Dear Mkhulu
A letter to my late grandfather.
This piece was originally published in my 25th birthday ebook. It is one of my favorite writeups and it brings me pleasure to bring it back here as I try to grow my substack audience. I hope you love it as much as I do.
Mkhulu,
I’m a man now. Well, a young man. Or, at least, my own man. If I could have one more conversation with you, I would ask you a lot of ‘hows.’ Like how you managed this life thing? How did you live up to ninety and still be happy doing it? Not just happy, but ever joyful and content. Ever since I became conscious of this life’s struggles and beauties, you seem to have been above the tides. Almost always. I wonder how?
You sustained a 50-year marriage. Sustained? No, you savoured a 50-year friendship. I can recall all the nights I would overhear your bedroom conversations with Gogo as you both chuckled into the night. Gogo is a great storyteller by the way. I mean that sarcastically of course. She travels around the world only to make a point about, probably, the teacup in her hand. Sometimes, we even forgot where we started, and where the conversation was going but you would take us back.
You would sit for hours in the kitchen, just the two of you, talking, laughing, arguing, singing, and sometimes, just silent. Gogo was there by your side on your deathbed, holding your hand until the last breath you took on this earth. All those years of friendship, from which tree do they fall? Which river should I wash in first so that I may be lucky enough to find the same kind of friendship you had?
I enjoyed the Sunday morning harmonies. Sunday was warm, calm, and probably the happiest day of the week. I loved your deep, almost out-of-breath bass as you sang along to Gogo’s teenage alto vocals. Everyone in the house would join in and make a blissful melody from one of the church hymns. It was beautiful.
You had many children. Also grandchildren and great-grandchildren. You lived to see all of them blossom into cheerful beings. From a young age, you devoted yourself to the cause of evangelism. Travelling for more than 50 miles, on a bicycle, in a suit, to the dusty villages of Nyamandlovu was a mission you happily embarked on in your early years in the ministry. You were unwaveringly blunt and brutal with the truth. The day we sent you off was like a celebration. One would think we were laying the president to rest all because you touched so many lives and changed many too. But how?
The questions are endless, and because you were the closest father I ever knew, it could take me a lifetime to get answers. I have reached a stage where existential questions have become more pronounced. The more I lack answers, the darker the way forward seems. Adulting. My peers and I call it adulting nowadays.
Maybe a better response would be to say, WOW and not HOW. Because, given the realities of this journey, you were kickass. I have sought the way of life—of being a man, being a lover— from many greats who lived even before us. You did not know Socrates, Kant, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, the Stoics, Buddha, Viola Davis, Jordan Peterson, Julius Malema, Trevor Noah, Sjava or Michael Scott, et al. But, to an extent, these don’t hit close to home. They don’t know my story as much as you do and cannot empathize. You only knew Jesus, and that was enough. How impeccable is that? Seriously!
I strived for that simplicity, but I found myself digging more. Reading more. I tend to believe that times have changed. Although, I sometimes use that to excuse my failures beyond my circumstances. I’m grateful though, that I know a hero, closer to home. Who lived for ninety-two years on this turf and managed to make it look easy.
The thing with heroes that are close to home is that they make you believe you can do it too. It’s akin to the successful black men and women who, despite coming from impoverished backgrounds and very humble beginnings, make it to the upper echelons of this life’s portfolios. Those heroes give birth to more heroes and within that frame of reason, you’re the hero that gave birth to me.
As you’d always say, ‘Zamani madoda, Keep trying gentleman.’ I will keep trying to be the hero in the mirror. Your existence taught me a lot. A lot also needs to be unlearned, sadly or fortunately so, because I’m my own man now who needs to carve his own path.
‘Good night, Tomorrow is another day.’ This is what you’d say every night before bed. One day, I hope to tell my kids about how your dreams were sometimes literal visions of the future.
Yours Sincerely
Phiwe, your grandson.
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Until next Monday, Peace and love ✌🏾💖