The noise from outside was too much for Vusumzi to bear. He was in stonewashed jeans and a loose shirt. He was an educator. At 30, he was supposed to have taken a wife already, as his father would put it. He always nagged him, always.
“Vusumzi, do I have to die first before ngibona umalokazana engena la ekhaya? (I see your wife in this house)?” his father, Mzikayise, always asked. But Vusumzi hated this topic.
He breathed out slowly, tapping the pen he had on his desk. It was after school, he was alone in his class. He dreaded going home, he knew what his father would say the moment he walked in.
“MaCele, the day this boy walks in with a girl is the day I’ll drop dead on the floor,“ his father would say.
“My dear, please, let the boy be. He’ll choose the wife he wants in his own time.” His mother, MaCele, would always come to his rescue.
Vusumzi sighed, and took his bag, walking to his car. He drove home.
****
As he drove in, his sisters were playing ball outside. They ran to him as he handed them goodies, as usual. He was welcomed by the good smell of his mom’s cooking.
“Hello ma,” Vusumzi kissed his mom on the cheek.
“Hello my son,” his mom said with a smile.
He proceeded to the living room. “Is father home?” He didn’t need an answer, his father sat in the living room. “Khabazela. How are you?” he greeted his father. ‘Khabazela’ was their clan name.
His father looked at him then nodded, acknowledging his greeting. “Son, how was work?” he asked him.
“It was well, father,” he sat down. Mzikayise nodded, pulling his cigarette. “I thought mom wasn’t OK with you smoking in the house?” Vusumzi said.
“I’m the man here,” was all his father said.
Vusumzi nodded slowly and stood up. “I’ll help mother in the kitchen,” he said.
“Sit! Your mom doesn’t need help. You’re a man, you don’t belong in the kitchen. What are you wearing?” his father shouted.
“Clothes, baba.” Vusumzi sat down.
“A man does not dress like that. How will you find a wife who’ll take you seriously when you wear trousers that are torn on the knees?” His father pointed at his jeans.
“It’s…fashion, baba.” Vusumzi almost laughed.
“When are you bringing your wife, here?” his father asked. Vusumzi went quiet. His father stared at him. “Vusumzi, you’re my only son,” his father continued.
“But baba, Ntsikayomuzi is also your son,” Vusumzi said, avoiding his father’s gaze.
“That bastard isn’t my son. He is defiant,” his father frowned.
“Baba, Ntsika is still your son. Drug addict or not,” Vusumzi said.
“I don’t have a druggie for a son. You’re my only hope. The legacy of this family lies in your hands.” His father stood up, leaving him alone in the sitting room.
***
Tell us: What do you think of Vusumzi’s father?