The Carpenter’s Son

The Carpenter’s Son

Thabani Magubane

Copyright © 2020 Thabani Magubane

Published by Thabani Magubane Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Thabani Magubane using Reach Publishers’ services,

Edited by Lorna King for Reach Publishers

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [email protected]

Cover designed by Thabani Magubane

Contents

Chapter 1 Reflections

Chapter 2 The Real Me

Chapter 3 Per Chance

Chapter 4 Boys To Men

Chapter 5 Drive!

Chapter 6 The Beginning Of An End

Chapter 7 Bittersweet

Chapter 8 The Rude Awakening

Chapter 9 The transition

Chapter 10 Hitting The Ground Running

Chapter 11 Sphiwe

Chapter 12 500 Miles

Chapter 13 Diamond In The Rough

Chapter 14 The New Reality

Chapter 15 Taking Leadership

Chapter 16 The Beginning Of The End

Chapter 17 Ban

Chapter 18 Work Hard Play Hard

Chapter 19 Loose Ends

Chapter 20 Blood And Water

Chapter 21 Louis Vaughn

Chapter 22 Sudden Death

Chapter 23 Bogus Truth

Chapter 24 The Resilient Thread

Chapter 25 Broken Pieces

Chapter 26 Total Wipe-out

Chapter 27 Tick Tock

Chapter 28 Licking My Wounds

Chapter 1

Reflections

I looked through the window and gazed out at the city. I envied the man walking down Skinner Street, pushing what seemed to be a self-made trolley with a garbage sack on it. I wished I could be in his shoes, well, not the pair he had on his feet. What I really wished for was to be as carefree as he was.

I possessed everything any man could ask for: land, houses, cars, money, and the best office view in the city. The only thing I didn’t have was peace. As far as I was concerned, a man in handcuffs had more peace than I could ever have.

The Rolex on my wrist burnt me agonisingly while the reflection of the sun pierced against my cuff links and straight into my eyes. I had been in and out of jail many times, and I never thought anything could be worse than that – especially not my office. How did I get here? I remembered my father so vividly I could almost touch him. His voice was speaking to me in my head, over and over, saying: You have power in your hands, and because of you, the whole world will know me. If I could bring him back to life I would. I would rather have him than all the riches in the world. I understood what it meant to not know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

But of all things I could have rebuked, I never thought I would be a criminal in a tie. My father told me my talent would bring me before kings one day. I just didn’t know it could also be a deadly poison in my hands.

I was only 15 when my father passed away. He had suffered a heart attack in the parking lot at my high school. I only found out the next morning because I had refused to go to the school telephone to take his calls. The doctor later told me he had told him to tell me that he loved me.

It started off as a very happy night for me, but turned out to be the worst night of my life. The hostel had been buzzing as everyone prepared for the prize-giving – at which I was going to receive five awards. Awards I could link directly to my father’s means and efforts in raising me. I was the highest achiever in my grade and I could thank my father for it. He ensured I understood English and taught me responsibility from a very young age.

Attention all learners. Xola Gule to the general office please, a voice said over the intercom. I jumped up to fix my tie as I was preparing to receive my money from the sponsors. "Mxo! Mxo! Mxo!" (nickname derived from Xola) my friends chanted as I swung my school blazer on to my shoulder. No one had received top honours in both academic and sport for the longest time in my school. Now all that was left was the engraving on my DUX student trophy, everyone joked.

My heart almost stopped when I saw my aunt at reception. I looked around to see if any of my school mates were nearby. They could not see who my real family was. I hesitated, but a heavy feeling enveloped me almost immediately. She was accompanied by Mr Hlela, the shop owner and induna (chief) from our community. I could say they all lived down the street, but we did not have any streets where I came from.

"Khehla, kunjani?" (How are you Big boy) my aunt asked. As if it was not enough that she came to my school in tatty, old clothes, she also called me Khehla.

"Ngingu Mxo anti," (My name is Mxo aunt) I responded as my eyes looked her up and down.

We heard you did well this year, and received an award, Mr Hlela intercepted.

Well, yes... I stuttered, I only found out two nights ago. Is that why you’re here? The prize-giving was last night, I said as I pulled back my sleeve to look at my watch.

That’s actually why we are here son, Mr Hlela continued. Your father was so proud of you and could not wait for last night. He received an invite from the school and borrowed money to fix his car so he could come and see you being honoured amongst many who come from better homes. He arrived here two nights ago and slept at the petrol station, saying he could not risk missing your prize-giving.

All so quickly, I remembered him trying to call me, but I said I knew no man by his name. Well, my friends knew a different father, and he could not come that evening because he was out of the country. Where is he now? I asked with a soft trembling voice as my eyes started tearing up.

Mr Hlela held me tight before offering me his handkerchief to wipe my tears. The doctors say he suffered a major heart attack. Sorry, he did not make it.

I felt dead and alive, hot and cold, all at the same time. It was my fault. I’m sorry, I said as I burst into a very sorrowful cry. It’s my fault. No one knew that I had denied my father.

"No Khehla," my aunt reassured. "Many parents would have loved for their kids to do as well as you did. It’s just sad that his time came on your night."

I did not know what was worse: learning of my father’s death or letting my friends know that the man with brown sunglasses in the picture in my wallet was not my father, but a stranger who happened to own the wallet before I picked it up when we had gone to buy wood at a timber store.

Chapter 2

The Real Me

I was born in eMhlangeni, a rural settlement between Vryheid and Nquthu in KwaZulu-Natal. My father made cupboards and ironing boards for a living, and sometimes we would buy fish and chips on our way home from selling at the market. Those were the days when we managed to sell a few items at the market on pay day. But usually we would not sell much, as many people were selling the same items at cheaper prices. Pay day was when people received their government grants, which usually happened at a certain place on a particular day of the month.

I would cry when I saw my father trying to be strong for me and Aunt Nozizwe when things didn’t go well. He was a very good and kind man, and his entire life was about taking care of us. Aunt Nozizwe was my father’s second daughter. My mother was his first born, but she died when I was very young. I remember a few instances where she would bath and dress me up, but other than that I don’t remember her face.

Our neighbours say she died from a terrible illness but my father never wanted to talk about it. I called Sam Mbanjwa my father because he is all I ever had as a father figure in my life. My biological father was always somewhere in Johannesburg but no one has ever known his whereabouts since before I was born. All I remember is that his name was Sipho Timothy Gule. I saw a letter he had written to my mom when I was younger, which I found while Aunt Nozizwe was cleaning my father’s hut. He didn’t want anything to do with me – and according to him, anyone could have been my father.

Like any child I needed a sense of belonging. I think that’s why Sam dedicated his life to parenting me. He did an excellent job, given the fact that his wife – my grandmother – had died just after I turned 11. Paulina – I still remember her well and how much fun it was when she took me with her to work as a cleaner at a nearby secondary school. I remember how she always made fun of my father smoking while his overalls reeked of diesel. Uzoke ushe wena ngelinye ilanga, (One day you will burn) she would tease him.

I attended a primary school in eNceceni which was quite a long distance from our home. These days I drive there from time to time, but I can’t believe how much shorter the road seemed when I was walking it.

Things took a rather swift turn for me when I got to higher primary. Mr Nzuza, our English teacher, thought I was fluent enough in English to be a member of the debating team. Within a few months, I was the best in our school and had won a ruler and school bag in a competition. Later I was in the finals hosted at aMakhwatha, a school in Vryheid. My luck continued when I received a scholarship to attend Vryheid High School.

I was excited when Sam packed my trunk on to the back of the 1400. I had a spot in the hostel and was going to a white school. Not many black kids got that in my time – and definitely not from my village. It was the realisation of a dream I could never have dreamt. However, it was not long before I started realising I was different. I did not fit in well and noticed that as much as many learners were welcoming, I was at the bottom of the pyramid. If it wasn’t someone laughing at my father’s car, it would be about the candle wax on my school blazer. We didn’t have electricity where I came from, but my father made sure I always looked clean and presentable.

Some kids were vocal about how I smelt of cow dung after weekends at home, but Sam told me that that was more reason why I should be proud of what I had achieved. He had also become popular around the school. Well, he did want to be seen. He was very proud of me and always greeted the teachers when he dropped me off on Monday mornings, wearing a dark green and brown jacket, which I believe was from the suit he wore at his wedding. It was puffy and creased because he washed it himself, and it was shiny from the hot iron he used to try and get the creases out with. I must say, proud as I was, these things started to eat away at my self-esteem and I became very reserved.

I was very quiet in class. Too quiet to be normal, and would not speak out or be opinionated. If it had been up to me, I would have preferred to be invisible. Even though I found it difficult to speak out,