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Being Chris Hani's Daughter. Ferguson Hani
Читать онлайн.Название Being Chris Hani's Daughter
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781920601850
Автор произведения Ferguson Hani
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
The morning was already warm in Maseru, despite the fact that winter was on its way. As we were getting ready to catch the mid-morning feature – along with Teboho, Nomathemba’s older brother, who’d decided to invite himself along – my sister Khwezi’s best friend, Palesa, and her father Ntate Maieane appeared at the door. Mr Maieane looked frantic; he immediately asked where my mother was. No one had a cellphone back in ’93 so you could sometimes search the entire town before finding who you were looking for. I offered to pass on a message, but Mr Maieane insisted he needed to speak urgently to my mom, face to face. Not wanting to appear rude, I suggested he try the hair salon. But time was ticking on and we still needed to finish dressing.
I hated missing the beginning of a show, that swelling in my heart that something extraordinary was about to happen, as the lights dimmed just before the titles came up. And at this rate we would be lucky to make it in time for the end credits!
But my irritation was forgotten as we cracked jokes, finally weaving our way through the dusty streets of Polo Ground, kicking stones, taking short cuts through the houses. Then Teboho suggested we go past the Maieane household, which was right along the way, to ask Mako, his best friend, to join us.
As we approached the house, I immediately noticed my mother’s Opel Rekord parked in front. I should have told Mr Maieane to try looking for her at his own house! I vaguely remember Teboho saying, “See, your mum is here! If you’re so worried about us being late, maybe she can give us a lift.” Knowing my mother, I responded, “Yeah right.”
As I opened the gate, my cousin Pali rushed out to us, her eyes streaming with tears.
Other people began to emerge from the house. Confused, I searched desperately for my mother’s face in the small crowd. The moment I saw her eyes, I knew something bad had happened. As she made her way unsteadily towards me, pale and bewildered, she did not look herself. For a moment my heart stopped.
And then those words: “Your father’s been shot.”
In the long echoey silence that followed, my mother’s words had no meaning.
“Which hospital is he in?” My voice was small. My thoughts racing. How bad was it? Where was he shot? How?
“No,” my mother made herself clear, “Daddy has been shot dead.”
More words. Echoing across the silent, empty sky.
Dead?
Nothing made sense as I was bundled into the back seat of our car. Malome Jaoane, my mother’s brother, was behind the wheel, my mother in the passenger seat in front. It was deathly still.
Dead. My father was dead?
I vaguely recall driving past a series of houses to collect our belongings before we left for home. Everything was a blur, moving in slow motion. Inside I was completely still.
Dead. The word kept circling through my mind, holding my thoughts hostage. I knew what dead was but surely not Daddy? Not Daddy.
He had survived so many attempts on his life. Like the car bomb from which he escaped in Maseru in 1980, the year I was born, and all the others that followed. He was stronger than anyone else in the world. He was a giant. There must have been some mistake. How could this be true? My head wrestled with itself, refusing to believe the power of that four-letter word. Dead.
The silence almost swallowed us as the car ate the tar on the long drive back to Joburg. My mother’s absolute stillness was unbearable. I wanted to scream, shout, cry. But I said nothing. Perhaps it was a mistake? All we had to do was get back to Dawn Park and my strong, beautiful daddy would be there to greet us.
On the drive I vacillated between wanting desperately to get back home and choking with dread by what we may discover on our arrival. Perhaps if we didn’t return to our Dawn Park home none of this would be true. My mind kept thinking of my 15-year-old sister, Khwezi, at home all by herself. How had it happened? Where exactly? I had so many questions, but my voice failed me. I couldn’t talk. Just that word … Dead. Whirling round and round in my head.
I thought of my sister discovering my dad, sitting alone with his body. All I wanted to do was see her. If I could just talk to her, I would know that there had been a mistake. That none of this was true.
But the kilometres through the darkening mountains stretched endlessly ahead.
Still no one spoke. Just the gospel tape that played our favourite soundtrack:
‘Just another talk with Jesus, tell him all about your troubles.’
To this day what sticks out most for me on that drive is that song.
Cold reality hit when we pulled into the cul-de-sac in Dawn Park; the car could hardly weave its way through the street lined with people. They stood shoulder to shoulder, sombre sirens, their voices stretching across the dying sky of that Saturday afternoon.
Hamba kahle, Umkhonto weSizwe
Thina bant’ abamnyama siz’ misele ukuwabulala wona lama bhulu.
(Rest in peace, Spear of the Nation / We, black people, have dedicated ourselves to killing the Boers.)
Years later, when I recall that day, I clearly remember those shell-shocked crowds of ordinary people, standing stiff like soldiers, bidding farewell to their commander as they shouldered both sides of the street with stoic dignity and military precision.
As we made our way towards the driveway I saw the yellow police van. The dread inside my heart grew deeper.
The noise, the chaos, overwhelmed me as I was helped out of the car like an old cripple. I saw the blood as I struggled through the throngs of people, searching for my sister Khwezi. When I eventually found her, no words were needed. I could see it in her eyes: Daddy was dead.
The tears I had stifled all this time finally burst free. They were tears that would crash from my heart and that of the nation’s for many years to come – bereft of our father and leader.
That night Khwezi and I huddled together in the bedroom. She kept repeating that it was all her fault, that if she hadn’t been on the phone, Daddy wouldn’t be dead. I tried to comfort her, saying, “Well, you would be dead too … He wouldn’t have hesitated in shooting you too.”
That night ‘he’, my father’s killer, was still the unknown, the dark shadow, the Bogeyman. It would be many days later before I would comprehend that it was a mere mortal who had slain my father, my giant.
One hears about how a day can change a life completely. The day Daddy died was to change mine forever.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Lindiwe Hani
I guess the best place to start a story is at the beginning. My name is Lindiwe Hani. I was born on 27 December 1980 to Limpho and Thembisile Hani. My father was also known as Chris. My parents named me Lindiwe, which in isiXhosa means ‘the daughter we have waited for’. In that year – a leap year – the world’s population sat at 4 434 682 000, the Voyager 1 space probe confirmed the existence of a moon of Saturn that was to be named Janus (or Janusz) – how’s that for prophetic – and Robert Mugabe was elected president of Zimbabwe.
I made my grand entrance into this world in the small village of Roma in Lesotho, at around 6pm. Apparently I slipped out of my mother’s womb after a mere two hours of labour. I grew up hearing my mother tell of how my birth was by far the easiest of all her three girls. By all accounts, from those who knew me, this easy birth set the stage for me to shine as a sweet, lovable toddler.