“Ma’am, we are now taking him to theatre, do you want to be there?” A young doctor stood looking at me. I was worried about whether he would cut my son and whether he’d be able to sew his skin back.

“Are the one handling the op, sir?” I asked, confused. He wasn’t the same doctor who requested his operation.

“No Mama, I am a student doctor. We are not operating on him if we find a better solution,” he said calmly.

“We’re going to be injecting a substance that will dissolve the lump,” he continued.

Fear of seeing my son being cut with those scissors was being relieved. I touched my son who was in agony. He just stared at me with his tiny eyes, not knowing what would happen. How could I explain what would happen to him? He wouldn’t understand. I followed the doctor who pushed my son’s bed to the theatre room. They asked me to stand outside.

The door had a small rectangular window. I looked and watched my son cry. The way he cried made me cry too. Tears flooded my eyes. I said a silent prayer. There was silence in the theatre. I kept pacing, I couldn’t sit still.

Why were they taking long? Suddenly the doctor came back. He looked as if he had bad news. I began to cry. The doctors sometimes scare us with serious faces.

“No, Ma, he is fine, we will take him to the children’s ward. We will keep him under observation for two days, if the medicine works, he will be home soon,” he spoke calmly.

Oh thank you God. I said in my heart. “Thank you doctor, I am grateful.” I spoke to the doctor.

I brought him some food from home. His face lit up when he saw me because he was sleeping when I left.

“Oh you are back, he has been crying for you,” a nurse in the ward informed me.

He had been two days in hospital and then they released him. The lump had disappeared and I was extremely happy. My family would be delighted to see him.

Arriving at home, my father ululated and surprised him with a big motor car. He clapped hands before he received it. It was a rule I had taught him of respect. His sister had missed him. She played with him in the bedroom.

I later was diagnosed with HIV. I tested both my children and Tapiwa tested positive. He started his medicine. It was hard at first because he hated pills but I had to force him.

I found work in South Africa, so I was going to immigrate there. That year the school had refused to let him start Grade R because he was short and he had cried when I left.

“Let him come next year, maybe he will be mature,” a teacher told me. I went to Makumbe to make a passport for him. He boasted that he had a passport, making his sister jealous.

We came to South Africa with Taps. He liked it so much because he was spoiled by my mother who worked in South Africa also. When we returned him back for school he cried so much, making Fadzi, my daughter, cry too.

I had to promise to collect them one holiday to come to South Africa. They came in the holiday of August when school closed. He was always a good boy who hated lies. He spoke the truth even it hurt someone.

“Mama, where is our dad?” he asked.

That question made me wonder how he’d feel if I told him about his father. I then said we had separated and that I didn’t know where he was. Then I saw him one day when I picked Tapiwa up from school. His dad stood by a car in the parking lot.

“There is your father.” I showed him.

He just looked but didn’t stop walking. His father waved to him but Tapiwa kept walking while I followed. I wanted to know how he felt. He is shy and very stubborn.

“Mama, does our father loves us?” he asked.

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother to buy us anything, I hate him.” Fadzi said harshly.

I couldn’t argue because I didn’t know the answer to that. “Would you want to see and spend time with him?” I asked curiously.

“No!” they both answered in unison.

I know boys tend to want to know their fathers and maybe one day, he will request to go to him, I thought. But their father passed away when Tapiwa turned nine. I don’t know how he felt because he had questions I couldn’t answer. I was not around for them, I was at work in South Africa. When I asked my sisters and father they said they seemed fine.

But we never understood their feelings because he never spoke again about his father. He would look at the pictures I kept in an album but I’ve never seen him looking at his father’s pictures. At school, he was the slowest learner and teachers would complain to me. I wondered if he was healthy, would his school-work get better?

While away, I had to trust someone to look after him, take him for check-ups and maintain his diet. Sometimes, I just wish things were not like this.

***

Tell us what you think: Do you think perhaps Tapiwa’s father knew he was sick and wanted to make amends before it was too late?