I don’t keep my skeletons in a closet, I keep them in a suitcase. It’s much easier to flee with a suitcase in hand when the authorities come. This way you can run away with your evidence. This is why I prefer suitcases.
When I lived in Cape Town, a friend of mine used to keep his condoms in his suitcase because he was too embarrassed to keep them anywhere near where his elderly cleaning lady would see them. From what he told me I gathered that she was too old to be the same age as his mother, but too young to be his grandmother’s age. She was that age in African culture that doesn’t permit you to tell her what to do, even though she works for you. I digress, as usual. I blame this on my short attention spa…
Mine, the suitcase that is, has a far more interesting story than condom storage. It had been stolen or lost and I found it under the most unbelievable circumstances — worthy of an episode of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
The suitcase in question was my mother’s pride and joy. She was proud of a lot of things she had, but this suitcase was rarely used. It was used on special occasions, for special trips, much like the special cups, plates and cutlery that only ever saw the light of day when there were super-special visitors. When I left Mdantsane (a township just outside East London, famous for producing boxing champions, the likes of Welcome Ncitha, Bungu and others) many years ago to go study advertising in the bustling metropolis of Cape Town in the Western Cape, she gave it to me. There was no need to lecture me to look after it because I knew how she loved it.
Cut to two years later when I had to leave it in my church for safe keeping until I could find new accommodation.
One day, after many months I went back to the church to collect it from storage. It was not there. The rapture perhaps? I wondered. I was assured that no rapture had taken place. No one knew where it was. It had mysteriously vanished in the Bermuda Triangle of the church. I assumed it had either been stolen or had disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle of Christian generosity – with other people’s stuff. I figured someone saw a suitcase filled with clothes and decided to give it away. My heart sank. What would I tell my mother? I was not worried about the clothes. I was worried about the suitcase.
For the next year, whenever I went home my mother would ask me where it was. I would tell her it was in Cape Town, of course I never told her I didn’t know where in Cape Town. I think she knew something had happened to it.
It was a dark, stormy Saturday night. Seriously. It was a dark and stormy night the day before I found it under the most unbelievable circumstances, Steven Spielberg couldn’t come up with a story line like this. It was dark, because that tends to happen at night. Stormy though is not something that happens that often at night. The winds howled, branches snapped off trees, dogs whimpered in the unusual weather. Little did I know that when I woke up the next day I would find my long-lost suitcase.
As I was getting ready for church that Sunday morning I got an SMS informing myself along with all the members of my church that there would be no service that morning. There had been a tornado that had ripped people’s homes apart in Manenberg and Gugulethu. It was our duty as members of the church to help people move their belongings and give clothes to those who had lost everything. And so, I went to my wardrobe and put on my Sunday worst. I could foresee a lot of physical labour ahead. Off I went for my Christian duties.
To cut a long narrative short, after moving furniture and rubble from four affected homes I was summoned to a fifth house. It was in this house where I would find the long-lost suitcase. Perhaps I should narrate this part in the present tense.
I step into the typical township four-roomed RDP house with a sense of purpose, if not a little tired from the manual labour I had just endured. The first thing I see in this humble home, which had been humbled even further by nature’s unforgiving force, are three broken bricks on a dented wet stove. Where the roof used to be is a blue innocent sky, pleading not guilty. My eye sees something familiar in the bedroom. It is a bedspread. It looks remarkably like the one I used to have. What are the chances, I think to myself. But, right next to the bed is my mother’s suitcase. It is soaking from last night’s rain. I say nothing. I help move various items out of the house to an unscathed neighbour’s house. My mind starts working.
Dilemma. What do I do? These people have just lost their house, what do I do. I summon some courage and ask to speak to the owner of the house. Her face looks like it has aged in the hours after the tornado even though I’ve never seen her. As I speak to her she almost doesn’t even see me. All I see are the many questions on her numb face. Where am I going to sleep? Where will my children sleep? How am I going to repair my house? She turns to look at me with her heart-broken eyes. As I begin to speak to her I can feel my eyes well a little. How do I tell her I want the suitcase after she has just lost everything? I tell her that the duvet is mine and so are sheets and so is the brown suitcase. She looks at me, for the first time, she sees me. “My son got that suitcase and what’s in the suitcase,” she says.
I tell her calmly that it is my mother’s suitcase, I don’t mean anything bad by it. Her eyes accuse me of accusing her son of being a thief. Her son walks in. He is wearing my clothes. I don’t know how you got it and I don’t want to know, it is not something we can discuss now. I tell her she can keep everything all I want is the suitcase. She says fine, prove it’s yours. She is a tough woman even under these circumstances. I open a secret compartment within the case and extract photos of me and my family. She looks at me sheepishly and gives her son a look only a disapproving mother can give. I unpack whatever is in the suitcase and I take it with me. Guilt-ridden but at least I had my mother’s suitcase.
My mother still doesn’t know that it took a tornado for me to find her suitcase. I keep it in the closet now. It is the skeleton in my closet. I guess not any more now that it’s a blog.
khayav@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter but be warned, I won’t lead you anywhere
Now you’re in even worse trouble, because you’ll have to admit to your mum that you lied all those times when she asked where the suitcase was! And don’t think you’ll get away with your little loophole! Siyabazi omama. Abadlali kanjalo! LOL!!!
Loved the story. I read a lot of whining and b***ing so once in a while a funny story will do!
nice 1! eish the things that our mothers give us and we keep in our closets, I can certainly count a few!
wow! loved how you put on “your sunday worst”
brilliant… can’t tell you how relieved I am… I kept thinking you’d say you gave it to the woman LOL. Well done.. its an incredible story. and incredibly told 
But does your mother read your column?
If I was so talented as to write/blog as you do, I would have made the cardinal error or proudly showing my mother the blog. And knowing her, she would then have made every effort to get to a PC to read my blog, or would have asked someone else like my sister to watch for my submissions and print them for her. And the printouts would now be kept, no treasured, in another suitcase in her house. And one would be added from time to time…
Until THIS one. Khaya, phone your sister! Intercept this submission! NOW!
Nice one Khaya. Beautiful story bro. I remember when you found my sunglasses in Grahamstown’s Highway Africa two years ago. I’ve forgotten the glasses but your returning them I still remember.
I remember that like it was yesterday
Linda
Different from your usual posts and yet still refreshing. I like.
Your mother would be proud of you whatever the circumstances. You need not fear her for you have walked through the valley of dea
I had a backpack stolen from my garage once in Durban. It was the best pack I ever had – went up mountains with it, traveled the world etc. every time I am in Durban I still hope to see it on someones back so I can run them down and reclaim it. Its an obscure Canadian company so one of a kind in Africa. sigh. No hurricanes to my rescue though.
That was a wonderful, touching story, a reminder of all the things that are most important in life.
But it also seemed akin to a typical SA urban legend…
My son still has his grandfather’s suitcase; I still have the one (it weighs a ton) with my name engraved into the hard outer casing, that came out ‘steerage’ with me from the UK in 1959.
I threaded some old buttons on a line to count the laps I’ve swum each day (you know what they say about short-term memory and age). I was amazed that the kids at the pool were not only fascinated, but nicked it! I’ve always assumed all families have a tin of old buttons for in-case moments. Our Jolly Jammer tin, an old stocking filler for my son, holds more memories than any patchwork quilt ever could.
“….The rapture perhaps? ….It had mysteriously vanished in the Bermuda Triangle of the church……the Bermuda Triangle of Christian generosity – with other people’s stuff…”
LOL…hai uyahlekisa mfowethu…
The ending is aboslutely cool……classic…
I have heard urben legends before, but this isnt one of them. Its believeable…kinda.
“..It was a dark, stormy Saturday night. Seriously. It was a dark and stormy night…” Buahahahahaha…..u are the man!
Am in the same predicament, when I left home this year for varsity my mom gave me her favourite suitcase. And now I have to go back home and the precious thing is broken. Eish I dread her reaction.
@ Alto I told mom the story. She loved it. She wants me to print it for her.
WOW, quite a heartwarming blog Khaya!
Glad you found your dear mom’s suitcase again. If she does read your blogs then I’m sure she’ll love this one.