Dear Deceit: A Short Story by Sihle Kheswa

Chapter I: The Drought

The sun is slowly setting this evening, casting a deep tangerine hue as it sinks into the horizon of the sacred hills overlooking our homestead."Thank goodness the dry season is finally coming to an end", says Makhulu with a deep sigh from her rocking chair. The prolonged creaking of the worn-out wooden seat is just another instrument, adding to the choir of livestock roaming the kraal. Lazy cowbells can be heard from afar. There hasn't been any rainfall in a long time, leaving considerable damage to our soil. The land has turned barren."Amathonga asoza asijikele Makhulu (The ancestors will never forsake us)", I attempt to reassure my grandmother that the rainy season is soon upon us.

It has been 10 months since the village Chief, his Majesty, Inkosi uDlangamandla held a thanksgiving ceremony for the community in an attempt to appease the rain Gods to have mercy on us. Makhulu tries her best to forge a smile and squeezes my hand as she stares into the distance, but the worry in her eye is ever so evident. The roar of a bakkie's engine can be heard approaching our narrow dirt road, packed to the rafters with furniture. As I stand up and walk towards the gate, I immediately recognize that it is the Mntongana family. Time suddenly slows down and the unbearable noise of the old bakkie disappears. Through the passenger door window, she looks at me and bats her eyes gently while smiling.

Our eyes lock, and I quickly take off my flat cap and awkwardly jog behind the utility vehicle, waving at her. The thick cloud of dust swallows up the bakkie as it drives off into the distance. I had only known Cebisa Mntongana for three months, but every conversation we had was warm and lighthearted. However, her over-protective father, Howard Mntongana, would often interrupt our small talk. Mr Mntongana was a well-respected businessman and a retired SAPS investigating officer. We lived in a small village however, I knew very little about him. The Mntongana family owned a mini-supermarket that was conveniently close to my home, but my grandmother, uMakhulu, would always send me to town to buy groceries with her pension funds and the extra money my older brother, Jongikhaya, would send every month.

Despite uMakhulu's instructions not to shop at the Mntongana store, I could not resist. I just wanted to see Cebisa's smile and hear the sound of her long, manicured fingernails clacking against the cash register keys. Her well-moisturized hair is tied up in a bun, with a sterling silver butterfly necklace resting gently between her plump bosom. She spoke softly and eloquently, and her skin was as beautiful as the stretch of gold-sand beach and windswept dunes of the Chintsa River. Where I come from, educated people are showered with an abundance of respect. They are treated like royalty, and in my eyes, she was a Queen. A decorated law student at Rhodes University with good looks to match - I was willing to do anything to get close to her.

From the porch, my uncle, Charles Miya watched as the bakkie drove past and rudely interrupted my daydream with an aggressive yell, "Yey.. Mzwanele! Khawuleza ubuye endlini mfondini (Mzwanele, hurry back to the house!)". I take a deep sigh and slowly walk back into the yard, my legs heavy with disappointment that this may be the last time I see Cebisa, at least until the drought ends. Some fortunate families, including the Mntongana's, were able to temporarily escape the dry spell by relocating to the city. I've heard many stories about life in the city from my older brother, Jongikhaya, who works as an Uber driver in the Grahamstown Central area.

The plan was for me to move in with him once he settled in his 1-bedroom apartment, and then he would help me get a driver's license so I could assist him at work on weekends. Once we saved enough money, he would help me further my studies. Although I wasn't too keen on going to university, it was my gateway to a better life. My brother had bought me a small cellphone so we could communicate, and he calls at least once a week to refine and revise our plan. I often wonder how a herdboy like me, who is used to the stillness of the village, could adapt to the fast-paced life of the city.