FROM SOLUSI TO STRINGS
CHAPTER ONE
Maleka Charles
“Today is the day.” Tapiwa said, looking contently at Mandla, who seemed preoccupied hook, line and sinker with the morning edition, he bought at the entrance from the newspaper man as they walked into the train terminal.
‘A boy, 12, was shot dead, yesterday afternoon in Soweto, by a shop owner, when he tried to steal a chocolate.’ A newspaper read.
“Some people are heartless my man.” Mandla said, his face indignantly changed as he folded the newspaper and placed it on Tapiwa’s chest. “The boy had no weapon with him but was shot dead!” He continued angrily.
Struck by curiosity Tapiwa carefully unfolded the newspaper as if fearing the contents would fall off the paper, leaving nothing for him to read. He scurried his eyes on the article and shook his head in disbelief. “Yoh, this is terrible!” He said.
The sun had already spanked the Joburg’s CBD to life, casting its thin golden light against the tall buildings of the town, with the funky morning breeze blowing gently onto Gwigwi Mrwebi street, huffing and puffing the beautiful aroma of chissa nyama in the nearest of air.
“Ah, i love the smell of Jozi in the morning.” Said Mandla, taking in the air in his vicinity and breathing out at last. “Today it’s going to be a great day.” Tapiwa said. “Definitely!” Mandla responded.
They were the first to arrive at the train station and no train had slithered in yet, however a small number of commuters was streaming in, in dribs and drabs, each one to their various destinations.
Amongst them was a young man, who walked around selling airtime and other merchandise. “Hay airtime, airtime, airtime!”
Despite his loud masculine shout, he seemed somehow oblivious to these people since not even one paid him attention. For this reason, the young man decidedly moved off to the other side of the station.
“Where is the train.” Asked a woman as she cautiously plumbs onto the bench next to Tapiwa, placing her machangani bag in front of her knees.
“Khotsong.”She greeted.
“Ashe!” Mandla said.
The woman therefore folded her arms and leaned back in silence, the three suddenly plummeted into an involuntary silence, as if all were listening to their meticulous heart beats.
“Isaiah chapter 32 verse 18 says.” The woman finally broke the silence. “God’s people shall be free from worries and their homes peaceful and safe.” She smiled in the end.
Tapiwa and Mandla appeared rather frozen from speechlessness and the inability to move an inch. Could it be that the two were not familiar with the bible? “Do you read the bible boys?” She asked, looking them in the eyes, before she’d retire to a short silence.
“Phendula Mandla!” Tapiwa said.
“Ah wena, ngizothini?” Said Mandla sharply.
“Asinawo ma!” Tapiwa answered feeling a little bit embarrassed.
“Boys let me give you a tip of success.” The woman said. “If you want to be successful in life you must read the bible.”
“Yebo ma.” Mandla said.
“It’s important to read the bible and go to church too.”
The woman also quoted from the book of Joshua chapter one verse eight, telling them that if they read the bible, they’d surely be successful and prosperous in everything they do.
“Find a church boys.”The woman concluded.
Tapiwa and Mandla had not said a dang thing at what the woman had said, except listening to her with frozen motion as if both were grotesque gargoyles erected somewhere in the suburbs of Lombardy East.
“Yoh! Lo mama uya lazi ibaibili, is she a prophetess?” Tapiwa asked.
“Or mhlambe uku mamfundisi.” Added Mandla.
“A! Wena.”
The train had already slithered in and a stream of commuters had consequently pushed their way into the door. The woman stood up from the bench, lifted her machangani bag with great effort and headed for the door.
Tapiwa and Mandla hurryingly brought up the rear.
The door finally slid to a close and the train started off at a snail pace, the coaches noisily lapped the railway away from the station, beneath Mayfair and screeched into distance in the end.
“Ha key a palama sefofane nong la Masopha lesolla
Ke palame fokolodi la thota mahlabe
Lefokolodi ntjare, lefokolodi mahabela dibaka
E tlatsitse diwete potlaki, mabala dithota
Entse e dikgahlapetsa ditsela.”
An old man pushed his way forward from the crowd standing at the door, onto the middle of the coach and immediately burst into a long Sesotho praise poem about the very train.
“Khutsana ho tshwetswe mathe fatshe
Hathwe le mathe la ntshwekge lebelo
Le moo letlang ho ema teng Qai la makgoweng
Ba letse ba le porofeta meqhatatso.”
“Ha! Ha!” burst a voice from the seated commuters, in an attempt to fuel the old man to continue even further. I’m told the old man is a very prominent laureate poet from Lesotho, who used to recite eulogies to the king back in his young days.
“Bacholoko ba di qhetse hoja e laolwa
Ka mechini, koiyoko dikilomitara e dijile
Letswebo tswebo kgahlano le metsotso
E titima hoja tau di bopile
Banna ba maburu ba ebitsaele kgakala
Mohla e kena motebo e seqoqolotsa.”
“Mosia e kena hamper sekgahla, e kena hamper
Enste ele nothisa, e kena hamper e thabetse Majakane
Terene e thapetse tsela.”
This time women were boisterously ululating, while men melodically whistled like wild birds at uTugela river.
“He is mine.” A voice said.
The train was crouching towards Langlaagte, when the old man finally finished his poem.
“Batswana ba etshaba e matha
Batswana ba e tshaba e kgokolotsa matlakala
Kgutsana e chesetsa makgwasa naha.”
“Ebe ene le motokara selai-lai
Motokara bapedi ba etshaba e rehile sefatanaha
Hara thota ke tabola Mosia
Batswana bae palama boloto entse e rora.”
“Bua!” Another voice erupted, this time from a group of people standing at the door all enjoying the spectacles.
“Lekekebe la etheoha setafo e phakathile lekgale
Le mohlang e siyang hae mona etla hloka
Ho romela diposkarete motseng.”
The train boiled into a frenzy, as the old man threw his body on the floor as if possessed by a bellicose demon. The poet then stood up amidst the commotion, and moved seat to seat with his mokorotlo hat turned upside down to collect money for his little performance.
It was a good poem though, and many had asked the old man for more but had refused a great deal.
A rain of coins and notes fell into the old man’s hat with many still praising his work.
“Uya baba Mosia, re phete hape.” A woman said.
“Listen you must come to my daughter’s wedding next week.” She continued, putting a note of twenty rand in the hat.
As soon as the train reached Langlaagte train station and slid its doors open, the old man with other commuters jumped out the train. Tapiwa and Mandla were still taken by his performance; they could not stop marvelling at the old man’s mastery.
Though he was old, his talents seemed not to leave him anytime soon. The two had definitely admired his style, what a ride this has been for them.
