BECOMING
CHAPTER 9
MESULI RALA
He stood at the edge of the cattle kraal with his arms folded across his chest, watching the late afternoon sun turn the dust golden. The farm was quiet except for the occasional low from the cows and the distant clatter of workers finishing the day’s tasks. He had not gone into the Port Serenity office for nearly two weeks now. He worked from the small study his father had converted years ago, laptop open on the desk, phone calls with suppliers, emails about crop rotations and livestock sales, but his mind was rarely on the numbers. It was on the boy. His son.
Days had passed since he was discharged from the hospital. They visited Gogo Jonga and he gave them herbs and instructions on what to do from the ancestors. The DNA test results had also arrived three days ago in a plain white envelope from the lab in town. Mesuli had opened it alone on the veranda at dawn; his heart was thudding so hard that he thought it might bruise his ribs. The words were clinical, precise: Probability of paternity: 99.9999%. Kungawo was his son, indlalifa yakhe.
He had known, though, deep in his bones he had known the moment he saw the child’s face but seeing it in black and white made the truth solid. He had sat with the paper in his hands until the sun rose fully, then folded it carefully and placed it in the drawer where he kept his most important documents: his degree certificate, the title deed to the first piece of land he had bought himself, and now this.
The family had reacted quietly, the way they did with things that mattered the most. His mother had cried, silent tears, the kind that came from joy that was too big to speak. She had held the paper to her chest as though it were the child himself. “My grandson,” she had whispered. “My first grandson.” His father had only nodded, a slow, satisfied movement, the kind that carried decades of pride and relief. “The lineage continues,” he had said simply. “The ancestors are pleased.”
Preparations for imbeleko had moved quickly after that. Damages had already been paid to Chulu’s family, traditional negotiations had been held respectfully in her mother’s yard, and money had been transferred to cover past support. Chulu had accepted it even though she felt like she was getting paid to take care of her child, which she did not understand because it was her job. Now, only the ceremony to introduce Kungawo remained.
Him, his father and brother had also chosen a goat they will use. It waited in a small enclosure near the house, grazing calmly. The yard had been swept clean. A new blanket, white and soft, lay folded on the table inside. Impepho and candles had been bought. Gogo Jonga would arrive tomorrow morning to lead the ritual: the slaughter, the naming to the ancestors, the smearing of the child with the goat’s gall, the tying of the umbilical remembrance. Kungawo would be introduced properly. He would belong.
Mesuli turned away from the kraal and walked back toward the house. The past few nights, Kungawo had slept under their roof. It had been his mother’s request, soft, insistent, delivered to Chulu with folded hands and tears in her eyes.
“Let him stay sometimes,” she had said. “Just a few nights. Let him know this place. Let him feel us and get to know us, please.”
Chulu had hesitated only a moment before agreeing. She trusted them, mostly; she trusted Zinzi, trusted Mesuli’s mother’s gentle hands, trusted even Mesuli now, though the trust was still fragile, still growing.
Each evening since he got to know of his son, Mesuli drove to Chulu’s house, collected Kungawo and a small bag of clothes, and brought him back. The boy was quiet, always quiet, but he seemed to settle here. He liked sitting on the veranda with Sonwabile, watching the chickens scratch in the dust. He liked the way Mesuli’s mother sang old lullabies while braiding his hair. He liked the smell of the wood fire in the kitchen.
Mesuli entered the house through the back door. His mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of umngqusho, the hominy-and-beans dish she always made when the family gathered. She looked up when he walked in.
“He’s napping,” she said before he could ask. “In your old room. I put the blue blanket over him. He likes it.”
Mesuli nodded. “Thank you, Mama.”
She studied him for a moment. “You’re quiet today.”
“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” he admitted. “I’m going to ask his mother for permission to change his surname.”
His mother’s spoon paused. “You want him to carry the Rala name?”
“Yes.” Mesuli leaned against the doorframe. “He’s mine. I want the world to know it. I want him to know it. And I want… I want him to have everything I didn’t give him these past five years.”
His mother set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron. She walked over and placed a hand on his arm.
“You’re doing that now,” she said gently. “Every day you show up. Every time you sit with him. Every time you speak to Chulu with respect. That’s what matters.”
Mesuli exhaled slowly. “I still feel like I’m late.”
“You’re not late,” she said. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”
He nodded, throat tight.
Later that afternoon, he found Chulu in the garden behind the house. She came to see Kungawo after delivering orders, but the boy was still napping, and she had stayed to help Mrs. Rala pick spinach leaves. She knelt in the soil now, basket half-full, fingers deft among the green.
Mesuli approached quietly.
She looked up when his shadow fell across her. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He crouched beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. “He’s still sleeping. Mama said he ate well at lunch.”
Chulu smiled faintly. “He likes her cooking.”
Silence settled between them, comfortable now, or at least less jagged than it had been at first.
Mesuli cleared his throat. “Tomorrow… after the ceremony… I want to talk to you about something.”
Chulu’s hands stilled on the spinach. “Okay.”
“I want to ask if you’d consider changing Kungawo’s surname to Rala.”
She looked at him then, really looked. Her expression was unreadable for a long moment.
“I know it’s a lot,” Mesuli continued quickly. “I know you’ve carried him alone. I know the name he has now is yours, and it’s his. But… he’s my son. I want him to carry my name too. I want him to know where he comes from, both sides.”
Chulu exhaled slowly. “I’ve thought about it,” she admitted. “Not out loud, but… yes. I’ve thought about it. He deserves to know both of us. All of us.”
Relief washed through Mesuli so fast he almost swayed. “Thank you.”
She gave a small nod. “We’ll talk more after tomorrow. Make sure it’s right for him.”
“Of course.”
They worked side by side for a few minutes in silence, picking leaves, brushing soil from roots. Then Chulu spoke again, voice softer.
“He’s been happy here. I wonder if he’ll agree to come home with me after everything is complete. The last few nights. He… he reaches for your mother’s hand when she sings. He watches you when you walk past. He’s never done that with anyone else apart from my mom and me.”
Mesuli’s throat tightened. “I want him to feel safe here. Always.”
“He does,” Chulu said simply.
The sun dipped lower. They finished the spinach and carried the basket inside. Kungawo woke shortly after, rubbing his eyes, reaching for Chulu without a sound. She lifted him, kissed his cheek. Mesuli stood at the doorway and watched them, mother and son, the centre of his new world.
That night, he lay awake again, but the restlessness felt different now. Not anxious, only purposeful.
Tomorrow, the ancestors would receive their grandson properly.
Tomorrow, everything would begin to settle.
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