“Tata vuka!”

These are the words I picture myself screaming on top your grave. The problem is that I do not know where your resting place is, none of us do. At least none of us on this side of the family. We were barred from attending your funeral. Or maybe I should say that we were vehemently cautioned against attending. Lest your funeral be the last we attend shortly before ours began. Our lives would have doubtlessly ended had we been in attendance.

Her presence automatically meant our absence. She would’ve been there, dressed in black and weeping the loudest. Mourning was the last wifely duty she could perform in honour of you. Her first duty to protect her children and her inheritance would be to eliminate us, the illegitimate kids. We heeded the words of your brothers by staying away to stay alive. They compassionately cared for us and shielded us from harm’s way, like fathers. They diverted us from her path.

However, that wasn’t enough. As much as we needed physical protection from harm’s way, we needed legal protection. We needed the law to acknowledge us as your children too, and to help us keep our home. We needed the law to say that the cream white corner house in Thembisa with the backrooms filled with tenants is ours. The law must declare that the rental income is our bread and therefore no harm can befall our livelihood. We need the law to declare us as rightful heirs too, so that we can have a portion of your legacy and food on the table or at least even keep the table itself.

The law, unfortunately, cannot act against your will. In your 63 years of roaming the earth, you willed to not have a written will, consequently leaving us to the mercy of harm’s way. Had you written a will, we would have a roof over our heads. We instead find ourselves homeless and incomeless, roaming around for either a roof or bread, mostly for bread.

Since I cannot scream from the top of your grave, I find myself wanting the horn. Do you remember the horn, dad? That one Raithlwana would use to wake Lesilo in ‘Lesilo Rula’, our Friday night favourite. That’s the only way I picture summoning you. If I had the horn, I would summon you to intimidate the lawyers into getting our house back. Or maybe, I would use you to scare your widow off the faded suede sofas she sits on in that corner house she legally occupies. Or better yet, I would summon you to stay alive for more months just so that you can write a will.

The only thing that scares me more than Lesilo did when I was a child, is how devious my thoughts have become. I went from mourning your death, to adjusting to your absence, to resenting your lack of will to now harbouring sinister thoughts. This is not who you raised me to be. But the indignation caused by the hunger is changing me; it’s changing us. The horn is my last hope to reach you.

Perhaps if I could get a hold of it and blow it until I’m blue, you would ascend and do one last fatherly duty – protect us.

***

This was one of the highly commended entries in the My Father essay writing competition. Click here to read other excellent essays from the competition.