Dry Tears Count Not: Chapter One

As the night grew older, Ntsakisi waited patiently for her son to come back 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 sounded like a church song. Ntsakisi is a strong woman. Maybe not physically, but hers is a solid heart that managed to continue raising her 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 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 sense 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... 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 her 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 anyone. 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 left her to cry. She needed it. Who would not? This was the most tragic news she had 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, his son, 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 was down and 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 his age. Hector was a top learner in his class. He was a promising future.

It was getting late and Ntsakisi was becoming very worried. She stood up and decided to walk a 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 hearing horrible news again. Not now. Not ever.”

She stepped to the door and pulled it. Standing outside was Mokoena, a teacher at Hector’s school. A tall dark man with strong arms and a huge chest. He was standing there like a giant waiting for Ntsakisi to say something so he could gobble her. In turn, the woman looked at him, hoping for a smile or any positive gesture. Mokoena was neither smiling nor 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.

“I am sorry to invade your space at this time of the night maam. I had to come and have a word with you,” said Mokoena after realising that there was not going to be any communication if he did not lead the way. “I am here to discuss your son, Hector…” he continued.

“What happened to him sir? Is he fine? I am sitting here stressing about what may have befallen my poor son for him not to have returned home at this time of the night,” said Ntsakisi, who had to interject Mokoena due to anxiety that was slowly creeping in.

She was obviously not looking forward to hearing terrible news. It could not be. That would cripple her whole body and freeze all her body organs. She moistened her lips while looking straight at the teacher, hoping he saves the day by telling her that her son was all but well.

“Forgive me maam. I am not a bearer of bad news here. I was not even aware that Hector is not in the house yet. I am here in my capacity as his teacher to discuss his school work,” said Mokoena with a soft yet confident voice.

“I am sorry to come at this time of the day,” he continued. “I had just decided to visit my friend who stays in town and on my way back I saw it conveniently fit to pass by and greet, after I noticed that the lights were still on. My apologies.”

“Not a problem sir. I even forgot to greet you. How are you?” said Ntsakisi, who seemed relieved to hear that Hector was not in trouble.

“ I am fine thanks maam. Thanks for letting me in,” replied Mokoena.

“I am also glad that you are not bringing dreadful news. I am not ready for such news. Otherwise this heart would stop ticking immediately. It has seen enough and it cannot take the bullet anymore. I may not be too old but I have seen the worst in my short lifetime,” remarked Ntsakisi with a short grin that represented a sense of welcomed relief.

Mokoena’s voice was a grand contradiction of his stature. He was a very big man yet his voice would fit in well in the soprano group in a church choir. It was too soft and bit squeaky for a man that gigantic. A man who would just look at a lion in the eye and order it to run away.

In spite of his no-nonsense approach to life issues, Mokoena was a well-respected man at both his school and community. A teacher who loved his work. He would laugh if the need arises, and act all serious when circumstances dictate so. In his nine years of teaching, Mokoena had seen it all. He was reprimanded by the provincial education department on numerous occasions on his approach to child discipline. Contrary to the law of the country, which totally abolishes corporal punishment, Mokoena was one teacher who would occasionally apply corporal punishment. “I cannot be part of the generation of parents who contribute to ill-discipline by sparing the children the rod. They need to learn at a young age that indiscipline cannot be tolerated.” He would often say.

Despite the serious face, Mokoena was an eligible bachelor. At the age of 40, many people and relatives had expected him to have settled down and have his own family. But that was just the Mokoena they wished for, not the real one. He was single and still stayed alone. He was not one to be convinced to tie the knot. Not by anyone.

“So, tell me sir. What do you want to discuss about Hector’s school work? Is he underperforming?” asked Ntsakisi.

“Not at all maam. Hector is one of the best performing learners in my class. He is an exceptional case,” replied Mokoena. “I just came here to see the woman who gave birth to him so I could give her a pat on the back for making my job easier,” he continued with a orchestrated giggle.

“I am happy to hear that. He is doing well indeed. He took after his father I guess. Samson was such an intelligent man. More intelligent than many men in this area. Even the local headmaster knew that with him around, there was no community issue that was impossible to unscramble,” said Ntsakisi. Her face beaming with confidence and pride to prove that she knew what she was talking about.

“He sure was… He must have been very intelligent,” reacted Mokoena with a cuffed voice.

The poor teacher immediately directed his eyes to the surface: an unconscious sign of defeat and disappointment. For a second he regretted visiting the household. As it is the case with all men, Mokoena became uncomfortable listening to a woman praising her husband, in his presence. Worse, it was not just a husband, but a husband who had passed on. How unintelligent could he be to be outshined by a departed soul? Mokoena asked himself in vain. 

His heart started beating furiously. His soul was extremely wounded but his face partially succeeded in trying to contain and hide the inner pain. It became self-evident that Ntsakisi’s praise for her late husband had pierced the heart of Mokoena and successfully stripped him of his manhood.

His mind immediately became very busy. It embarked on a racing competition with itself. Mokoena was having silent conversations with himself. ‘Yes, Samson may have been an intelligent man, but he was just a construction worker. Mokoena is a teacher. An educated somebody’. He said to himself just to resuscitate his fading status.

“So sir,” said Ntsakisi, whose words awoken Mokoena from his forged sleep, “Are you satisfied with Hector’s performance? Are there areas he needs to improve in?”

“No. I mean… yes. Yes he is doing a great job. Very great job and everything is in shape. He just needs to keep going,” said Mokoena, whose short slumber almost exposed him.

“I am glad to hear that sir. With a teacher of your calibre, he surely is going places. I am very thankful. I have heard a lot about you. I guess all the stories are true based on our conversation and your voluntary move to come and check on your favourite learner. May God bless you sir,” she said with an innocent smile.

Her words shot straight to Mokoena’s heart and suddenly revived the wounded ego in him. He felt special, all of a sudden. He felt big, not only in stature but also in spirit. These were not only sweet words directed to him, but words coming from a woman. Priceless.

“Thank you for your kindness maam, I am really…”

His words were cut short by an opening door. It was Hector. He looked amazed at seeing his teacher in his own house. What could he have done? He thought. At the back of his mind he knew he was not a troublesome boy. But what if he is being accused of something that he never did? He sat on a chair next to his teacher and extended his right hand to greet him.

“Good evening sir. I was not expecting to see you here,” he said. He then turned to his mother and asked: “Everything okay mama?”

“Yes son,” said Ntsakisi with a smile of both joy and relief to see her son back at home. “Your teacher just came to greet us. He must definitely be on his way out now. It is getting late.”

“Yes Hector. I have to  go now,” said Mokoena, preparing to stand up. "I just came to say ‘hallo’ to my favourite learner, and unfortunately you got home at the time when I was about to leave. Good night, young man.”

“Good night, sir,” replied Hector.

Mokoena opened the door, looked at Hector, then at Ntsakisi. He smiled, waved and submitted himself to the outside darkness.

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“You know sometimes life has a funny habit of introducing special things to us,” said Mokoena to his friend and colleague, Mabunda. “Life frequently throws us into the deep ends of loneliness and romantic starvation before it resolves to emancipate us to greener pastures of love,” he continued.

“Mokoena, in my seven years of knowing you, I have concluded and also made peace with the fact that you always have your way with words. I know you are gifted when it comes to being expressive, but please do not take advantage of my good brain. Get to the point and stop being poetic as if you are a love-struck teenager,” protested Mabunda with a faint giggle while looking straight at Mokoena.

Mabunda knew that Mokoena was a very intelligent man with the gift of the gab. He knew that the man was one to spoil your day if you attempt to act all smart at his expense. He was an organic intellect who would think at the drop of the hat and he always had a creative way of putting words. And as his friend, poor Mabunda expected Mokoena to be lenient and also neglect the opportunity to showcase his vocabulary prowess, more especially in stories he wanted to share with him.

“Get to the point mister. I am all ears,” continued Mabunda after realising that Mokoena was still deeply swallowed in the world of imagination and fantasy.

“You see Mabunda, you and I are academics right? But there are things that we cannot do or have control over. Not that we are less smart but because such things are not deeply engraved in our respective systems,” said Mokoena.

“Are you ever going to speak, my friend? I think suspense is killing me. Stop being all romantic with words. As a teacher you should be knowing the importance of direct communication,” said Mabunda.

“Calm down brother, exercise some patience. As a teacher you know the importance of patience. Right?”

“Right.”

“Good. All I am saying is that most of us are physically strong but mentally weak. We find ourselves trapped in our selfish bodies to such an extent that we believe we are the epitome of everything. We unconsciously become reluctant to acknowledging other people’s existence, impact, contribution and the role they can play in our lives because ours is a life of imaginary luxury and orchestrated intelligence that seem to cloud our judgment in the holistic view of life…”

“…I will be very direct with you again my friend, if you want to talk to me, just say what you need to say and stop making a mountain out of a mole hill,” interrupted Mabunda, whose patience was now wearing thin. “This is a workplace environment so we should not waste time discussing subjects beyond the classroom as comfortably as you want us to be. I have a class to attend to in a few minutes. Just let me know what is bothering you friend. Please!”

“Okay okay okay. I hear you man. Just give a brother a chance to breathe here. I have something I want to share with you. I think I have been bitten by the love bug. This is getting serious and I think it is about time I let it out. I just cannot hold it any longer. I even get goose bumps thinking about it.”

“Mmhhh. Finally, some good news. I was getting worried about you my friend. Not that I believed something was wrong with you but that you seemed to walk with one eye closed when it comes to matters of the heart. You understand? I was even beginning to suspect that maybe you have seen the worst in your life that successfully crippled your testosterone,” stated Mabunda with a loud yet orderly laughter.

“Look who is talking now,” said Mokoena with a shy smile. “I knew you would burst my bubble. Look my friend, I may have seen a female ghost before but I would not let my past haunt my present and eventually destroy my future. I want to start a family and expand my surname’s territory. You know what they say: ‘An African man ought to spearhead the campaign of growing his clan’. I want to do just that.”

“I get you man. It is a brilliant idea. You just have to know who to pick. Sometimes what you see is not always what is there. You get me? So play your cards smartly, lest the chicken come back home to roost.”

“Of course I will. You are on point friend. This one I am certain. She has all the characters as envisaged by this ticker,” responded Mokoena while pointing to his left chest where his heart is presumably placed.

“I just want you to know what you are doing because…” said Mabunda, whose sentence was cut short by a knock on the staff room door.

“Come in,” responded the two men simultaneously.

In came a small boy with a neat uniform. He indicated that he was in the staff room to collect chalks. Mabunda gladly passed him three pieces of chalks. The boy thanked and left.

Mokoena sat there for a few seconds, his chin leaning on his left hand. He was in deep thought.

“Do you know that boy Mabunda? His name is Hector. Hector Nkuna. A very smart boy. He is also disciplined and scores high marks all the time. He is an upcoming young man,” said Mokoena.

“Yes I know the boy, a respectful and well-mannered boy. He obviously took after his mother…” replied Mabunda.

“His mother?” asked Mokoena

“Yes. I know his mother, Ntsakisi. A very matured beautiful young woman.  She is so beautiful you would swear the Creator took his time designing her. Not only beautiful but also kind. She relates very well to other people. It is unfortunate that she had to lose her husband at the very early stage of marriage,” said Mabunda.

Mokoena became more alive immediately. Within the twinkling of an eye he had started sweating but tried to contain himself so that his friend never suspects anything. He looked at Mabunda and asked, “You know her mother?”

“Yes, I know Ntsakisi. I know that woman.”

“Oh. Okay. I never saw that coming.”

“Why? She stays around the village. Why should I not know her?”

“No. Nothing. I am just amazed. I never thought you know people around here.”

“Well. I don’t know many people. I know only special people around here.”

“Wow! So tell me my friend, how do you know her?”

“It is a long story my friend, and unfortunately I need to go to class. Do you mind if I narrate the story for you later today after work? We can meet at the tarven and have few drinks as I share it with you.”

“Why not now. I have time.”

“Well. You have time but I don’t have because I have to go to class."

“Okay. Later then. I am looking forward to hearing it.”

“Sure. Trust me it is a very interesting story. You will definitely be proud of me. If you thought Shakespeare was best, then you have not heard my story. I will see you later,” said Mabunda as he stepped out, whistling on his way to class.

Mokoena sat there looking all dejected. One would swear his brain had been extracted from his skull. He looked miserable and hopeless. He was down and his lips were dry. His heart was pounding furiously. He bit his lower lip. He tried to force a laugh, but his lips would not lie. He sat and engaged in deep thought. It could not be. He told himself. He knew he had to face Mabunda and listen to a story that may change his life. Was he looking forward to it? Only him knew.

(To be continued)