LIVE BY DESIGN | The poison of resentment versus the power of forgiveness

Yes, over 20 years ago, I did indeed perform a burial ritual for my father as part of therapy for major depressive disorder. I literally dug a hole in our house in Durban and ‘buried’ him. I didn’t cry when he finally shuffled off the mortal coil. My father was a nasty piece of work. Several weeks have gone by and what was already bad has become worse.

I must have been five years old when I first encountered my father’s toxic behaviour. We were helping him fix the fence. One mid-morning, my mother brought a tray of breakfast. Before she could kneel to set it down, my father exploded, shouting that she was useless and only good for making food. He berated her for bringing food while he was busy. He said worse things, but his usual mantra was: “You all go to the toilet because of me.” Watching my mother, my sole provider, being humiliated in front of her children was unbearable. That day, I realised my father was a monster.

When I turned seven, he refused to let me go to school. My mother tried in vain to convince him, and finally told me I had to do it myself. So, I confronted him and announced that I was going to school. He was shocked and mumbled, “I hear you.” The next day, I went to school. But, oh boy, I wasn’t ready for the fallout. When he came home from work and asked where I was, my mother said I was at school. He blew his top, accusing her of disrespect and reporting her to his elder brother. A family meeting was convened, and my mother narrowly avoided the severe censure of being sent back to her family, instructed to return with her elders and a goat as part of an apology for being deemed a bad wife.

Fast forward to January 1993: I was excited to inform him about my plans for tertiary studies. I had already secured a bursary but still needed financial support. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that he would not help because he didn’t have “endless pots of money” and was preparing to take a new wife instead. He suggested I join the former KwaZulu Police, fully aware that I was a freedom fighter. I left the village with my mother’s help.

In early 1994, he told the family he would no longer pay school fees for any of us (seven children), saying: “Now that iXhosa lenu, Nelson Mandela, is out of prison and you’re all excited, let’s see if your Mandela will pay your school fees.”

He left and never paid for anyone.

He missed all our graduation ceremonies. For me, that was the turning point in our non-existent relationship. I decided enough was enough. However, after I started working, I suffered a mental breakdown and ended up in a psychiatric hospital. A psychologist was assigned to me, and her first question was: “Tell me about your relationship with your father.” I couldn’t believe it. I was seeing this woman for the first time, yet she immediately knew the source of my breakdown. I didn’t cry—I wailed for the entire session. I exhausted my tears for my father that day.

Since his passing, we confirmed our earlier suspicions that he had been sharing his “two-pot” pensions—his old-age pension and work-related government pension—with my nephew, thus contributing very little to the family. My nephew is the only one with an iPhone at home, and subscription to premium DStv. My mother’s pension and my contributions kept our household afloat.

Two months later, we discovered he died intestate, with an investment we never knew about. The paperwork sits untouched. I have no time for a man who disrespected my mother—my “first love”—starved us, hurled obscenities, and, to top it all, fathered four children out of wedlock across Zululand. Honestly, not all deaths deserve mourning. My father’s death isn’t worth my tears, and I want nothing to do with his money.