Ithoyizi, or a Boy and His Toy

“What is this?”  The awe in the boy’s voice sounded like the labor of building a thousand grand pyramids.  His eyes widened with the wonder of a newborn fawn seeing her mother for the first time.  His fingers touched the toy with the timidity of a bomb expert deciding whether to cut the red or the blue wire first.

Despite his weakness and tiredness, the boy’s father beamed down upon his son.  He recalled the moment his own father generously gave him this very same toy.  Such a simple gesture, but one full of meaning and purpose.  To understand the importance of this moment, the reader must first understand that the toy was handmade, it was simple, it was a sentimental treasure.  Yet in its simplicity sat the weight of nine generations.  

And now the tenth generation would carry the torch into the future.  

Legend within the family was that this toy carried the spirits of each father who passed it down.  The toy did not just symbolize those spirits.  It was a phylactery of sorts that contained the blessings of each of these beautiful people.

“This,” replied the father with the reverence of a man kneeling before God, “is the ithoyizi.”  As that final word was spoken, a wave of silence embraced the moment in a hug of reflection.  The boy could feel the significance of the moment, so much so that he nearly felt afraid to accept the gift.  “You spend too much time caring for me and taking care of the chores for your mother that you have no time for friends or play.  Perhaps this ithoyizi will remedy that for you.”

As he looked at the toy, the ithoyizi, he slowly moved his soft fingers around the exterior of the aged wood.  His mind began racing with the different games he could play with this toy, but at the same time he wasn’t quite sure how he was to play with it.  The closest I can come to explaining it is that it was like when you first learn to drive a car.  You know all of the great things a driver can do because of those chase scenes you watch, but you don’t quite know how to do any of it yet.  And you are a bit afraid to try.

The father, aged with the wrinkles of a thousand miseries, smiled at his boy so that his graying beard seemed to move like a soft wave.  “Don’t worry, my boy.  You will know what to do with this ithoyizi.  I can see in your eyes that you will care for this toy as you care for me in my old age.”

With that, the old man fell back into his bed - gently, but with an exhaustion the boy could not ignore.  The boy, newly refreshed with the dreams that come with acquiring a new possession, suddenly set those dreams aside and rushed to the reality of his father’s diminishing life.  With the ithoyizi safely on the floor beside the boy’s feet, he grabbed a rag soaking in a bowl of lukewarm water resting on the bedside table.  The father whispered his thanks to the boy as his only son gently laid the rung-out rag on his forehead to ease the heat of the fever.

“Father, please.  Rest.  I will take care of the chores.”

His father could only offer a slight nod.  The boy rose from his kneeling position, and, leaving behind the ithoyizi, he walked away.  

That night, the boy’s father breathed his final breath.  

For weeks the ithoyizi sat upon a bare shelf like a proud lion surveying his pride.  The boy was too occupied with the grief of loss and the grind of daily living to play with the ithoyizi.  How could one play after losing a mentor, a friend, a father?

“My dear, please stop the chores.  I will finish them tonight.”  The boy’s mother yearned for laughter from her boy, who used to smile and feel so much joy.  Her heart broke for him, and she wanted nothing more than to see him play again.  

“It’s okay, Mama.  You have enough to do.”

“No, my dear.  Go.  Tonight you should do the things other boys do.  Explore.  Play.  I need these chores to cure my restlessness anyway.”

The boy wanted to argue, but he heard the strength in his mother’s voice and understood to argue would be to disrespect her.  He would not allow himself to disrespect his mother, and so he walked away.

The boy entered the room in which sat the ithoyizi.  He glanced at it is all.  But that glance was enough.  His boyish mind, so loose with attention, suddenly replaced his thoughts of grief and stress with those hopes and dreams.  Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy gently grabbed the ithoyizi and ran outside to play with it.

Playing in his yard with the ithoyizi was at first difficult.  The boy did not know exactly how to play with it.  But boys are boys, and children are children.  Their imaginations tend to develop unique storylines and opportunities.  The ithoyizi seemed to provide the boy with ideas, answers, and ways in which to play.  It was calling out to the boy for new games that could be invented.

Suddenly, a neighbor child was walking by and noticed the boy with his ithoyizi.  This neighbor child had never seen a toy like this, but it was intriguing.  Children have few issues with walking up to a stranger and asking to join in the game, and so this neighbor child did exactly that.

The boy accepted his request and the two began playing, inventing, and imagining with the ithoyizi together.

And his mother, spying from the window, smiled a genuine smile before turning back to her chores, which she happily did.

Years later, the boy became a man.  He would tell you that losing his father was hard.  Seeing his mother work extra was hard.  Taking on the responsibility of caring for his mother was hard.  Life was, or rather is, hard.  But having his ithoyizi reminded him that even in times of grief there are moments of great joy.  He learned that with sorrow comes lessons and opportunities for happiness.  It is important to not place your happiness and memories and joy upon a shelf to collect dust.  

You must take them off the shelf and play with them.