The 9th of July, 2015 marks 30 years since your death. 30 years since mom wept uncontrollably at the news of your passing. 30 years since I realised you would not be coming to my school prize giving ceremonies anymore. I continued to excel in all subjects; and was overall winner until Grade 7. The ceremonies were not the same without you to cheer me on. I only realised years later how lucky I was that you had an interest in my education; some fathers simply could not be bothered.
I remember Christmas time when you were around: playing the Soul Brothers on the Super 60 radio. I remember one Christmas in particular when you danced to their song: “Umnik’ isandla, kusas’ usefun’ ingalo yonke, akabongi lumuntu. Akabongi, akabongi lumuntu.” Those were happy days. Sadly, David Masondo passed away just a few days ago. So, this July started on a sorrowful note.
Why has it taken me so long to write to you? I really do not know. Maybe I was not ready to talk to you. Or I was too angry at you for leaving me so soon? I was only 10 when you left. What did I really understand about death at that age, except that I would not see you again? Could you not wait a little while longer for me to grow up? The fact that I did not attend your burial because I was deemed to be too young made me feels worse. But how could I explain this to mom when she was grieving?
You know death is strange. People die all the time but it is one thing I can never get used to no matter how much I try. Death forces us to reflect on our own lives. It also forces us to admit that one day we will also be no more. And to ask the difficult question of what we have achieved in our time here on earth?
Your death is ever-present in my life. And so is the pain. You know that thing they say about time healing the wounds? It is not true. The pain is still there. I have just learnt to live with it. Or maybe I have learnt to live despite the pain?
The pain is very strange. It seems it has no formula or timetable. It just hits me at odd times. When I graduated from University in 1999 I was so overwhelmed that I cried because I knew you would have been very proud of me. From Nkulumane Primary School in Mpopoma and eventually to the University of Zimbabwe! That was such an achievement in those days.
When I had my first baby in 2000 I wished you were there to see your grandson. Right in the middle of a significant and very happy occasion in my life, I cried. The pain was there again because no matter how much I wished it, you were not there. I imagined you would have enjoyed reading to my children, just like you enjoyed reading to us.
When my brothers died years later I wished you were there to comfort mom. Somehow, I thought that would have meant a lot to her. But once again, you were not there.
What I hate the most about your death is the pain. It feels like my heart is going to pop out of my chest, and it really hurts. Then I get a migraine. Then the tears follow...
I think of you in my happy moments, as well as the sad ones. In the sad moments I wish you were there to reassure all will be well. To tell me that whatever I am going through is not permanent.
My sadness is usually accompanied by anger. I am angry at you for leaving me when I was so young. Angry at God for taking you away from your family, from me. Angry that you were not there to give me away when I got married. Angry at the fact that my two boys will never see you. Angry that you deprived mom of her husband. She did not re-marry. I have a lot to be angry about.
But today, let me try not being angry at you or God. (By the way, I am still working at my relationship with God. Some days are good; others are not-so-good. Some days I ask Him why things happen the way they do and I am angry with Him). Let me just remember what a great father you were. A father who read to me and told amazing stories. I still love reading and I realise it came from your love of reading stories to your children. I remember you telling me that the world was so big that when we sleep, in other parts of the world they are waking up. I do not know what happened to that Atlas we had at home. I miss the stories.
I miss how you took us out in the Vauxhall to have fun as a family at Chipangali, Tshabalala Game Reserve and other places. Of course, my best trips were the ones to Plumtree because we would pass by your sister’s and get goodies before proceeding to mom’s rural homestead in Thekwane. I have so many memories of you.
So, maybe you are asking why 30 years later I have decided to write to you. I am asking myself the same question. Is it because I want to believe that this process will be cathartic, that it will get rid of the anger, somehow? Or because I feel guilty every time I realise I have been so busy doing something I did not think of you?
To be honest, sometimes I think my pain is selfish. I am thinking about myself and not the pain you went through before you died. Maybe it was better for you to die instead of being in pain all the time? But why could it not be a win-win situation: you alive and not in pain?
Anyway, whatever the reasons, I am glad I did.
And you know what; I believe you are always looking out for your family. Always there every step of the way although we cannot see you. I feel your presence somehow, like you are never far away. Or this is what I tell myself, in order to deal with your absence? Perhaps I cannot deal with the finality of it all?
I love you Elijah Bayengwa Tshabangu, today and always,
Buhlebenkosi Nomqhele
PS I hope my next one won’t take me 30 years to write…