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TREVOR, PRAY
I grew up in a world run by women. My father was loving and devoted, but I could only see
him when and where apartheid allowed. My uncle Velile, my mom’s younger brother, lived
with my grandmother, but he spent most of his time at the local tavern getting into fights.
The only semi-regular male figure in my life was my grandfather, my mother’s father,
who was a force to be reckoned with. He was divorced from my grandmother and didn’t live
with us, but he was around. His name was Temperance Noah, which was odd since he was
not a man of moderation at all. He was boisterous and loud. His nickname in the
neighborhood was “Tat Shisha,” which translates loosely to “the smokin’ hot grandpa.” And
that’s exactly who he was. He loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him. He’d put on his best
suit and stroll through the streets of Soweto on random afternoons, making everybody laugh
and charming all the women he’d meet. He had a big, dazzling smile with bright white teeth—
false teeth. At home, he’d take them out and I’d watch him do that thing where he looked like
he was eating his own face.
We found out much later in life that he was bipolar, but before that we just thought he
was eccentric. One time he borrowed my mother’s car to go to the shop for milk and bread.
He disappeared and didn’t come home until late that night when we were way past the point
of needing the milk or the bread. Turned out he’d passed a young woman at the bus stop and,
believing no beautiful woman should have to wait for a bus, he offered her a ride to where
she lived—three hours away. My mom was furious with him because he’d cost us a whole
tank of petrol, which was enough to get us to work and school for two weeks.
When he was up you couldn’t stop him, but his mood swings were wild. In his youth he’d
been a boxer, and one day he said I’d disrespected him and now he wanted to box me. He was
in his eighties. I was twelve. He had his fists up, circling me. “Let’s go, Trevah! Come on! Put
your fists up! Hit me! I’ll show you I’m still a man! Let’s go!” I couldn’t hit him because I
wasn’t about to hit my elder. Plus I’d never been in a fight and I wasn’t going to have my first
one be with an eighty-year-old man. I ran to my mom, and she got him to stop. The day after
his pugilistic rage, he sat in his chair and didn’t move or say a word all day.
Temperance lived with his second family in the Meadowlands, and we visited them
sparingly because my mom was always afraid of being poisoned. Which was a thing that
would happen. The first family were the heirs, so there was always the chance they might get