A Father's Devotion

My father, Nathan, was a man carved from a different kind of wood, one that yielded readily to the needs of others. His devotion to his family, to us, was a palpable thing, a warm hearth fire that seemed to promise unending comfort. He worked a good job, one that paid well enough to ensure that our lives, at least on the surface, were comfortable. He provided. He sacrificed. He was, in every sense of the word, a family man. Yet, even as a child, I sensed the subtle currents that tugged at the edges of our peace, the persistent undertow created by my grandmother and her daughters. They were like skilled weavers, their fingers perpetually busy, interlacing their own desires into the fabric of our lives, always for their own benefit. While my father’s generosity flowed outwards, embracing all of us, their needs seemed to consume everything, leaving little room for anyone else.

I, however, was oblivious to the undercurrents of their manipulations. My grandmother’s place, a sprawling house filled with the scent of old wood and simmering stews, was my sanctuary. Their perceived “evilness,” as I would later come to understand it, didn’t touch me. I reveled in the freedom of those extended stays, the nights bleeding into weeks, then months. It felt like a permanent state of belonging, a different kind of home where laughter echoed more freely and sweets were always within reach. I believed, with the unwavering faith of a child, that they cherished my presence, that my company brought them joy. This illusion, so sweet and so fragile, was shattered by the stark realization that their affection was merely a vessel for the benefits I brought with me – money.

There were days, etched into my memory like faded photographs, when their smiles would twist into sharp words, their kindness evaporating like mist in the sun. Goody things, the special treats my father sent, would mysteriously disappear, only to reappear in the lunchboxes of my cousins. At school, the disparity was starkly visible. Mine held the simple fare my mother packed, while theirs overflowed with delectable surprises. Their pocket money, too, flowed more freely, a constant reminder of the invisible hierarchy that existed within the extended family. My father, the provider of all these things, remained unaware of the selective distribution, the way the bounty he so diligently earned was funneled and filtered, bypassing me and my brothers. I was young, naive, and so deeply in love with them that their perceived slights went unnoticed, their actions easily forgiven. They would speak of my mother with a venom that was both startling and inexplicable, their hatred a festering wound that my mother, by simply speaking the truth about their nature, had inadvertently inflicted.

One December, the usual rhythm of our lives was disrupted. My father was sent away by his bosses for a training program, a period that meant his paychecks would be temporarily suspended. Christmas was on the horizon, a time of joy and new clothes, but the looming financial uncertainty cast a long shadow. He couldn’t afford the festive attire for us that year. In his predicament, he turned to his mother and sisters, a plea for help, a request for them to buy us Christmas clothes. Their response was a chorus of excuses, a symphony of evasions. It was a bitter irony, a cruel twist of fate, that they forgot so easily the previous year. They, who were the ones in need then, had been showered with expensive clothing for their children, a generosity my father had extended without a second thought, without any differentiation.

The strain began to show on my father. The weight of his responsibilities, coupled with the subtle erosion of his spirit by his family’s avarice, started to change him. The man who had once been the epitome of devotion began to stray. Infidelity, a serpent in the garden of our home, began to coil around him. And my grandmother, instead of being a beacon of moral guidance, became an accomplice. She never steered him back, never offered a word of caution. Instead, she actively facilitated his betrayal, even going so far as to approve of him paying lobola for Ntokozo, the woman with whom he was involved. The audacity of it all was staggering. Not only did she condone the affair, but she allowed Ntokozo to move into her own home, a home that my father had, in his misguided generosity, mortgaged our own house to support. My grandmother, the architect of this unfolding disaster, benefited most from the financial windfall. Even when my father retired from his work, the financial benefits, it seemed, always found their way back to her. He was her golden child, the one whose wealth she so eagerly siphoned, or so I had believed.

Life, for them, continued to be a gilded affair. My father’s infidelity became a habit, a revolving door of women who came and went with alarming regularity. My grandmother, however, remained unfazed, her silence a testament to her complicity, as long as her own needs were met. Then, a dark cloud descended. Her two daughters, my father’s sisters, passed away. The steady flow of wealth began to dwindle. My uncle, Amon, a man whose ambition seemed to outstrip his ethics, embarked on a peculiar mission. He began visiting traditional healers, seeking out “get rich quick” schemes, dabbling in the dark arts with the desperate hope of amassing a fortune. He even employed traditional methods, dark rituals whispered in hushed tones, to siphon off my father’s luck and possessions.

The tables, once again, turned with brutal efficiency. My father, once the provider, was now broke, unemployed, and stripped of everything. My uncle, on the other hand, began to shine, his pockets overflowing, his life seemingly blessed with an abundance he had never earned through honest labor. My cousin, Leticia, my uncle Amon’s daughter and the first grandchild, followed in his footsteps, embracing the same dark, traditional route to acquire wealth. Suddenly, our family boasted two wealthy individuals who had never truly worked for their riches. They reveled in their newfound prosperity, hosting lavish ceremonies and parties, their lives a stark contrast to the quiet struggles of our immediate family. We, my brothers and I, were never invited. The chasm between us widened with each passing celebration. Meanwhile, my grandfather had died without ever receiving his pension fund. My father, ever the dutiful son, pursued the claim on behalf of his mother. When the money finally arrived, my grandmother, in a display of profound ingratitude, didn’t offer my father a single cent, not even a perfunctory thank you. Instead, she distributed the entire sum amongst her other children and grandchildren, leaving us, her own son’s family, with absolutely nothing. That day, the scales fell from my eyes. The hurt was minimal, replaced by a stark clarity, a quiet understanding of my true place in her life. Later, she entrusted the remainder of the money to my uncle Amon, to hold for her. He, along with his daughter Leticia, had become the apple of her eye, their every word law, their influence absolute. Even my father, her eldest son, was rendered insignificant, his presence a mere biological fact, his voice lost in the cacophony of their desires.

Then, the inevitable happened. My uncle Amon met a brutal end, his life extinguished by gunshots, a victim of a business deal gone wrong, a hit ordered by his own associates. The wheels of inheritance began to turn, and with them, a fresh wave of conflict. Uncle Amon had left behind five children and two wives, and the ensuing war for his wealth was immediate and savage. My grandmother, her greed reignited, laid claim to everything, declaring that all of it was hers, that Amon, her son, had simply been holding her money. The first wife, however, proved more formidable than anticipated. She secured the entire inheritance, leaving with a new man, leaving my grandmother and Leticia empty-handed and seething.

This setback only fueled their animosity. My grandmother and Leticia, their alliance forged in the fires of avarice, conspired and plotted with the second wife, a desperate attempt to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs. Lawyers were summoned, accusations flew, and the ugly underbelly of their greed was exposed. They went so far as to deny the validity of the first wife’s lobola negotiations, negotiations they themselves had been a part of and had once celebrated. They claimed she had forged everything, their desperation painting them as villains in a sordid drama. In the end, their machinations failed. The first wife and her daughter retained the inheritance, leaving my grandmother and Leticia with nothing but bitter resentment.

With the first wife no longer a target, their attention shifted. The second wife, now deemed useless to my grandmother’s schemes, became the next object of their scorn. The dynamic, so carefully constructed, began to crumble. Every teenager, as they navigate the tumultuous years of growing up, experiments with life, with alcohol. We did, too, except for the so-called golden child, Leticia. But now, a strange reversal had occurred. While my family’s youthful experiments remained a quiet, private affair, Leticia’s indulgence in alcohol, her drinking becoming a veritable brewery, was met with applause and encouragement. They even drank together, my grandmother and her granddaughter, a bizarre camaraderie born of shared habits and a warped sense of celebration. How drastically the tides had turned. Now, it was the two of them, grandmother and granddaughter, against the rest of the world, against us. The insatiable love and greed for money had transformed my grandmother into a mere follower, a shadow chasing the fleeting glow of wealth. Would her gold-digging ways ever change? Would a flicker of humanity ignite within her, or would death, as it always does, be the ultimate separator? She accused me of hating her, but I couldn't hate her. I had simply chosen myself, chosen to distance myself from a love so heavily powered by money, a love that was, in truth, a carefully constructed illusion.

My grandmother allowed Leticia to disrespect my father, a mere child to him, simply because she possessed wealth. Other people's feelings were rendered invalid, their pain unseen. My heart ached for my father, his inability to see the profound wrongs, the blatant injustices his mother inflicted, a constant source of sorrow. Perhaps, I mused, a mother is always a mother, no matter what transgressions she commits. The bond, however twisted, remained. But for me, the illusion had shattered, and I could no longer pretend that the warmth of her embrace was anything more than a cold, calculated embrace of my father's wallet.