MATHONGA

Preface

This Saturday is a Saturday like no other, one that will go down in history. It all starts with a cloud as small as a man’s hand, not only do the village people see it, they see hope. Hope that it will finally rain in Izingolweni.
In less than thirty minutes blue skies are covered by dark clouds, thunder roars, lightning strikes and rain pours down like God himself is singing to a happy song in the shower.

A perfect storm it has become.

After ten years of draught, waiting and praying for rain, the villagers praise God, ancestors or whatever higher power is in charge on the other side.

Some dance in the rain, some keep their windows tightly shut to keep warm and dry, while majority are gathered at the Khanyile homestead, celebrating the coming birth of Vumile Khanyile’s seventh child.
A village chief highly esteemed in Izingolweni and neighbouring townships, mostly because of his wealth that, over the years has spread throughout South Africa.

As 6pm approaches, agonizing screams of a woman are heard in one of the rondavels, the people gathered outside have halted the celebration.
Now they wait with anticipation, hoping that the seventh time around Vumile Khanyile will be blessed with another son for whatever reason.

“It’s a boy.” The midwife cheerfully sings, holding the new born upside down. A few slaps on his butt and the baby cries. “At this rate you’re going Dalisile, you will be left with nothing in your kraal and a house full of daughters-in-law.” 

Had it been anyone else, they would’ve been ousted or banished from the village for calling her by name. These old women are an exception, they have known her since she was a child.
Dalisile doesn’t bat an eye, neither does her heart twitch as she lies on the soft mattress drenched with her sweat and blood, the sound of her baby’s cries challenging the thunderous roars of the gods.
“He is a beautiful creature in deed.” Another midwife sings the baby’s praises.

“Here, breastfeed the young one, he’s crying for his mother’s touch.” Sings the woman with the baby in her arms, he’s now wrapped in a warm grey blanket, his cries have not come to a stop.
“Get that thing away from me.” Dalisile shoves the midwife’s hand away, luckily the baby is still secure in her arms.
Confused and astounded, the two ladies exchange glances.
“Dalisile!”
“I’m not touching him,” the mother interjects.
Not once did she ever touch her belly while she was with child, even when bathing. Why would she do it now?
“Dalisile, this is not how things are done. Your baby yearns for what your breast holds, feed him.” An impatient midwife snaps, the baby’s cries elevate as if he could perceive his mother’s negligence. With each passing second, Dalisile's spirit crushes farther. This is not what she wanted, it’s not what she wants.
“Shut it up.” Saying that, tears roll down her cheeks. “Shut it up now, now.” Dalisile grips her hair as screams leave her parched lips, a delusional woman she has become. 

The midwives are taken aback by the sudden outburst, it’s not their job to pacify the baby nor the mother.
Dalisile clenches her eyes and covers her ears until the fretting cries come to a halt. A silent night would it have been if it were not for the rain and thunder outside, it’s almost like the gods are angry.

Flicking her tear-filled eyes open she sees her husband cradling the baby in his big arms.
He is so predictable, it’s not new that he loves the baby more than she could ever hate it. His love overpowers the hate she has for the life she has brought into this dark world.

“He knows his father at such a tender age,” a midwife observes smiling down at the infant who is quiet in his father’s arms.
“Leave us.” Dalisile commands, a stone cold expression on her face. The midwives depart, they are used to her demeanour. 
Despite the cold hearted person she is, Dalisile always celebrated the birth of her children. All six boys, the seventh one must be different for her not to want it.