Lucas Ledwaba is a Johannesburg based journalist. He has published works of fiction mainly in Drum magazine. Writing is his passion, and Lucas believes his heart would stop beating if he wakes up one day and finds he can no longer write. Lucas is hoping to publish works of non-fiction in the near future. He is currently working on a biography of one of SA’s legendary musicians.

The day the Old Man returned

Lucas Ledwaba

Rakgolo walked up to the kraal, behind the main house where the young men were struggling to capture the goat he had singled out to be slaughtered for the big occasion. The good smell of fresh cow dung and goat droppings hung in the air, indeed like the smell of damp sand after a light summer’s rain.

“Mmeeeehehehe  ... mmeheheheheh!” the little creatures bleated out in agony, sensing somehow that one of their own was about to be silenced forever in the name of celebration.

“Thiba ka moo! Ja, that one, no, no, ka moo, thiba! thiba!” the excited, anxious young men exclaimed loudly and joyously. Rakgolo leaned against the strong wooden wall. He balanced his walking stick, the one with a knob the size of a tennis ball, against the same wall.

From the inside pocket of his tweed black jacket, the one whose many holes and patches bore testimony to years and years of survival, he took out a pouch of tobacco. Carefully, he emptied a little amount of the brown stuff onto his left palm, then again, emptied the potion into the pipe in his right hand.

Then he lifted his head to look at the boys struggling to capture the big white goat with a black lining running across its big, hairy back. This is the same goat Rakgolo often told them was reserved for a great occasion.

Rakgolo looked at the comedy unfolding in the kraal and smiled quietly to himself. On a normal day he would have shouted at the boys and even hit one of their big heads with his walking stick. But this was a special moment in his life, in the life of all mankind. It was like a second coming, a moment he’d spent most of his life waiting for.

This was it, the moment for which so many of his people had died and lived and worked. This was the day, he often wished in his heart, to see before he rejoined his forefathers in their eternal sleep.

In fact, had his own Sonnyboy, the brightest of his five sons, not fled to worlds afar to join in the fight for this day, and for many better days? Had Sonnyboy not perished in foreign lands as a result? Had his blood not nourished the tree of freedom like many others?

Rakgolo, for the first time in a long time, felt a sad longing for Sonnyboy. As he watched the boys struggle to capture the big white goat with a black lining running across its big, hairy back, he recalled one such afternoon many years ago.

That day, he had asked Sonnyboy and his cousin brother Lesiba to capture a goat that somehow, he now recalled, was an exact replica of the one the boys were struggling to corner and capture. That day, Sonnyboy rode on the goat’s back, held it by its horns and forced it into a corner of the kraal, where his cousin tied it against the wooden wall of the kraal.

Rakgolo wiped a warm tear trickling down his wrinkled, dark cheek. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this show of emotion from an old warrior. Up on a hill near the chief’s homestead, Rakgolo saw a huge red cloud of dust, and a throng of humanity, doing the toyi-toyi dance, which immediately reminded him of his days in the mines.

Indeed, the thing would happen tomorrow. The Old Man was coming home. After all these long years on the island, The Old Man was finally coming home. To Rakgolo, who as a young migrant worker had joined thousands of other people when, outside the great court building in Pretoria, The Old Man was condemned to life on that terrible, cold, wet island, news of his return was just unbelievable.

When Rakgolo raised his failing eyes to look up at the crowd gathered on a hill overlooking the chief’s homestead again, he realised it had now almost doubled and was now moving like a powerful steam engine in the direction of his house.

“Haiii! haaaiii! haaaii!!” the crowd chanted, their feet stomping the ground rhythmically like a bolt of thunder. “Ruuu! ruuu! ruuu!”, then again, “Haaaiii, haaaiii, haaaiiii!”

As they neared his home in the fading evening light, Rakgolo noticed that the crowd was made up not only of young men, but also of old men, like Mashilo the one-armed carpenter, old women, young girls, and in the front, the chief, intoxicated with joy.

“Comrade Sonny! Haaaiiii! haaaiii! haaaiii! haaaiiii!” they stopped to chant in front of his house, some waving flags of The Movement, others dressed in T-shirts depicting a drawing of someone that looked like The Old Man.

Even the boys who had been struggling to capture the goat jumped out of the kraal, their feet soiled with cow dung, and joined the crowd.

Rakgolo felt a sense of pride rise in him; tears of joy and sadness ran down his old wrinkled cheeks. Oh, Sonnyboy, that lively, intelligent boy, had contributed to this day that was coming tomorrow. With his life he had paid, so that all people, including The Old Man, could be free.

“Haaiii! Haiiiaaaiii! Comrade Sonny! Haaaiiii! haaaiii!” the crowd, and the chief, who until today had never expressed his support for The Old Man, sang and danced joyously.

That night Rakgolo had a dream. It was the first time he had dreamt of Sonnyboy since those many years ago when he fled to worlds afar to fight for freedom. All these years, Sonnyboy had never appeared in his dreams. But on this night he appeared to his father, smiling, and chanting like those people did in front of his house that evening.

“Rakgolo! Rakgolo,” Moloko called out to his grandfather the next morning, the day when The Old Man would walk free from prison. The day which Rakgolo had waited for so long.

“Rakgolo, the thing will happen soon, you will miss out!” Moloko exclaimed. “Rakgolo! Rakgolo!” but Rakgolo did not respond.

Moloko slowly pushed the crackling door of Rakgolo’s hut open and walked slowly to the bed where he slept.

“Rakgolo! he called out once again, but Rakgolo did not respond. He got closer to the sleeping old man, and realised, somehow, that he would never respond to anything ever again.

There was a big smile, a bright, beautiful smile on Rakgolo’s face, one that nobody had seen since his wedding day. He was sleeping now, in peace, at peace with himself, with Sonnyboy, at peace with the knowledge that The Old Man was returning, finally.

The big white goat with a black lining running across its big, hairy back, would now be slaughtered, for an occasion of a different kind.



LitNet: 26 April 2004

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