beads. "It is gift. For you. It is called Krep. It is your son. Your son it is. He is Ndebele now. Protected by the ancestors."
He next presented Dad with a beer. Kgope was the best beer maker in the area. They drank and talked about the hopes my father had for me. When they were finished, Kgope stood, grabbed Dad's suitcase and began packing Dad's clothes.
"What are you doing?" Dad asked.
Kgope didn't stop. " Ubaba makeze ekhaya, " he said quietly.
It took Dad a moment to translate the words: Father should come home .
"Your son spoke to me. Through Krep. It is time for you to go."
And so he did. Dad came all the way home.
To see me.
His only son.
That was not the last of my connections with the Ndebele. Years later my father warned me about the cruelest physical stage all humans endure: puberty. He explained that manhood was a seed Mother Nature had planted inside me. When the time was right, it would grow out of my body. "It's nothing to be frightened of; we evolve. Never fear change."
I was ten. Holding a toy car in my hand, the metal cold against my palm.
Then he told me how the Ndebele take their pubescent males into the bush for two months, shave their heads, circumcise them and train them in the manly arts. This ritual is called the wela . When they return to the village, a celebration is held and they are admitted to the councils of men. As part of their training they learn a secret language in which words are spoken backward. This language may not be divulged to strangers, or even to their own women.
"It's a shame the West doesn't have any traditions like it," my father said. "Such an amazing sight, all those young men, their bald heads glistening in the sun. So proud." Dad promised to lead me through a Canadian version of the ritual upon his return. It would involve a trip to a northern lake, a fishing rod and sleeping bags. Luckily, I had already been circumcised.
"Even the most civilized mind needs rituals," Dad explained. "It soothes the primitive within."
He never got the chance to take me, but when puberty finally grew out of my body, I was unafraid. I knew I was an Ndebele youth taking that next inevitable step toward becoming a man.
About the same time, a doll arrived in the mail, from Kgope. Attached was a note scribbled in English: "Welcome to manhood, Krep."
Krep.
Perk.
A backward sign. A symbol.
I was a man now.
twelve
DREAM WORLD
At 7:50 a.m. our phone buzzed. Mom answered, talking in a hushed voice. A moment later, she padded into my room and presented a note. I read it groggily: Session with Mr. Verplaz. 2:30 p.m.
Mom's face was calm, except for the slightest downturn of her lips.
"I'll be there," I promised.
"I want to know why you weren't there yesterday."
"I—I forgot." Her demeanor indicated she needed more from me. "Mom, everything's so hectic at school. It's Grad Week. It's crazy! I honestly forgot."
"I would prefer if you didn't forget today."
I nodded. She didn't move. "You're too much like your father."
A chill skittered down my spine.
"You're in a dream world," she continued. "Not the real world. You've got to learn to stay grounded and dream. Let your spirit soar but remain in your body. Your father wandered too much in his own thoughts." She let out her breath. "You really should talk to him." Then she left.
I didn't move. She thought I was too much like Dad. I was worried I wasn't enough like him. I closed my eyes, pictured his face. I couldn't remember it perfectly, but I'd try to send him a message. Mom's orders. Hey, Dad, I thought. Hello out there. I wondered how long the message would take to reach him. Ubaba makeze ekhaya. Pronto.
Eventually, I got up. After a breakfast of oatmeal porridge soaked in soy milk, I marched toward my third-to-last day of school. The sun was in the east. Light that had traveled a hundred and fifty million kilometers in eight and a half minutes warmed my skin. A pleasant sensation.
Just as I caught
He next presented Dad with a beer. Kgope was the best beer maker in the area. They drank and talked about the hopes my father had for me. When they were finished, Kgope stood, grabbed Dad's suitcase and began packing Dad's clothes.
"What are you doing?" Dad asked.
Kgope didn't stop. " Ubaba makeze ekhaya, " he said quietly.
It took Dad a moment to translate the words: Father should come home .
"Your son spoke to me. Through Krep. It is time for you to go."
And so he did. Dad came all the way home.
To see me.
His only son.
That was not the last of my connections with the Ndebele. Years later my father warned me about the cruelest physical stage all humans endure: puberty. He explained that manhood was a seed Mother Nature had planted inside me. When the time was right, it would grow out of my body. "It's nothing to be frightened of; we evolve. Never fear change."
I was ten. Holding a toy car in my hand, the metal cold against my palm.
Then he told me how the Ndebele take their pubescent males into the bush for two months, shave their heads, circumcise them and train them in the manly arts. This ritual is called the wela . When they return to the village, a celebration is held and they are admitted to the councils of men. As part of their training they learn a secret language in which words are spoken backward. This language may not be divulged to strangers, or even to their own women.
"It's a shame the West doesn't have any traditions like it," my father said. "Such an amazing sight, all those young men, their bald heads glistening in the sun. So proud." Dad promised to lead me through a Canadian version of the ritual upon his return. It would involve a trip to a northern lake, a fishing rod and sleeping bags. Luckily, I had already been circumcised.
"Even the most civilized mind needs rituals," Dad explained. "It soothes the primitive within."
He never got the chance to take me, but when puberty finally grew out of my body, I was unafraid. I knew I was an Ndebele youth taking that next inevitable step toward becoming a man.
About the same time, a doll arrived in the mail, from Kgope. Attached was a note scribbled in English: "Welcome to manhood, Krep."
Krep.
Perk.
A backward sign. A symbol.
I was a man now.
twelve
DREAM WORLD
At 7:50 a.m. our phone buzzed. Mom answered, talking in a hushed voice. A moment later, she padded into my room and presented a note. I read it groggily: Session with Mr. Verplaz. 2:30 p.m.
Mom's face was calm, except for the slightest downturn of her lips.
"I'll be there," I promised.
"I want to know why you weren't there yesterday."
"I—I forgot." Her demeanor indicated she needed more from me. "Mom, everything's so hectic at school. It's Grad Week. It's crazy! I honestly forgot."
"I would prefer if you didn't forget today."
I nodded. She didn't move. "You're too much like your father."
A chill skittered down my spine.
"You're in a dream world," she continued. "Not the real world. You've got to learn to stay grounded and dream. Let your spirit soar but remain in your body. Your father wandered too much in his own thoughts." She let out her breath. "You really should talk to him." Then she left.
I didn't move. She thought I was too much like Dad. I was worried I wasn't enough like him. I closed my eyes, pictured his face. I couldn't remember it perfectly, but I'd try to send him a message. Mom's orders. Hey, Dad, I thought. Hello out there. I wondered how long the message would take to reach him. Ubaba makeze ekhaya. Pronto.
Eventually, I got up. After a breakfast of oatmeal porridge soaked in soy milk, I marched toward my third-to-last day of school. The sun was in the east. Light that had traveled a hundred and fifty million kilometers in eight and a half minutes warmed my skin. A pleasant sensation.
Just as I caught
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