Moment of truth

Sweating, nervous and part unsure of himself, Mike hung up the phone. The specter of being disowned hung over him like a dark cloud. He was left to wonder if his mother meant it or not. Hysterical she might have been, but she did not normally mince her words. And no matter how deep her love for her first born, her one and only son-he knew she meant every word she said.

Before it became the sole mission of his life, creative art was a mere past-time. Paintings, sculptures and drawings had been objects to admire, rather than the personal obsession they had become. Individual moments demanded that the sway of his brush capture them, and out of nondescript stone he saw tales awaiting telling.

More than a passion, there was no doubt that this was his high calling. Albeit a calling that threatened to tear his world apart.

His mother thought he had gone mad. Every time she looked at him, he could sense her disapproval and disappointment. Like his father before him, and his grandfather before him, Mike had been trained to work the family land. Year after year he had been raised to toil in the fiery heat and dusty loam soil of the vast cotton soil. It was their way of life in Gokwe.

More than half a century of history preceded him. His grandfather, Elijah Mbanga, had arrived a stranger to the land. The lure of a plot of land extending as far as his eyes could see drew him to Gokwe. The promise and the descriptions had not done justice to the reality he found on the ground. The plot was immense, and for his every bead of sweat, it rewarded him richly.

Colonized Zimbabwe may have been, but the Mbanga’s were servants to no man. Producing truckloads of cotton each year, their family was the pride of Gokwe. A successful black family challenging the myth of inferiority and daring a community to believe in the power of planning, hard work and perseverance. Though not imbued with the burden of chieftainship, they had come to be treated with the honour and reverence only reserved for these men.

But for all their success on the cotton field, life had dealt them with a series of cruel blows. Though he married twice, his grandfather had managed to sire only one child and heir. Even then, the rumours were rife that Johan, Mike’s Father, was a bastard child.

Mike’s father had taken to the land like a duck to the water. Cotton farming to him was more than agriculture. It was a form of art-a dance with nature until she yielded vast plains of the white gold. What had begun as a way of life with Elijah became a family tradition with Johan. Where his grandfather had no children, his father was littering the world with his illegitimate offspring.

No less than four women did he impregnate and turn back to their families. Such was the culture, and such was the power he wielded in 1970s Gokwe. How Mike’s mother had managed to get him to settle down was a mystery. From playboy to family man, he made a seemingly seamless transition. And having watched them from the time he grew up, Mike suspected it was the love for the fluffy white earth-bound miniature cloud like blooms that brought them together.

Working together on the fields, they seemed to inspire each other to even greater heights. It was not unheard of for them to spend an entire day without eating out in the fields. Planting, inspecting, supervising the day labourers all seemed to come naturally for them. The esteem of job providers that came with it, they seemed to bear with an inborn grace. A grace that Mike now realised he had never quite possessed.

The cross of being an only child was a double-edged sword, a raging sea of uncertainty. From being the centre of the world and the focus of adulation in one moment, to bearing the burden of carrying the family name forward it was a vortex of conflicting expectations. Mike had always loved the attention, and the often-unexpected sweet treat it would bring when he was growing up. Now, all that seemed forgotten. All he knew was that there was a family name to take forward. A reputation for farming that awaited him to honour. A reputation for which his own mother was willing to disown him.

…

Summoning the courage to call his mother about the scholarship had not been easy. In secret, he had applied to the University of Rhodesia’s college of the arts. His supporting credentials, a portfolio of paintings and drawings that so far only his eyes had seen. A portfolio crafted in secret between his lessons in high school and in between the necessity of tending to the fields.

He was surely the luckiest man alive he thought. To be accepted into college for such a wild punch. The promise it held for him was more than he had ever dared to dream. Finally, a place where he could freely express himself and share with the world the beauty he often saw hiding in plain sight. Finally, a life where his eccentric interests would be celebrated and not cursed. It was the lure of this freedom that gave him the courage to overcome his fears and tell his widowed mother that he would be going to college to become an artist.

Father had been killed recently, caught in the crossfire of guerrilla freedom fighters and Selous Scouts whilst out in his cotton field. His mother had been too ill to go to the fields that day-brought down by a case of the flue. He remembered the day he died vividly in his mind, and if anything, that had strengthened his resolve to not be a farmer. When the sound of gunfire had ripped through the night silence, he and mother had sought refuge underneath the matrimonial bed.

Both the guerrillas and the Selous Scouts had a reputation for ruthlessness. Rape and murder were the least of your worries if they thought you were a scout. The only place hidden, the only place dark enough and quiet enough for them to both hide had been the dark, musky area underneath the bed.

Long after the gunfire had ceased, his mother had clung to him with all her strength. Partly in terror for her life, and partly as an instinctive reaction to protect her “baby” as she would often refer to Mike. Each moment that passed without father returning had seemed ominous. And when morning came and he did not arrive, they silently feared the worst.

A tear formed in his eye as Mike remembered the moment he had discovered the lifeless, bullet ridden body of his father in the fields. Once the very epitome of health and vigour, now a mere ragdoll bloodied and bruised; a father and a pillar gone in one fell swoop. The image found a new way to tear through his heart everytime he remembered it. Were it not for the refuge of his art Mike knew he would have lost his sanity and possibly his life too.

 Taking another look at the receiver, Mike knew what he had to do. Adding the last coins in his wallet to the slot, Mike retrieved a torn wad of paper from his trouser pocket to make one last call. He had decided and it was time to let the university know. His mother may be able to deal with the loss of her husband he thought; but to lose her son too would probably break her forever.

It was not an easy decision, but Mike knew that for his and her sake, he had to go to college.