Like when he'd look up in the
Ha-Sethunya direction (which is where my school was) to check if the school was
out. And then - I am imagining all of this - he'd quickly open the bonnet of a
1977 Toyota hilux, and proceed to dismember the engine. On a Friday afternoon;
Imagine. He did all that – I suspected –
just to make sure that I spent the entire weekend, sometimes in a freezing
winter season, handing him the vice grips and sockets.
Sometimes he'd even instruct
me as I entered the gate, 'Hlobola kapele o tlo nthusa mona (quickly lose the
school uniform and give me a hand over here!)' It was bye-bye to after school
lunch, unless my stubborn Mother was around to insist that I ate before
starting the grueling shift.
To rub salt in my wound, my
playmates would bring the street football match right in front of our gate, and
throw the eyes in my direction every time my father shouted, 'Ke itse boutu
(bolt), e seng spanere sa 14! Ha o bone mahlong?' Sometimes my playmates (without
provocative fathers like mine) would giggle. And I'd be so heartbroken.
Because if only I had had enough
practice time with my playmates, I'd still be relegating Lucky Lekgwathi to the
bench right now as we speak...
Fathers have pissed all of us
off. And I think they have the right to because the okes have been feeding us. But then
when your president starts to crate your nipples just like your father used to
do, you end up wandering if Jacob Zuma is your father or president.
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