Being Chris Hani's Daughter - Ferguson Hani

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Neo Phakama, who was nine years older than me, and my middle sister, Nomakhwezi Lerato, who was two years older. Nomakhwezi would come to be known simply as Khwezi. According to my mother, the births of her first- and second-born were excruciatingly long in labour. She would often tell us that Khwezi was a mother’s nightmare and cried for the smallest of things. So by the time I appeared, Mama was well and truly exhausted. Luckily, I rewarded her by being one of those contented babies who hardly ever cried and slept a lot. I was often told that as a baby I didn’t even mind lying in my own faeces. (Anyone who didn’t know my usually highly attentive mother could easily have put it down to child neglect!) The story goes that Daddy, who lived with us until I was almost two, came home one day and enquired, “How is the baby?” Startled, my mother – who was clearly exhausted, pushed to the limits from having three young children to tend to – jumped up in fright and went to check. She had forgotten all about me. I was happily playing in my crib at the back of the house in my thoroughly soiled nappy. That day my cot was moved permanently into the kitchen.

      Daddy met Mama in 1973, seven years before I arrived. I loved hearing the story of how Uncle Jaoane, Mama’s older brother, played matchmaker. He had met my future dad at a political meeting in Botswana, and when he heard Daddy was off to Zambia, Uncle Jaoane asked him to take a handwritten note to his sister Limpho, who was attending a tourist conference there.

      The story goes that for my parents it was love at first sight. They began dating, even though Daddy was on the move a lot, and within a year they were married. They didn’t have a big wedding; they simply went to a court in Zambia and tied the knot. My parents soon moved to Lesotho along with baby Neo, and Khwezi came along in 1978.

      While my oldest sister Ausi Neo – or Momo, as she was affectionately known in the family – was my protector, Khwezi and I were like two she-cats at war. Due to the big age gap, Momo was often tasked with babysitting the two of us. It was more like having to play referee. Khwezi was the proverbial pain in my young behind. Because she was older than me, she often teased me about not being able to read like she could. When it came to having an argument, Khwezi was superior on every level, winning every debate and dishing out words like blows. She would often mock me by calling me ‘test-tube baby’ – of course, I had no idea what a test-tube baby was, I just knew it must be bad. Her teasing would send me into a flurry of tears, wailing my little head off, asking Mama, “What is a test-tube baby? Am I a test-tube baby?”

      I remember one particular day when Momo was watching over us; I must have been about six. I was enthralled by cartoons on TV when Khwezi came in and snatched the remote. One of her outstanding traits was being a prolific TV-remote bully. Naturally, chaos ensued, with me screeching my little head off. Momo had had enough. She purposefully walked towards Khwezi, grabbed her skinny arm, marched her to the balcony and proceeded to hang her upside down from her feet, all the while telling her that if she didn’t stop bullying me, she would be dropped from the second floor. I stood in shocked awe and, of course, glee that my nemesis might finally be silenced.

      As so many addicts seem to experience, I think I was born with a feeling of being lesser than. I often felt that Khwezi was Mama’s favourite and Momo Daddy’s. I envied Momo because she had lived longer with my father than any of us and he had taught her many exciting skills, like being able to swim. I was never overlooked or neglected, but I definitely had this feeling of being less loved, a complex I would carry with me into adulthood and often use as an excuse to get drunk and high.

      While our mother loved and took great pride in us, she was also very strict; she was notorious for her temper and, like most mothers in those days, didn’t hesitate to dish out smacks. As a weapon of choice, she would grab whatever was in range, be it a dishcloth, a wooden spoon, or even a skaftini. My absolute worst punishment was when she instructed us to “go pick a stick so I can beat you”. This entailed a long, fear-filled walk to the garden to find the right stick. One could not be complacent in one’s own punishment; you had to make sure you didn’t pick some flimsy twig, or Mama would get her own weapon, which would invariably be twice as big and lethal as the pathetic one you’d chosen. But you also didn’t want to make the mistake of choosing the biggest one either, in case she settled for something smaller.

      From the outset, Daddy was totally against smacking. I remember sitting with him one evening, when he asked me how I was doing and, without thinking twice, I told him I’d received a thrashing from Mama. He immediately left the room to speak to her. All I know is that after that conversation we never got another hiding again. Much later my mother told me that Daddy had warned her, “If you ever touch my children again, I will kill you.” The threat from a soldier trained by uMkhonto we Sizwe (MK) clearly worked.

      While Daddy did not believe in corporal punishment at all, in a lot of ways his form of discipline was far worse. He would sit you down, sternly tell you how unacceptable your behaviour was and how extremely disappointed he was in you. His strong words had the ability to cut right to the heart and invariably produced the intended results.

      Although Mama’s whippings stopped, she was also extremely gifted in the area of verbal discipline. We got yelled at a lot. Her go-to admonishment was always how ungrateful we kids were and how hard it was raising us on her own. I learned to backchat pretty early on and so my stroppy self would answer back: “Well, we didn’t ask to be born!” I’m sure those were the times she really wished she could have given me a mighty backhand.

      I was a mischievous child and went through a stage where I loved to play with matches. I’m not sure if I could have been labelled a full-blown pyromaniac but I was clearly fascinated by fire. I could spend hours watching as the orange flame devoured the stick until it almost singed my little fingers. At the very last second, as I felt the heat on my skin, I would unceremoniously drop the match.

      And so the inevitable came to pass … Mama had just installed brand-new wall-to-wall carpets in the bedrooms and, as usual, I was playing with matches in our room when one singed my stubby little fingers. When I dropped it, the flame burned a deep hole in the new carpet. Instead of stopping, however, I thought it a great idea to continue my game in Mama’s room. Shock and horror – it happened again. Now what was a six-year-old girl to do? Well, I did what probably any other little girl would and kept dead quiet. Mama came home from work to find these burned holes in not one, but two of her new carpets. Naturally, my perfectionist mother went ballistic. She called all of us into the room and asked who had done it. Of course, Momo and Khwezi denied it – and I was so terrified that I denied it too. Well, somebody must have done it, said Mama. Still, no one said a word. To my sisters’ credit, they didn’t rat me out. So Mama punished all three of us and we had a good hour, if not more, of tongue-lashing.

      Later, I would grow to understand the stresses our mother must have been under, which helped explain her notorious temper. She wore many caps, from being a single mother – even before Daddy was killed because he was away in exile for so much of our lives – to dodging bombs and bullets, all the while trying to raise three energetic, opinionated girls. She also had the added pressure of having to be a dutiful daughter to both sides of the family. Growing up, I was caught up in my own world, unaware of the burdens she shouldered. As I grew older, I would come to appreciate how extremely fortunate I was in my upbringing because my mother was an excellent homemaker – lawd, she could cook and bake! My favourite day was Sunday when Mama would begin baking treats for the week. There’d be scones, cakes, mince pies and, my favourite, apple pie.

      Birthdays and Christmas were a huge deal in our family. On your birthday you’d be woken up with the whole family singing, treating the birthday girl to breakfast in bed, surrounded by a pile of presents to be opened in front of everyone. To top it off, there was always a big party to which all your friends would be invited. Mama, the gifted homemaker, would of course do everything herself, including baking the birthday cake and making treats like jelly in orange casings.

      Christmas was the same, a huge affair with detailed planning and thorough execution. On Christmas Day we would wake up and run to the lounge to find presents delivered by Father Christmas under the Christmas tree. I remember asking her one Christmas, “How does Father Christmas come because we have no chimney?” Without missing a beat, she responded, “Via the TV antenna.” I was sold.

      Funnily enough, even

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