Dry Tears Count Not

CHAPTER ONE

As the night grew older, Ntsakisi waited patiently for her son to come home from the sport field. Like all mothers would, it became difficult for her to steal a sleep without knowing her son’s whereabouts. She sat on the mat in her three-roomed house, humming what seemed like a church song. Ntsakisi is a strong woman. Maybe not physically, but hers is a solid heart that managed to raise two children after the death of her husband, Samson, over two years ago.

Her husband’s death was a tragic experience for her, given that the man was the sole breadwinner in the family. How could she forget that fateful night? She was sitting on the same mat one evening just after bathing her second-born child, Risima, when she heard a soft knock on her ailing door.

It was her husband’s colleague, Musa, who was in the company of two other men whom she could not recognise. The three men had brought with them, faces that had no happiness engraved on them. They looked like they had just lost all their life’s savings to an Internet crook. They sat down, with Musa looking at Ntsakisi straight on the face, yet struggle to utter even a single word. His face was heavy.

Despite all his efforts of putting a brave face, uncontrollable tears of sorrow found a way out of his big red eyes and greeted his cheeks on their way to his mouth and eventually, his chin. He could not hold it any longer.

Ntsakisi could see that something unpleasant had happened. Of course she recognised Musa, and she could see the other two men, and that none of them was her husband. Where could he be? It is late and he is not here. What may have had happened to poor Samson? She asked herself. Knowing exactly that she had no answers for all these questions.

Deep in her heart she still had hope despite all her negative thoughts and baseless imaginations. The worst news would be, she wished, that Samson was injured at work but still alive. It could not be death, she convinced herself, and without realising it, a single teardrop sneaked through her left eye. She wiped it with a face cloth she had just used to bath her child. She looked at Musa hoping for a different facial reaction. There were no changes. Musa, together with the other two men, were equally shattered. But none of them had guts to spill the beans.

“On our way from work…” mumbled Musa. “A truck came from nowhere. It was speeding. We were walking on the roadside. Apparently the driver lost control. And, and, and unfortunately, in the process, we lost your husband. Our dearest colleague whom we dearly loved…” before Musa could finish his statement, Ntsakisi fell on her back. And what followed was a loud cry that would even stop the rain. The poor woman cried hysterically over hearing the dreadful news that his only hope for a better tomorrow was no more. The three men tried to comfort her, but their deeds fell on deaf ears. She was just too devastated to listen to any of them. No amount of words could reverse the unfortunate event that had just befallen her. She was drowning in the pool of sorrow. The three men let her cry. She needed it. Who would not? This was the most tragic news she has ever received.

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It was for this reason that Ntsakisi could not sleep without ascertaining her son’s return from the sport field. Since the death of his father, Hector, at the tender age of 14, was all his mother had. “I will strip you of poverty one day mama, worry not,” he would say to his mother whenever he noticed that she seemed devastated.

For a woman who sold vegetables and fruits at the market place to survive, these are the words she needed to hear. Ntsakisi had faith in her son’s abilities, despite him being young. Hector was a top learner in his class. He was a promising young man.

It was getting late and Ntsakisi was becoming more worried. She stood up and resolved to walk few metres down the road that leads to the sport field, just to check on her beloved son. As she stood up, she heard a soft knock on the door. Her heart started pounding heavily. Hector would always accompany his knock with a “Hello mama, it’s me”. She knew it was not him. Who could it be? She took a deep breath and told herself: “It cannot be bad news again. I am not looking forward to hear this again. Not now. Not ever.”

She stepped to the door and pulled it. Standing outside was Mr Mokoena, a school teacher at Hector’s school. A tall dark man with strong arms and huge chest. He was standing there like a giant waiting for Ntsakisi to say something. In turn, the woman looked at him, hoping for a smile or something positive. Mokoena was not smiling. Neither was he sharing a positive story. “May I come in?” he asked. She nodded in agreement and also offered him a chair. The look from Mokoena sent shivers down Ntsakisi’s spine. She bit her lower lip. Mokoena just sat there and said nothing. He then cleared his throat…