PAYING FOR ISISHEBO

When you arrive in the city unemployed and looking for a job, finding family to help is not always easy.

‘I stayed with an aunt when I first came to came to Johannesburg,’ says Madoda. ‘We were five people in a three-room house. A short visit is allowed. Three days maybe? But three days is three plates of food. And I stayed for four months while I tried to find a job.

‘When you overstay your welcome, that’s when the problems start. Especially if there’s only one breadwinner in the house. My aunt’s kids were six or seven years old. You are their uncle and you are eating their bread and cheese. So you feel bad to open the fridge and make breakfast for yourself. Once my aunt complained, “I am buying this food for my children’s lunch box.” I would hear how the parents felt about me from the children. “Why don’t you want to look for a job?” they asked me.

‘Looking back, I was part of the problem. I didn’t have money but they were struggling too. I didn’t realise then they had their own financial pressures.’

David remembers sending money home to the mother of his child after earning some good pay on a job. Then people asked for more – more for this and more for that. ‘It was not long before I was out of pocket again,’ David says. ‘At home they want things all the time.’

Tshaba says it’s called ‘The Isishebo Issue’.

‘When you eat pap there must be something nice to accompany it. Isishebo. That makes for a proper meal. So if the family are supplying the basics, you must bring something to go with it. You can’t go empty handed.

‘When I travel to Matatiele I can’t go without isishebo. They say you can eat, but you feel the pressure. When food is being dished up, you get the small piece with too much gravy. Sometimes you even say, “Don’t dish up for me. I’m not hungry.” But you are.

‘You hear them whisper, “Udla imali kabani? Whose money are you chowing?”

‘When the whiskey gets passed around and it gets to you it’s suddenly passed behind your back. That’s why I don’t visit home so much. If I say I’m coming home to visit, the family says, “What are you bringing?” I don’t want to feel the pressure. The pressure to bring isishebo.’

Madoda says, ‘A lot of people on the street are pushed out this way. People say, “Why don’t you stay with family and friends?” This is why.’

Tshabalira Lebakeng, David Majoka and Madoda Ntuli

NGIZWE

I would like to be a father and play with my kids. I like playing and laughing. But I don’t want to see my kids suffer like I did. I don’t want to see my kids sleeping without food. I will get a house for them one day. But for now I’m the father to the drama kids I teach at Ngizwe Theatre. I would like to see them all become something in the world. For now that is my fatherhood.

Tshabalira Lebakeng

INVITING THE ANCESTORS

I grew up knowing that ancestors are the ones who give us luck and protect us. If you see that things are not going well in your life, you go to a sangoma to communicate with your ancestors to ask what is wrong, and the sangoma will throw bones. You will get some answers.

If you stay far from home for work, you have to visit, because you don’t want the ancestors to forget you. Then they can’t protect you. When you are about to come back to the big city, you must make a traditional beer called lerwile lastila (the dust of the road). It’s to invite the ancestors to go with you. It is also to tell them where you are going. They must know where you’re going. The village will come and drink, wishing you well. But if you don’t have money you can burn imphepho (a medicinal herb). But when you have money you must make beer for the ancestors.

Tshabalira Lebakeng

DRINKING MOëT IN SANDTON

Ubuntu is gone. There is often only one breadwinner in an extended family and you can’t help everyone so you help three out of ten. And then the other seven are angry and jealous. They will try to bewitch you so you lose your money, are hit by lightning or killed in a car accident. You see your rich relatives on Facebook. They are drinking Moët in Sandton. They would put you six feet underground if they could.

Tshabalira Lebakeng

BEING A MAN

Early in the morning I made my way to McDonald’s and opened my laptop as usual.

An old man called Stanley joined me. He likes to talk about Kofifi (Sophiatown) and Miriam Makeba and how her crew used to push their music during apartheid. His knowledge is unbelievable and he speaks fluent Afrikaans and Tsotsitaal. He likes me to call him Bro Stan, not umkhulu (grandpa). I like him. He supports Kaizer Chiefs and he once worked for them as a driver. He knows everyone. He lives in Soweto and I don’t know why he comes to the city early in the morning.

My son’s mother called to tell me that my son was arrested after he and his friends broke into an Ethiopian shop in Giyani. After I put the phone down I told Bro Stan that the worst thing had just happened. He didn’t say anything for a while. There was silence between us. Then he said, ‘You are becoming a man now and you need to be strong.’ He told me his son was also arrested in old Bophuthatswana for stabbing a student who tried to rob him. He was jailed.

As usual we walked out to our different destinations. I kept thinking about my son in jail, trying to figure out what was going on. I felt that I needed to speak to my ancestors to ask them what was happening. I bought imphepho and nsu (snuff).

That night I slept well. No headache. My son was released with a warning on Tuesday morning.

Growing up without a father is a painful thing. I told myself that when I had my own kids I would make sure that I was there and that I’d give them all the support they’d need. At 21 I was not working and I impregnated a girl. But hustling to stay alive has kept me far away from my son. The guilt hits me every day. I haven’t been there to teach him about life and manhood. And it might be too late.

Madoda Ntuli

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Tell us: Do you agree that ‘ubuntu is gone’?