Read Under African Skies Online
Authors: Charles Larson
Under African Skies (35 page)
But thinking about the whole
indaba
later as she stirred her pots, now and then peering into this one and then, a moment later, the other one, she was a bit miffed. Mdlangathi had been more upset about the drunkard the comrades had forced to regurgitate his beer than over what they had done to her. Imagine that! A man to have more sympathy for someone like that than for his own wife. She was sure she didn't know what to make of it. His lack of indignation on her behalf galled her, though.
indaba
later as she stirred her pots, now and then peering into this one and then, a moment later, the other one, she was a bit miffed. Mdlangathi had been more upset about the drunkard the comrades had forced to regurgitate his beer than over what they had done to her. Imagine that! A man to have more sympathy for someone like that than for his own wife. She was sure she didn't know what to make of it. His lack of indignation on her behalf galled her, though.
On the other hand, she had to admit relief that he had not carried on the way he had about the stupid drunk. A fight might have broken out between father and son. Mteteli had become quite cheeky with this new thing of children who had secrets from their parents and went about righting all the wrongs they perceived in society. Yes, she told herself, perhaps it was just as well his father said nothing to the boy, or didn't show anger on her behalf. Anger that he had participated in her humiliating attack, which had resulted in the loss of her groceries.
Mamvulane dished up and father and children fell on the food as camels coming upon an oasis after crossing a vast desert.
As usual, Mteteli had missed dinnerâout attending meetings. “Wife, times have truly changed,” said the husband. “Do you realize that all over Guguletu and Nyanga and Langa, not just here in our home, people are having dinner, with their children only God knows where?”
“You are quite right,” replied his wife. But seeing that he was getting angry, she added, “But you must remember that our children live in times very different to what ours were when we were their age.”
“And that means we must eat and go to bed not knowing where this boy is?”
Although he didn't name names, she knew he meant Mteteli, for he was the only one of the children not in. The girl, Fezeka, for some reason that wasn't clear to the mother, was not that involved in the doings of the students, although she was the older by three years.
“Well, that is what is happening in all homes now. What can one do?”
“Mamvulane, do you hear yourself? Are those words that should be coming from a parent's mouth? âWhat can I do?' Talking about the behavior of her own child?”
“He is your child too, you know. But all these children are the same. They don't listen to anyone except each other.”
“Hayi!
You are right, my wife. I don't know why I argue with you when what you say is the Gospel Truth. Here I am, having dinner when I do not know the whereabouts of one of my own children. Very soon, dishes will be washed. Then we will say our evening prayers and go to bed. And still we will have no idea where Mteteli is. And you tell me there is nothing to be done about that. Not that I disagree with you, mind you.”
You are right, my wife. I don't know why I argue with you when what you say is the Gospel Truth. Here I am, having dinner when I do not know the whereabouts of one of my own children. Very soon, dishes will be washed. Then we will say our evening prayers and go to bed. And still we will have no idea where Mteteli is. And you tell me there is nothing to be done about that. Not that I disagree with you, mind you.”
“Well, what could you do, even if you knew where he was right now. What could you possibly do?” Mamvulane stood up, gathered the dishes, and took them to the kitchen, where Fezeka and the two youngest children were having their meal.
When Mamvulane returned to the dining room, Mdlangathi, who was smoking his pipe, said, “Do you know what's wrong with the world today?” And quickly answered himself, “All of us parents are very big cowards. The biggest cowards you have ever seen.”
She hummed her agreement with what he was saying. But in her heart she didn't believe that what he said was wholly true. Powerless, perhaps. That is what she thought parents wereâoverwhelmed by a sense of powerlessness in the face of the children's collective revolt, where the mildest child had become a stranger: intransigent, loud of voice, and deadly bold of action.
“Mama, kuph' okwom ukutya?
Where is my food, Mama?” asked a grumpy voice in the dark. It was Mteteli, all right. The mother knew at once. Only he had not had supper. Only he would come in the middle of the night,
demanding food when no one had sent him on an errand anywhere that he should have been absent during dinner.
Where is my food, Mama?” asked a grumpy voice in the dark. It was Mteteli, all right. The mother knew at once. Only he had not had supper. Only he would come in the middle of the night,
demanding food when no one had sent him on an errand anywhere that he should have been absent during dinner.
“My son,” replied Mamvulane without bothering to strike a match and light the candle standing on a small round table next to the bed. “I am surprised you should ask me for food when
you
know what happened to the groceries I went to get in Claremont.”
you
know what happened to the groceries I went to get in Claremont.”
“Are you telling me that no one has had food tonight, here at home?” His tone had become quite belligerent.
Before the mother said a word in reply, Mdlangathi roared at his son:
“Kwedini!
What gives you the right to go about causing mischief that I, your father, have not asked you to perform and then, as though that were not grief enough to your poor mother here, come back here in the middle of the night and wake us up with demands of food? Where were you when we were having dinner?”
“Kwedini!
What gives you the right to go about causing mischief that I, your father, have not asked you to perform and then, as though that were not grief enough to your poor mother here, come back here in the middle of the night and wake us up with demands of food? Where were you when we were having dinner?”
“Awu,
Tata, what is this that you are asking me? Do you not know that a war is going on? That we are fighting the hateful apartheid government?”
Tata, what is this that you are asking me? Do you not know that a war is going on? That we are fighting the hateful apartheid government?”
“Since when is this woman lying next to me the government? Is this not the woman you and your friends attacked this evening?”
“Mama was not attacked. She was disciplined for ⦔
But Mdlangathi sprang out of bed and, in the dark, groped his way toward the door, where he judged his son was standing. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, he bellowed, “She was
whaat?
Are you telling me you have a hand to discipline your mother? What has happened to your senses? Have they been eaten away by intoxicating drugs?”
whaat?
Are you telling me you have a hand to discipline your mother? What has happened to your senses? Have they been eaten away by intoxicating drugs?”
By now, Mteteli's teeth were chattering from the shaking he was receiving at the hands of his father.
Quickly, Mamvulane lit the candle.
Startled by the light, the two grappling figures sprang apart. Both were breathing heavily.
“Are you fighting me?” quietly, the father asked his son.
“You are beating me.”
“I asked you a direct question. Are you lifting a hand, fighting with me, your father?”
“All I want is my food. I'm not fighting anyone,” said Mteteli sullenly.
“I suggest you get out of my house and go and seek your food elsewhere. I do not work hard so that I shall feed thugs.”
“Now I am a thug because I want my food?”
Mdlangathi had had enough of sparring with Mteteli. Abruptly, he told
him, “Go and look for your food from the sand, where you threw it away when you took it from your mother by force.” Fuming, he got back into bed and covered himself with the blankets till not even his hair could be seen.
him, “Go and look for your food from the sand, where you threw it away when you took it from your mother by force.” Fuming, he got back into bed and covered himself with the blankets till not even his hair could be seen.
“Yes, Mteteli,” Mamvulane added. “Remember all the sand, and samp you and your group threw down onto the sand,
that
was to be your supper. You spilled your supper on the sand out thereâbirds will feast on it on the morrow.
that
was to be your supper. You spilled your supper on the sand out thereâbirds will feast on it on the morrow.
“Andithethi loo nto mna
,
ngoku.
”
,
ngoku.
”
“Mteteli, your father goes to work tomorrow morning. Leave us alone and let us have some sleep. You are the one who doesn't have time for doing this or that, you come and go as you please, but don't let that become a nuisance to us now, please.”
“Mama, I don't know what all this fuss is about. All I said I want, and still want, is my food. Where is my food?” Mteteli had now raised his voice so high people three doors away put on their candles. The whole block heard there were angry words being exchanged at Mdlangathi's house.
Mteteli, angry at the reception he was getting, and hungry, having gone the whole day without eating anything substantial, approached his parents' bed and stood towering over them, his bloodshot eyes trained on his mother.
“Hee, kwedini
,” came the muffled sound of his father's voice from under the blankets. “What exactly do you want my wife to do for you, at this time of night?”
,” came the muffled sound of his father's voice from under the blankets. “What exactly do you want my wife to do for you, at this time of night?”
“I want my food.”
“That we tell you it is where you spilled it on the sand doesn't satisfy you?” Mdlangathi stuck his head out of the blankets again.
“
Andithethi loo nto mna, ngoku
. I'm not talking about that, now.”
Andithethi loo nto mna, ngoku
. I'm not talking about that, now.”
Under his bed, Mdlangathi kept a long, strong, well-seasoned knobkerrie. A flash of bare arm shot out of the blankets. A heave, and he'd strained and reached the stick.
Before Mteteli fully grasped what his father was up to, his father had leapt out of bed and, in one swoop, landed the knobkerrie on Mteteli's skull.
“CRRAA-AA-AAKK!”
The sound of wood connecting with bone. The brightest light he had ever seen flashed before Mteteli's startled eyes. A strong jet of red. The light dimmed, all at once. A shriek from the mother. In a heap, the young man collapsed onto the vinyl-covered floor.
“
Umosele!
” That is what people said afterwards. One of those cruel accidents.
How often does one stroke of a stick, however strong, end up in a fatality? He must have ruptured a major artery.
Umosele!
” That is what people said afterwards. One of those cruel accidents.
How often does one stroke of a stick, however strong, end up in a fatality? He must have ruptured a major artery.
The boy bled to death before help could get to him, others said.
Yes, the mother tried to get one of the neighbors to take him to the hospital, you know ambulances had stopped coming to the townships because they had been stoned by the comrades. But the neighbor refused, saying, “Your son can ask someone who doesn't drink to take him to hospital.” Apparently, he was one of the men the comrades had forced to bring up, forcing them to make themselves sick because they had “
drunk the white man's poison that kills Africa's seed
.”
drunk the white man's poison that kills Africa's seed
.”
Of course, later, some people condemned the man who had refused to take Mteteli to the hospital. But others said he taught the comrades a lesson long overdue. And others still pointed at the father and said, “Why should someone else bother about a dog whose father wouldn't even ask for permission to come to his funeral?”
Yes, many wondered about that. About the fact that Mdlangathi was not denied permission to come to bury his son but had not requested that permission from the prison officials. That was something even Mamvulane found hard to understand. Harder still for her to swallow was his answer when she'd asked him about his reasons for the omission.
“
Andifuni
.” That was all he would say. “I do not want to.”
Andifuni
.” That was all he would say. “I do not want to.”
However, so did she fear being bruised even more by events that seemed to her to come straight out of the house of the devil himself that she could not find the courage to ask what he meant: whether what he did not want was to come to the funeral or to ask to be allowed to attend the funeral. She did not know which would hurt her more. And did not dare find out.
Â
â1996
(BORN 1945) SOMALIA
Often described as a writer's writer, Nuruddin Farah is one of the most prolincâand most influentialânovelists from the continent. The praise and devotion of his readers have stemmed in large part from his extraordinarily sensitive portraits of African women.
From a Crooked Rib
(1970), his first novel, was welcomed by feminists as the groundbreaking story of a Somali woman constrained by her traditional world. Western readers, confused by the author's name, assumed that he was a woman and wrote him letters addressed as “Ms. Farah.”
From a Crooked Rib
(1970), his first novel, was welcomed by feminists as the groundbreaking story of a Somali woman constrained by her traditional world. Western readers, confused by the author's name, assumed that he was a woman and wrote him letters addressed as “Ms. Farah.”
Farah's first novel was followed by A Naked Needle, in 1976, and then the trilogy subtitled “Variations on the Theme of an African Dictatorship”:
Sweet and Sour Milk
(1979), Sardines (1981), and
Close Sesame
(1983). A second trilogyâagain with strong political overtonesâbegan with the publication of
Maps
(1986) and
Gifts
(1993) and will conclude with
Secrets
. Farah has also published essays and occasional short stories.
Sweet and Sour Milk
(1979), Sardines (1981), and
Close Sesame
(1983). A second trilogyâagain with strong political overtonesâbegan with the publication of
Maps
(1986) and
Gifts
(1993) and will conclude with
Secrets
. Farah has also published essays and occasional short stories.
Farah was born in the Italian Somaliland, in Baidoa, in 1945, and grew up in Kallafo, under Ethiopian rule in the Ogaden. The ethnically and linguistically mixed area of his childhood contributed to his early fascination with literature. He spoke Somali at home but at school learned Amharic, Italian, Arabic, and English: “We learned that one received other people's wisdom through the medium of their writing ⦠.”
From a Crooked Rib
was written while Farah was studying philosophy in India. His second and third novelsâincluding
Sweet and Sour Milk
, which
won the English-Speaking Union Literary Awardâwere written in Rome. The latter novel made him persona non grata in Somalia and resulted in an exile of twenty years; he describes his life as a “nomadic existence.” Typically, he spent part of each year in Africa and the rest in Europe or the United States. In the summer of 1996, he finally visited his native land. Well before that time, Somalia had become an international trouble spot, as reflected on the nightly news in Europe and America.
was written while Farah was studying philosophy in India. His second and third novelsâincluding
Sweet and Sour Milk
, which
won the English-Speaking Union Literary Awardâwere written in Rome. The latter novel made him persona non grata in Somalia and resulted in an exile of twenty years; he describes his life as a “nomadic existence.” Typically, he spent part of each year in Africa and the rest in Europe or the United States. In the summer of 1996, he finally visited his native land. Well before that time, Somalia had become an international trouble spot, as reflected on the nightly news in Europe and America.
Farah articulated his ambivalence about the American troop “rescue” of his country in an article in
The New York Times
, saying: “The crisis in Somalia is one of its people's making and is native to the country's ill-run clan patronage ⦠.” In an interview with Maya Jaggi, he further explained: “If you take the Somalia nation as a family, the betrayal is no longer that of colonialism, it is no longer from outside, but from within. And the cure must also be found within.” More than anything else, he bemoaned the failure of Pan-Africanism, the inability of other African nations to deal with the crisis in his country.
The New York Times
, saying: “The crisis in Somalia is one of its people's making and is native to the country's ill-run clan patronage ⦠.” In an interview with Maya Jaggi, he further explained: “If you take the Somalia nation as a family, the betrayal is no longer that of colonialism, it is no longer from outside, but from within. And the cure must also be found within.” More than anything else, he bemoaned the failure of Pan-Africanism, the inability of other African nations to deal with the crisis in his country.
In another context, in an essay titled “Childhood of My Schizophrenia” published in
The Times Literary Supplement
in 1990, Farah stated: “Colonial childhood such as mine is discontinuous: the child grows up neither as a replica of his parents, nor of the colonial ruler. I have remarked on my people's absence from the roll-call of world history as we were taught it, to the extent that we envied our Ethiopian, Kenyan and Arab neighbours the passing mention given to them in the textbooks we studied at school. It was with this in mind that I began writingâin the hope of enabling the Somali child at least to characterize his othernessâand to point at himself as the unnamed, the divided
other
, a schizophrenic child living in the age of colonial contradiction.”
The Times Literary Supplement
in 1990, Farah stated: “Colonial childhood such as mine is discontinuous: the child grows up neither as a replica of his parents, nor of the colonial ruler. I have remarked on my people's absence from the roll-call of world history as we were taught it, to the extent that we envied our Ethiopian, Kenyan and Arab neighbours the passing mention given to them in the textbooks we studied at school. It was with this in mind that I began writingâin the hope of enabling the Somali child at least to characterize his othernessâand to point at himself as the unnamed, the divided
other
, a schizophrenic child living in the age of colonial contradiction.”
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