Bald
By Ntando Taro Nzuza
I tend to do drastic things when I am feeling like this. I got my tattoo, a plain black and white chicken on my arm, a few years ago, and a piercing on my left ear at a dodgy place in Durban South, but most times I resort to something less forever, which for me is shaving my head bald. My uncle says my tendencies are influenced by my temperamental nature, to which my mother always says, with her sniping tongue, “If only he had had a good male role model.”
My uncle never responds to that, well not loud enough to be heard. Instead, he mumbles something under his Smirnoff coloured breath, and leaves the room like a wounded dog. My mother will then look at me in that way she does to reassure herself that she gave birth to me. Once the unfortunate truth assaults her, our similar foreheads that robbed us of a normal hairline being an undeniable conclusion, an unfair gene she got from her father, she’ll tell me she likes me bald. Normally that’s how things work when I shave my head, but not today.
My uncle, who is sitting outside our garage, shirtless, with dirt-caked bare feet, is busy cursing my dog who has knocked over his half-full vodka bottle, and my mother is tapping on her cracked phone screen by the loud television in our living room. I catch a glance from her as I close the door behind me, and she mentions that my food is in the microwave. I am hungry, but I don’t feel like food prepared by my mother. My mother is many things, but a cook she is not. The only person who can cook in this family is my uncle. If it weren’t for his mysterious past of being a chef at some Michelin-starred restaurant in London, a past that he forces everyone to forget, I am sure he would have his own establishment by now. I enjoy his cooking. Especially the creamed samp and chilli mutton innards he makes when he feels particularly irritated by my mother. In the microwave I am confronted by pasty rice and runny chicken soup. Apart from the lopsided presentation of the food, the meal has a salty texture. It tastes like someone was crying while cooking it, like full on ugly crying. After I have painstakingly conquered the meal with the help of a cold Iron Brew, I wash the dishes and then I make my way to my room.
I share a room with my uncle. It’s a tiny thing with landmarks of mosquitoes displayed across the old yellow paint. I smacked the one above my bed last night. After the foolish thing had been touting me for hours as I was seeking sleep against my uncle’s passionate snoring, I had finally grabbed a sandal and allowed my wrath seal its fate. We have three bedrooms, but my mother has made it absolutely clear that the other room is for guests. We hardly ever have guests in this house because my mother doesn’t like people in her ‘space’. My mother is very particular, so the room stays empty. I have a feeling my mother is trying to encourage either me or my uncle to move out. I would, maybe get something closer to work, but staying at home is easier.
My room is uncomfortably hot, but then again when isn’t it uncomfortably hot in Empangeni? I take my towel and I head for the bathroom. I wash my head and watch the debris of thin flakes of hair rush for the drain. I should stop getting my haircuts at those tents by Chicken Licken at the taxi rank. It’s not that the people who work there don’t do a great job. Alex, the guy I normally use, black as shoe polish, eyes that look like he never quite escaped infant jaundice, and an isiZulu accent that almost sounds like Johannesburg isiZulu; there but really not quite there, is probably the best barber in town. But I need to go to the salon now. I need someone to wash my head after shaving instead of polishing me off with spirit.
“Themba!” my mother calls out to me once I’ve settled in my room. She tells me she is going to her friend’s house and she’ll be back soon. My mother actually doesn’t have friends at all. What she does have though is a boyfriend, Thami Kubheka. He is objectively good looking, average build, a baby face that has never known a beard, strong cologne that would suggest he isn’t just a policeman, but one of those new age politicians influenced by those boys doing Forex on Instagram. Thami talks like a comrade too, always looking at you whilst looking past you, a talent that I find deceitful and confusing. My mother hasn’t officially introduced him to me as a boyfriend, but my uncle refers to him as sibali, and my mother and him have made it a point that they call each other every day at 20h00 on the dot. I don’t question her reluctance to inform me though. I just act blind and deaf.
After the sun has gone down, and I have dished out food for my dog, I find my uncle at the kitchen counter checking soccer scores in a newspaper, his Hollywood Bets tickets laid out neatly next to it. He hardly ever wins a thing. To date the most he has won from his betting is R5000, with half of his winnings going towards buying my mother two beautiful dresses. My uncle and mother love each other. They fight a lot, and call each other names, and bring up embarrassing stories about each other from their youth for my amusement, but one thing is true, they love each other. After realising he hasn’t won anything this time, my uncle heads for the couch and turns on the news. I head for my bedroom after telling him to call me when the movie I’ve set comes on. My bald head against the wall, I try to read a book, but I don’t feel like reading tonight, so I resort to looking up other people’s lives on social media platforms. I don’t know what prompted me to shave my head bald today. Normally I do this when I am going through something. I am currently not going through anything. I don’t have a failed relationship keeping me up at night, or an unrequited love interest to be brooding over. I am not having one of my existential crisis stints. I am generally happy. Life could be better, but I am content.
I am employed as a ‘junior’ teacher as my colleague from work likes to say during the staff meetings, “Can our junior teacher, Themba, do the prayer today,” she’ll say with malice in her voice. I wouldn’t say she is racist… okay, I am lying. She has a PhD in White Superiority Complex studies. But I am generally happy. Yet still, for some reason, as the day was getting late, I had collected lose change and made a twenty-minute walk to shave my head - so maybe I am not as happy as I think I am. Maybe it’s all the betrayed and forgotten dreams, or…
“Themba! Your movie is about to start.” my uncle’s drunken voice disturbs me as I stare at the ceiling aimlessly. I get up. Switch off the lights, close the door, and softly I am ushered into the living room by the sound of a 20th Century movie.
Ntando Taro Nzuza is a South African writer. He has had his short stories published in AFREADA, Type/Cast literary journal, The Kalahari Review and You magazine. He was featured in Experimental Writing: Africa vs Latin America Vol 1, Volume 1. He has also been featured in the New Contrast.
