A noble blood sacrifice

Tragedy

I probably wouldn't be doing it if my father hadn't died. But before I tell you about my family, I have to tell you about Shuma. The only orphan I've ever met. At least on a personal basis. His mother, Mmametsi, passed away when we were sixteen. Got caught in the river current during the spring rains. The tide was pretty unpredictable to be fair. If you mistimed your crossing and the rain had just started falling, you could be forgiven to believe you could make it in time.

Mmametsi's body was only found 12 days after an exhaustive search campaign. Some teenagers from a neighbouring village were casually fishing when she floated up to their bank. Face down, bloated and gangrened. She still had on her maroon dress with the single sequined pattern around the neck. Authorities had to pry her hand open to loose the marriage beads they used for identification. Her husband, Mashilo, had described THEM with the most detail in his missing person's report. They were normally loosely tied around her left wrist. The Southern African cultural equivalent of the western marriage ring.

The pain of losing a soulmate never left Shuma's dad. He swallowed rat poison a year later. Probably thinking he would join her wherever she had gone. With that level of selfishness, I doubt it. He must not have cared much that his son was still alive. That carried little meaning to his logic. Poor Shuma had to watch the froth envelop his father's mouth as he held him in his arms. He saw the stomach expand like a balloon. Eyes rocking rapidly back and forth. The cramping and moaning and writhing. Shuma watched the whole thing. Up until his father's last twitch.

He told me the story once. Never repeated it again. But I could tell it disturbed him. Even at that inexperienced age I could tell. The internal signs externalized pretty quickly thereafter. We don't have things like trauma counselling and … psychology this and that in Bokoni village. Those are all city luxuries that our local councils budget allocations don't cater to. Or maybe THOSE funds disappeared collectively with the ones meant for the mysterious road construction project that was STILL. TO. HAPPEN. Spanning all the way before my birth. But that's about the least of our grievances

Shuma's disturbia wouldn't allow him to focus in school. He dropped out in the Sixth Grade. According to hearsay, the consensus amongst the teachers was that he was a hopeless case who had become unnecessary to the aims of the school system. Based on most of the teachers dwindling patience towards him, certain of them in particular constantly putting him down and losing their tempers at him every chance they could get, I believe the postulation to be true. Nobody tried to help him any further in life after that.

He continued to live in his parent's single bedroom house. A half shack half house hybrid. His father had never done much with his life. Holding down whatever job he could for whatever money he would get. Sometimes not getting paid at all. Always talking about the big house he was going to build for his family. That the rest of the community better watch out for his big surprise. His mom did domestic work in the city. Coming home at the end of every Friday. Then leaving again on Sundays. She was the breadwinner of the house. Shuma knew his father more, and wasn't impressed. He had dreams of being better than him. Becoming a stalwart in the community. Remove himself from the Ramphalane surname as far as he could.

No longer having parents, Shuma did odd jobs for food and a little extra if he was lucky. He had always been good with his hands. Better than most of us actually. So he was popular with the villagers. Who were more than happy to pay him with a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. That's about as much as he was worth to them.