BECOMING
CHAPTER 4
MESULI RALA
The sweat trickled down my temple as I gripped the steering wheel, the road to Entabeni stretching out like an endless ribbon of red dust under the merciless sun. My truck rattled over the potholes, each bump sending a jolt through my aching body. I’d been feeling weird for what felt like forever now, weeks turning into months of this nagging unease that I couldn’t shake. It started as fatigue, the kind that wraps around you like a heavy blanket, making every movement a chore. But lately, it had escalated into something more sinister: headaches that pounded relentlessly behind my eyes, nausea that hit without warning, and a weakness in my limbs that made me feel vulnerable, exposed. At 31, I was supposed to be in my prime, not crumbling like this.
As the eldest child in the Rala family, I’d always carried the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. Born first, I grew up watching over Zinzi and Sonwabile, my two younger siblings. Zinzi, three years my junior, was the firecracker, always bold, always laughing, dragging me into her schemes when we were kids. Sonwabile, the baby at 23 now, was quieter, more introspective, but he’d look up to me like I had all the answers. From the time they could walk, I felt this instinctive need to protect them. Whether it was chasing off bullies in the village schoolyard or helping Zinzi sneak out for parties without tata knowing, I was their shield. Even now, with Zinzi running the family store and Sonwabile helping on the farm, that protective urge lingered. I’d call them weekly from Port Serenity checking in, making sure they were okay. “Bhuti, you’re worse than tata,” Zinzi would tease, but I knew she appreciated it. Family was everything, the Rala name meant strength, unity.
The family farm came into view, its vast fields a testament to generations of hard work. Our specialty was livestock: pigs, cows, sheep. We raised them fat and healthy, selling to big companies, abattoirs in big cities, exporters to International countries. The animals were tata’s pride, but I’d expanded us into crops. After high school, I’d gone to Entabeni College for a BSc in Agriculture. Those three years were grueling, lectures on soil science, pest management, sustainable farming, but I thrived. The campus was just outside the village, close enough to help at home on weekends. I graduated top of my class, degree in hand, dreams big as the African sky.
Tata had been waiting. “Nyana,” he’d said that day, clapping me on the back, “time to build your own path.” He gave me seed money, R50,000 from the farm savings, to start the crop side. Maize, sunflowers, beans. I planted my first field that season, watching the green shoots push through the earth like promises. Now, at 31, that side business had grown into a full operation, integrated with the livestock. We rotated crops to enrich the soil, used manure from the animals as fertilizer. It was efficient, profitable. But success came with its own pressures.
And then there was the personal side. At 31, I still didn’t have a wife or even a steady girlfriend. Port Serenity was full of women, smart, beautiful, ambitious, but nothing stuck. A date here, a fling there, but my heart was always half in Entabeni, tied to the land and family. Tata often pressured me when I was at home. “Mesuli, when will you bring home umolokazana? The ancestors expect heirs.” I’d laugh it off, say I was focused on the business. But it stung. Zinzi teased me about it too: “Bhuti, you’re going to die an old bachelor with only cows for company.” Sonwabile was quieter, but I saw the worry in his eyes. They all wanted me settled, stable. Maybe I did too, but the right one hadn’t come along. Or perhaps I hadn’t let her.
The headaches had started around then, coinciding with another failed relationship in the city. Coincidence? Maybe. But now, as I pulled into the driveway, the sickness felt like a reckoning.
I killed the engine and sat for a moment, gathering strength. The homestead loomed welcoming, two stories of solid brick, verandas shaded by jacarandas, the richest in the village. Cars gleamed. I stepped out, legs wobbly, and made my way inside.
Zinzi was the first to greet me, bounding from the kitchen with a dishcloth in hand. “Bhuti! You’re home early. How was Port Serenity?”
I hugged her, her energy a contrast to my drain. “Tough, sisi. Deals went through, but I’m beat.”
She pulled back, eyeing me. “You look pale. Sit down.”
My parents were in the living room, having a conversation. “Mesuli,” my mother said, standing to embrace me. Her grip was firm; mine felt weak. “What’s troubling you?”
I sank onto the couch, rubbing my temples. “I’m sick, mama. It’s been building for months.”
I told them everything, the fatigue, the nausea, the headaches. Then the collapse. It had happened at work, mid-negotiation for a new crop contract. One second I was standing, the next the world spun, and I hit the floor. Paramedics, hospital tests, blood work, scans, the works. The doctor shrugged: “Nothing wrong. Stress, perhaps.” But I didn’ t tell them, I didn’t want to worry them.
Mama’s eyes widened. “Nothing? Mesuli, you collapsed!”
“I know.” The nausea surged again, and I swallowed hard. “It’s worse now. I need answers.”
My father nodded. “We’ll see Gobela. Today.”
We drove in silence, the Land Rover kicking up dust. The village passed by, kids playing, women chatting. Gobela’s rondavel appeared, smoke rising.
Inside, the ritual unfolded. Gogo scattered bones, chanted. Then: “Izinyanya zifuna umzukulwana wazo. Hambolanda unyana wakho.” [The ancestors want their grandson. Go and fetch your son.] He’s closer, he’s around the village.
Shock hit me. I had never slept with anyone in the village
We left, my mind reeling. A child. My child. The sickness pressed harder, but now I had a path.