of his life so far that the end of the world was preferable to his inevitable leaving it to get on with its own affairs.

There was one thing that served to brighten his attitude, though. The sixteen-year-old teenager that Jake had ‘adopted’ some years back, Nkanyiso was true to his name, in that he at least gave Jake something worthwhile to focus on. He stood at the door of their shared bedroom, gazing at the sleeping youth, enjoying as always his complete abandon to sleep, arms and legs tossed carelessly this way and that. They had spent some of the previous day, while parts of the world held its breath – just in case! - traipsing round a local game reserve, reminding Jake very sharply as he stumbled along the track behind the lad, panting and wheezing at the slightest incline, that he was seriously out of condition. Nkanyiso was not the first young person that Jake had ‘taken on’ as a cure to his loneliness, and he had made many mistakes, but there seemed to be a good parent-child thing developing between the two of them, and Jake had learned from most of the mistakes that he made in other cases. The boy’s eyes opened as Jake took another sip of coffee and they greeted one another.

Have you decided what you’re going to do on Christmas day? asked Jake.

He stifled a brief irritation when Nkanyiso shook his head without saying anything. The previous year they had spent the day with one of Jake’s few friends in town and he had assumed that they were going to do the same again, until she had messed things up by deciding to spend Christmas with some of her family in Durban. Noma Mbhele-Kirk, to give her full name, was an ageless Zulu woman whom Jake had known intermittently for more than twenty years, though their friendship had only really developed over the last five. He had been surprised to learn that she was within a few years of retiring, preferring not to ask if it was the sixty or sixty-five cut off mark. She invited Nkanyiso to go along earlier in the week, and then Jake the next day, but this had cut across their own plans in the making.

You’re worried that Thobani will be disappointed? This got a nod, but no further comment.

Jake drained his coffee. I still think that you should go. Thobani can always visit for a few days after Christmas. He stood with the empty cup dangling by his side, waiting for a reaction. There was none, so Jake turned and walked into the kitchen to rinse the cup, leaving Nkanyiso with his thoughts.

Nkanyiso Edwin Khumalo stretched, letting the duvet cover fall away, but not getting up from the mattress. He listened to the sounds of his dad in the kitchen and heard him walk into the lounge and switch on the computer. His mind drifted back to the scene a week ago, when he was visiting his aunt in Howick. His dad, as he thought of Jake, had dropped him at kwaShefu late afternoon on Saturday. Everything had been fine, at first. His aunt was not in the house, but he had found his cousin, Thobani, along with a few other family members and friends. After a while, he had sought out his friend, Khulekani, and left his stuff in Khulekani’s single room shack behind the main house, intending to sleep there later. The two of them had gone back to his aunt’s house, where a party was developing, which made him glad that he had decided to camp at Khulekani’s. A couple of the girlfriends fried some chicken and that, with bread, complimented the beer, though Thobani and Nkanyiso stuck to soft drinks. It was about half past eight in the evening when an argument between Khulekani and one of Thobani’s friends suddenly turned ugly.

Take your fight outside, said the aunt’s eldest son, pushing the two of them out the door.

Nkanyiso watched as Khulekani allowed himself to be lead outside, still remonstrating loudly. He sighed as he put down his glass of coke, responding with a shrug to Thobani’s questioning glance. He hated the fact that his friend could be so aggressive at times, and since he was the youngest person there, he felt more than a bit uncomfortable, because the others might accuse him of bringing a problem to the home, though Khulekani lived only a few doors down and they must know what he was like.

These people who can’t take their drink, said his aunt’s eldest, disgustedly.

Thobani looked over at Nkanyiso and laughed, saying, They’ll be fine in a minute or two. The fresh air will do them good.

The sounds of shouting outside belied Thobani’s good-natured comment, and Nkanyiso frowned at the glass of coke on the table in front of him. He could not understand why people drank things that had this sort of affect on them; though he was grateful for the way Thobani was trying to ease the tension in the room. The sound of shouting gradually died away, and Nkanyiso looked up apprehensively as the door was pushed open and Khulekani came back in, his eyes red and glazed from too much beer. Thobani’s friend followed him and sat next to Nkanyiso without saying anything, while Khulekani, still standing, took hold of a bottle and gazed at it for a moment, as though trying to decide whether he really wanted another drink.

Nkanyiso turned to say something conciliatory to Thobani’s friend, when he felt a stinging smack across the side of his face. He looked around groggily, thinking that someone else had come in from outside to cause trouble, while out of the corner of his eye he saw a bottle strike Thobani’s friend square on the forehead. A girl’s scream filled the room, and Thobani himself was standing up to put himself between Khulekani and his friend; Nkanyiso watched in horror as Khulekani, his face a shiny mask of anger, lashed out with another beer bottle, catching Thobani just to the right of his right eye and knocking him back onto the sofa. His cousin got up again quickly, now trying to get at Khulekani, despite the blood streaming down the right side of his face, but Khulekani struck out again. Thobani threw up his left arm to ward off the blow, and there was a sickening crunch as the bottle connected with his wrist. By this stage, in the midst of all the screaming and shouting, a couple of the erstwhile revelers – Nkanyiso did not see who they were – had grabbed Khulekani and were hustling him out of the house…

Nkanyiso, still lying on the mattress, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. That had been the beginning of a long night for him. The aunt’s eldest son had called for an ambulance, and Nkanyiso had gone with Thobani to the hospital in Edendale. They had waited a long time for him to be admitted, and there had been a lot of concern that he might lose his right eye. He remembered the long walk back to his dad’s flat, constantly making calls to his dad, who was not answering either of his ‘phones. He finally got his dad’s attention by the old fashioned method of throwing a plastic bottle on to the verandah of the flat, and while his dad was very apologetic when he realized how many calls he had missed, it did not change the fact that he, Nkanyiso, had walked more than 8 km in the early hours of Sunday morning. Thobani went into theatre some time on Sunday afternoon, and when Nkanyiso and his dad finally saw him after eight that evening, the news was somewhat better, but Nkanyiso was still a mess of confused feelings, and the confusion did not get any better as the days passed.

Reluctantly, Nkanyiso dragged himself out of bed and neatly spread out the duvet. Then he went over to his dad’s bed and folded things nicely. He knew his dad was frustrated that he did not say what he wanted to do on Christmas day, but it wasn’t so easy. Yes, he wanted to go with Aunt Noma, any trip to Durban was going to be interesting, but Thobani had spoken about visiting on Christmas day, so things got mixed up. Nkanyiso wandered into the small kitchen in the flat, glancing at his dad busy on the computer as he walked past the lounge. He made himself a breakfast of some bread and cheese, taking the plate back to the bedroom where he normally ate during the day, pondering all the while on how difficult life could be at times. Was it so bad of him to worry that his cousin might be disappointed if his Christmas visit was somehow cancelled or postponed? They hadn’t seen each other much at all during two years prior to that awful night, but they had been living in the same house for the best part of a year before Nkanyiso had come to live with his dad, and they’d both experienced the same problems with the eldest’s girlfriend, who seemed to think that everything they ate was taken out of her own mouth. It had been a good feeling visiting Thobani in the hospital, making up for the fact that it was Khulekani who put him there. Nkanyiso remembered his cousin’s comments about how lucky he was to be at a good school, and how he would also like to go back to school. Thinking about his dad’s school included how it had come about that he had changed from Howick to Pietermaritzburg; starting a whole new train of thought that Nkanyiso was just not willing to entertain. Then his ‘phone rang.

Jake was not concentrating on what he was doing. Even he realized that typing up worksheets for school a few days before Christmas was completely unnecessary and nothing more than a time-filler while he battled inwardly with the frustration of dealing with a teenager from another culture who simply refused to talk to him about whatever he was thinking. Granted that the kid probably did not know what he was feeling – what teenager did? – it was still frustrating to be able to guess some of what might be going on while getting little or no feedback about what might actually be true. Jake believed that he was doing his best to help Nkanyiso through a difficult time, and he knew well enough that Nkanyiso had gone through some pretty bad stuff during the last six months or so. He also knew that most of his guesses were probably close enough to the mark, based as they were on the things he remembered from his own teenage years, long past though they may be. Jake was clear on the mistakes that he was apt to make, and he had even read books on how to handle parenting, as well as talking at length to people like Noma, whom he respected enormously as an able mother of her own family, and certainly counted as a friend. It was hard to deal with present problems while ever aware of past errors.

Thobani wants me to go up to Howick for a few hours. I can come back in the evening.

Jake literally jumped when he saw that Nkanyiso was standing next to him. He had been concentrating so much that he had not heard the lad come into the lounge. He thought for a moment, and then, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.

He says he wants his clothes back, continued Nkanyiso, and he wants to talk about Christmas. Maybe he’s changed his mind about coming here.

Another pause and Jake responded, You know I’m not happy about you going up to Howick until this situation with Khulekani is sorted out. Neither of them spoke for a moment, and then Jake added, I really don’t see any need for you to go to Howick before this problem with Khulekani is resolved in some way or other.

They were speaking Zulu, which made Jake a bit guilty, since Noma had told him unequivocally that he should stop practicing on Nkanyiso and so give the lad a chance to improve his English. Which was all very well, thought Jake, but this youth says very little in either language, and sometimes I have to be sure that we understand each other. He could see that Nkanyiso was not happy, and while he hated long winded explanations, he decided that this was the time for one.

Look, you know what I’m worried about, he continued in Zulu, you said yourself that Khulekani probably won’t still be alive by 25 December, and I don’t want you getting involved in anything. I know that Thobani is your friend, and so was Khulekani. That’s a tough situation, right there. You might think that you wouldn’t get involved, but you don’t know what could happen until it does

Khulekani is not my friend any more, and Thobani is not my friend, he’s family.

Fine! said Jake, but I’m still not happy about you going up there.

Why can’t we go there together, if you’re so worried?

Because I’m a coward, thought Jake to himself, and I’m not sure I can handle a situation where Khulekani puts in an appearance and your cousins decide on some pay back; in fact, I’m genuinely worried that Thobani might be calling you up there to make you a part of it. Instead he said, If Thobani wants his clothes back, I can deliver them myself.

Nkanyiso was confused, You would go there without me?

Can’t you see that I’m trying to protect you? thought Jake, haven’t you realized how quickly things can go bad? Have the last six months taught you nothing? Out loud, he said, Give me some time to think.

It was a tribute to their relationship that Nkanyiso turned without another word and went back to the bedroom. Jake rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands for a moment, then switched off the computer and went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, glancing at the little clock on the bookcase as he went past. It was just before one pm, and Jake knew that people in kwaShefu could easily have been drinking for an hour or more. A few minutes later, he strode back to the lounge with a sandwich and another coffee, noting as he passed the open bedroom door that Nkanyiso was in his usual position, lying down on the mattress/bed, focused on his cell phone with the T.V. low in the background. He ate quickly, thinking all the time, and then walked into the bedroom and sat by the desk, asking Nkanyiso to turn off the T.V.

Well, I’ve thought, he said, and this is my suggestion: tell Thobani that you have things to do today, but as it happens, I’m coming up to Howick and I can drop his clothes off at kwaShefu if he really needs them urgently.

There was no response from the bed, but the look Jake got was far from happy.

So, what do you think?

This got a mumbled response.

Nkanyiso, if you want me to hear you, you have to speak clearly.

Whatever…

Jake wondered if his young friend realized what a typical teenage response he had just given. So you agree that we can do that?

Although it was mumbled again, the negative was clear enough.

Well, what’s your alternative?

The response this time was again typical, at least as far as Jake was concerned. I don’t know.

He decided to let a bit of irritation show, That’s just not good enough, Nkanyiso. If you don’t like what I’m suggesting, then it’s up to you to come up with an alternative that we can discuss. I agree that my worries might be nonsense, but I can easily imagine a situation where your arrival at kwaShefu draws Khulekani to your aunt’s house, and things get very ugly.

What if Khulekani wants to apologize? countered Nkanyiso, he would want to apologize to me as well, and you’re saying that I can’t be there.

They argued too and fro, until Jake said, Everything you say might be correct. Nine times out of ten, ninety five times out of a hundred, there would be no problem if you went to kwaShefu, but I am not willing to take the risk. Tell Thobani that I can bring him his clothes if he needs them, but you cannot go, and that’s the end of it.

He got up and walked out of the bedroom so that he could not see the scowling figure still lying on the bed.

Nkanyiso watched him leave with a mixture of disappointment and relief. He was disappointed because, even with his best efforts for the last two years, longer really, ever since he had first started visiting, he basically did not understand the way this white man thought, and yet he was sure that Jake treated him like he would treat a son. He spoke Zulu, and he showed a lot of insight, but for all that he never seemed to grasp what was really important. Family came first. He was also relieved, though. Nkanyiso had clearly heard the many misgivings that his dad expressed about the situation at his aunt’s house kwaShefu, and he shared those anxieties. He had spoken much more confidently than he actually felt about how he would handle things if Khulekani arrived at his aunt’s house and ‘things got ugly’. Thobani was family, but Nkanyiso had very mixed experiences about family: he had spent many of his early years living with his grandmother, and when his mother had taken him to Elandskop, things had been good for a while, until his step-father had become ill with TB. This Zulu speaking white man had turned up sometime later, and Nkanyiso had been impressed at the way his stepfather’s brothers had dealt with him, almost as a member of the family. Nkanyiso had only been eight or nine years old at the time, but he had decided that he wanted to see how this white man lived in Pietermaritzburg. He had started visiting at weekends, enjoying the new experience of being the only focus of an older person’s attention.

Strangely, when his stepfather had improved, a lot of disagreements developed between them, and the weekends with Jake became an oasis in an arid desert of fearsome dust storms. His mother had sent him from one aunt to another, trying to keep the peace in the homestead, and she wasn’t able to defend him when his stepfather had finally turned him out. He had spent a year with his aunt kwaShefu, starting at the local high school there, but things got progressively worse. He had been visiting Jake every weekend, and often for most of the school holidays, with Khulekani tagging along, but they had hidden the real state of affairs from this white man that he did not wholly identify with, and things had come to a head when he failed at the end of the school year. Jake had been furious, demanding to know exactly what had gone wrong, but there were too many things that Nkanyiso did not fully comprehend himself.

CHAPTER 2

December 2010

"This report says that you were absent for 29 days. That’s six weeks of school time. I don’t remember you being absent for six weeks. How do you explain that?"

Nkanyiso’s first instinct was to lie. If I was late for school, the class monitor would mark me absent, and he just marked me absent again at the second registration, even though I was there.

I thought you said that you were the class monitor.

That was in primary school.

Jake paused, but he quickly came back with another question, Why did the class monitor keep marking you absent instead of marking you as late?

He didn’t like me… Nkanyiso could see that it was not working, but he struggled on, trying to paint a picture of lazy teachers and a class monitor who hated him so much that he always tried to make life difficult. It was not so far from the truth, at least as far as some of the teachers were concerned. At the beginning of the year, Jake had accepted Nkanyiso’s story as to why he was starting high school instead of finishing his last year at primary. Rather than explain that his mother and his aunt had somehow persuaded the high school that his primary school teachers had made a mistake about the grade that he had completed, he had fabricated a whole tissue of lies that Jake had accepted because it concurred with the general idea that township and rural schools were hopelessly disorganized and filled with teachers who had little or no idea about what they were doing. This time, however, Nkanyiso could see from the look of complete disbelief on his face that Jake was not going to be deceived so easily, and his next words silenced Nkanyiso as surely as a slap across the mouth.

I don’t see it, Nkanyiso, he said, "You’re saying that the teacher never checked the monitor’s work and couldn’t see for herself that you were there when the register said you weren’t. If the teacher didn’t know you then you were probably not there enough for her to get to know you.

I can remember four or five days, mused Jake, when you told me you weren’t at school, and even with a few more thrown in to cover days you didn’t tell me about, that still leaves twenty days – four school weeks – that you never bothered telling me about. I want to know what was happening.

Nkanyiso was deliberately shutting down his responses, because they were too painful. Even as he tried to make himself numb, he could not prevent a sick feeling from starting in the pit of his stomach.

I know how easy it is to mess up, Jake continued reasonably, and we can handle it, but I have to know the truth. There’s nothing wrong with making mistakes, once we work out what they were. I can accept the fact that you have failed, but I need to know what went wrong.

Although Nkanyiso heard the appeal, he was by then in too much turmoil to respond. What went wrong? Didn’t this white man realize that he had been asking himself the same question for so long? It had been a wonderful thing to start high school, filling him with such a determination to start afresh and do such brilliant things that everyone would be so proud of him. But in the space of a few weeks he had been lost in a fog of schoolwork that he did not understand, confusing instructions that were sometimes given so casually he did not realize he had been told to do anything, and that girl where he was staying who hated him from day one. Oh, she was careful when the aunt was around at the weekends, pretending to like him and even offering to wash his uniform, but during the week the accusations would come, deliberately hurtful and usually untrue. ‘You finished all the bread this morning and I had to go hungry all day’, when he knew he had left more than half a loaf. ‘What’s the point of me washing your uniform when you get it dirty on the first day of the week?’

So many memories – most of them bad. They were breaking down Nkanyiso’s defenses and nullifying any hope he had. He gave up trying and let the sickening feeling spread from his stomach to wherever it wanted to go.

Nkanyiso, you’ve got to help me here.

Jake’s voice was insistent, sterner that he had ever heard before, but it could not cut through Nkanyiso’s growing despair as he marshaled and discarded different lies that might protect him. How could he explain the relief of a day spent hanging around kwaShefu with Khulekani, laughing and joking about this and that instead of huddling at a desk in the classroom, scribbling down notes that he could barely read from the blackboard, and then looking at his exercise book, only to become aware that he had no idea what he had just written. Pages and pages of words that made no sense to him at all. Or the remorse he felt when he returned to his aunt’s house in the evening, always made worse by the spiteful accusations and hateful looks from a girl that despised him for no good reason that he could comprehend.

I want to help you, Nkanyiso, but if you don’t talk, what am I supposed to do?

He could scarcely hear Jake’s voice through the buzzing that seemed to emanate from both his head and stomach, and come together at his throat, clutching at his vocal chords. He was afraid that if he tried to speak, he’d end up croaking and coughing blood. Things were falling apart and there was nothing Nkanyiso could do about it; he had a sudden vision of that teacher from school leering at him. When Jake spoke again, Nkanyiso heard the finality in his voice, but he could not break through the constriction at his throat to protest.

I can’t handle this, said Jake, You need to visit your mother, now, today. Maybe you can tell her what’s going on, and maybe she can help you to explain things to me. I want to help you, Nkanyiso, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me.

Nkanyiso watched helplessly as Jake turned his back on him and switched on the computer, still holding the report from school in one hand. He put the report down next to the keyboard and started to type. Nkanyiso left the lounge and walked slowly to the bedroom to pack, wondering all the while how he was able to stand in the midst of this maelstrom coursing through and around him, and why he didn’t just fall down since his legs surely did not have enough strength to hold him upright for much longer.

Less than an hour later he was on a khumbi heading out of Pietermaritzburg, with a letter in his back-pack from Jake to his mother. The storm in his head had not subsided.

The morning was not an easy time for Jake, either. After their fruitless conversation, he typed out a letter to Nkanyiso’s mother, hoping that something good might come of it. He did not seal it before handing it over for two reasons. First, he was against ‘private’ communications between the two of them, and he did not want Nkanyiso to be carrying a letter that he feared might be instructions to give him the hiding of his life. They had had that conversation before. In this case, Jake wanted Nkanyiso to read the damn letter, since it might help the lad to understand better that Jake wanted nothing more than to hear clearly and unequivocally what exactly had gone wrong during his first year at high school.

He pottered aimlessly around the empty flat; it was too small to echo, thought Jake, wryly, as he sat on the uncomfortable sofa in the lounge that was as stark as a cheap dentist’s waiting room. Not that he had ever gone to a cheap dentist, because he was too afraid of them to risk visiting one who might not agree that keeping the patient calm was an integral part of the service, and so he always paid more than he could really afford. In fact, most of the furniture in any type of waiting room that he had been in was of a significantly better quality than the bits and pieces strewn around his lounge. It was not surprising that Jake did not entertain. He pretended to himself that it did not matter, but of course it did. He would never invite one of his colleagues at school back to this dump, and the only people he was really comfortable with were those who lived in similar dumps, who would not notice the filthy walls and threadbare chairs.

Ah, the life of an overworked underpaid teacher. In recent years, Jake had experienced some unexpected feelings