“Mphumuzi Myeni loved everything about Mrova. He told me it reminded him of his childhood home. I realised he was no different from me or any regular guy, but he sure showed more appreciation for i kasi than the average Joe. Have you an idea of how some people act when they get rich and famous? It’s not pretty bra.

“By the time we arrived here, Mama, your mother and your older sister Zet had prepared all sorts of treats and seven colours for supper. We were so grateful, especially for the wors and red meat, because we had the munchies.”

Mtho laughed and Uncle Seun laughed with him. I just sat there, smiled and shook my head.

“Tanga, konje yini ama-munchies?” Mtho whispered to me.

Not wanting to sound too cocky, I smiled. “I think you get hungry from the marijuana, bezibashayile!”

Mtho chuckled. Uncle Seun gave me a pat on the head. “Thisha omkhulu!” he exclaimed and shook his head.

“After everyone, including Chris right here,” he pointed at me with his grey eyes “had been properly introduced to Mphumuzi Myeni, we sat down and had our meal. We had a wonderful time; Power, your father, went head-to-head with Mpumuzi, telling all sorts of stories. Pappa kept messing up and calling Mphumuzi Myeni, ‘Nelson Mandela’. But Power always swooped in with a wisecrack ‘Hey, u-KIO ngathi sowugugile futhi usese wumfana omncane yin awudli kini? Nabadla bakukhiyela ku cage bakubeke phezu kwetafula? Bathi uzosutha ngephunga? (Hey KIO you look so scrawny, are you not being well fed at home? When they have supper do they lock you up in a cage? And place it on the dinner table and tell you to get full off the smell?)’

“Mphumuzi Myeni went freakin’ mental my broer! ‘Yaz mara wena Power!’ he would exclaim in between laughs.” The three of us laughed our guts out. Uncle Seun did such a decent impression of my father, down to his semi-loud, hoarse voice.

“Power always has the last word when it comes to storytelling. Why do you think everyone worships the ground he walks on whenever he is in Tsakane? Because of the power he possesses. He beat Mphumuzi Myeni, right here, in our dining room!” Uncle Seun pointed to the door that led from the living room straight into the dining room. “I can even show you how everyone was seated!” he exclaimed.

Mtho and I laughed because we saw how the story was starting to affect him. We were fascinated by the energy that flowed from every word; how Uncle Seun made up a sentence, then bit by bit his story unfolded. I have to say I was in awe and so was Mtho.

Tell us: Is there secret ingredient in a good story? What is it?