Later that evening Kgomotso tries to write a poem for the school talent-show coming up in a few days. He attempts to write verse after verse, but it is to no avail.
First of all, he has no idea what to write about. Then, when he thinks he has found a topic, his sentences have no meaning: they have no feel. His verses don’t make sense because they are not born from the heart. So he scribbles lines, but immediately scratches over them
His dad, Tumelo, arrives from work as Kgomotso is experiencing writer’s block in the dining room.
Tumelo enters through the kitchen and walks down the passage, completely ignoring Kgomotso in the dining room. In the main bedroom he takes off his black leather jacket and belt. Kgomotso spies on his dad, using the mirror in the dining room. He sees his father pull his pistol from his ankle holster and place it inside the bottom drawer of the dressing table.
Kgomotso quickly looks back at the exercise book in front of him when he sees his father coming to the living room.
“Kgomotso how are you?” says Tumelo, as he sits on the sofa. He picks up the remote control and changes the music channel Kgomotso was listening to for inspiration.
“I’m good, Dad.”
“What are you writing there, my boy?”
“I’m writing a poem, Dad.”
“A poem? I thought only women write those. Why are you writing a poem?”
“It’s for the school talent show this Friday. Parents are welcome to attend. Do you think you can make it, Dad?”
“Kgomotso, I’ll be busy. Your expensive school, and this house, are ruining my salary. I work tirelessly to put food on the table. But you are a child; you wouldn’t understand.”
Kgomotso lets out a sigh, and tries to get back to his poem.
“So in a school talent show you choose to present a poem? Why don’t you choose to do a sport, like soccer or rugby? Just do what other boys do?”
Kgomotso looks down, not wanting to show his disapproval.
“Boys in my time were boys! We were strong, not like you boys today, always watching television and on your phones,” Tumelo says and hits his fist on the armrest of the couch to get Kgomotso’s attention. “Hey Kgomotso? Why don’t you try soccer instead!?”
“I don’t like sport because … it is boring,” Kgomotso mumbles under his breath.
Tumelo snaps and confronts Kgomotso. “Boy, don’t you ever backchat me again! Do you hear me? It’s seems like you and your mother are forgetting who is in charge around here. I wear the pants in this house! I am the man! Neither of you forget that! Go to your room! Now!”
Kgomotso hurriedly tidies up his pencil case and exercise book and heads to his bedroom. He leaves his father seething with anger in the darkness of the living room, aimlessly changing channels with the remote control.
***
Tell us: Do you sympathise with Tumelo’s attitude here? Why or why not? How could he respond differently to Kgomotso?