Mr. Fasana: A Novella

Chap[ter 2

After two years of living in a white community in the United States of America, Sophie Khumbule returned to South Africa in 2002. Of course, during this two-year period she had made numerous visits back to the country, but this time she was back for good. Her next project now that she was back in the country, she had planned, was to go and observe a traditional system run by a certain man in Mpumalanga. She had made initial contact with the man two years back, the moment she had just landed in the U.S.

‘Who is calling?’ Mr. Fasana had asked when his wife had sent their daughter, Nokuphila, to go tell him that there was somebody on the telephone.

‘We will have to discuss the budget next time you are home,’ Mr. Fasana had said to Mpiyabo, leaving Nokuphila and Mpiyabo as he went to attend the phone.

‘Who is calling?’ Mr. Fasana had asked his wife upon entering the house finding his wife in the living room.

‘Sombody important,’ Mrs. Fasana said. ‘Somebody big; I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Mr. Fasana picked up the phone handle with his left hand, placing it on his left ear.

‘Good morning,’ he had heard the woman say. ‘May I speak to Mr. Fasana, please? My name is–’

‘Listen lady,’ Mr. Fasana had said. ‘If you do not know the time, oblivious to the fact that every man with cows is just about done locking them up, frankly I do not see any reason to know your name or even wish to hear the reason you are calling. Goo–’

‘Before you hang up the phone,’ the lady had said. ‘I should inform you that I am placing this call from the United States. And while you are still on the phone, I wanted to request that for my next project, I would love to come and observe your initiation school.’

The alarmed Fasana said: ‘American lady, you actually have the nerve to think I would sell my people’s secrets.’

‘Mr. Fasana, there is no need to think about this now,’ the lady had said. ‘I have just arrived in the U.S. this week. I will be here for a year. My job is to document culture. I am in America, yes, but I am no American woman. I am actually South African. I am affiliated with the Department of Modern Culture in Pretoria. My name is Sophie Khumbule. I will be in touch to tell you more about my work. It was lovely talking to you. Good evening.’

‘That was not a good call, was it?’ Mrs. Fasana had asked, as she observed her husband’s face. ‘These big people have a way of making us sad.’

‘Modern culture!? The woman said something about modern culture,’ Mr. Fasana had fumed. ‘What makes them think this is modern culture? We have been practicing this tradition for thousands of years. It is not modern; it is tradition. It is old. Has always been old; has never been new.’

‘Right,’ Mrs. Fasana had said, and asked whether he was ready to have supper.

Mr. Fasana had said that he had been disturbed while in the middle of an important discussion with Mpiyabo.

‘About?’ Mrs. Fasana had asked. ‘About the initiation, right?’

‘About our daughter,’ Fasana had said. ‘I was thinking if she can go stay with her brother, he might be able to get her a job at the company he’s working.’

‘You have always wanted the kids to stay here. Are you sure you are telling me everything?’

‘That tramp boyfriend of hers is no good for her.’

‘Right,’ Mrs. Fasana had said. ‘So, it was never about the job? It was never about her, but all about you, men.’

‘Where are you going with this?’ Mr. Fasana had said.