So, my mother told me this story and what I did was - wrote a school report on it in the early 2000s. I think I was about 13. Interesting what the teacher says no? Oh if the named have a issue with this come and find me
Nosabelo Christina Mdodana, was a mother of 7 children and wife of Elias Phungela Mdodana. She was blessed with seven children as I said: Thandani, Nokhanyo, Khumbulani, Vuyani, Daluxolo, Phumlani (Boy-boy) and the last born Kuselwa. Thandanani has (9), Nokhanyo 3, Khumbulani 4, Daluxolo 1, Phumlani 1, Kuselwa 2 children. But when my mother left she had lived only to see 4 grandchildren – at the time she was staying with my father, sister and my son, Vuyolethu.
My mother was a hard working woman. Everything she had, she worked for. She was also a housewife who was fond of agriculture, and was also very entrepreneurial – she lived on selling produce which included beans and mealis, and sold medical material from Swetsgourd.
Through all of her work, she managed to educate us. She taught us how to plough fields, cut grass and make bricks. I owe my mother for becoming the independent woman I am today. She was everything to me, a friend and a shoulder to cry on. My mother told me that, the truth is the only way out of everything and it would set you free no matter what. Her advice to me was to, work work hard for everything in life and to treasure it because of the hard work you put in. She also said to me, do not put yourself down, and always be proud of yourself and whatever you achieve, regardless of what it may be. The love of god is another lesson I was taught by my mother. I could write millions of pages about my beloved mother, but what made me write this is the way she was killed by cruel people, a group of cruel, heartless ragamafins.
The year was 1987 and the month was August – it is a year and month of tragedy to the Mdodana family, and the one I shall never forget. It is still difficult for me to talk about it and I wish it’s the last time I have to concentrate on it because; my heart is still filled with hate and resentment. I was not present, but my brother Daluxolo narrated the story to me, and it feels as if I were there watching.
He told me that he was hiding behind some stones and bushes – where he heard and saw everything. It took him time to talk about it. One day he came to me and said, Sis I want to tell you everything that happened the day our mother was killed. He continued and said I am going to tell you because; I was there together with dad.
Before he told me the story he reminded me of the way I found out. Daluxolo was sent to tell me that my mom was injured, it turned out to be a coincidence because that same day I had a strange dream and in the morning I went to the principal to ask for a day or two off at work. In town on that same day, I meet my brother Daluxolo, he was on his way to Mzinto – where I worked to tell me my mother had been injured. But funny enough I noticed the headman escorting a few men to the police station. When I tried finding out what was happening, no one would let me know what had happened. Later on a man called Qhwekeleti Zimba from Nomkolokoto came to me and said, “Heyi Mankwali, what happened to your mother was terrible”, I thereafter asked him what did happen to my mother, because I was told by my brother that she had been injured. He told me that Daluxolo had been lying, because my mother was dead, she had been killed. I could not hear the rest of the story, only to wake up at the police station after fainting. I was told all would turn out okay. I cried all the way home in the bus; it was as if the whole world was against me. But, it was only the beginning of the nightmare. The cooperation I received from the police all the way to the headman was impossible – they did not care at all about what had happened. The police I am talking about are the Mount Frere police.
They story goes like this :
One day there had been a strong wind, which destroyed the old hut that was abandoned at Nquba. The same hut was used by the Ragamafins for their meetings. My mother so it went was collecting fire wood and decided to pick up the poles, which had fallen from the hut and took it home. Thereafter, the ragamafins went around asking who had taken the poles from their meeting place. Mama Madzanibe Mqwadlu told them, that she had seen my mom collecting the poles. They then approached my mother, who then told them that she had taken the poles because they had fallen and where on the ground – she then apologized and promised she was to pay them back, while offering to give them grass in the meantime. She thereafter took the grass she had promised them to my grandmother’s house – where my brother Khumbulani is staying.
I was told by my sister Kuselwa, that in the afternoon, after slaughtering the chicken and beginning with supper – they saw a group of men approaching my grandmother’s house. My mother was staing in the house I built near the hill. My mother had also seen the men, and asked my dad and sister to look after my son and the food, she was going to give the men the grass – as that is what she thought they were after. When the men arrived at the house they started harassing Miss Matandela who was staying there, asking where my mother was. My mother quickly arrived, and told them, I am here my children. They were not friendly at all and told her to lead the way to eNquba, where the hut could be found. As they passed the house my mother asked for Kuselwa to bring the Vuyo, of which they refused and stated that if she took him, they would kill him first, that is when my mother left with the men.
Daluxolo and my dad followed the men, and as a bus was passing by, my father tried to get the help of the headman, telling him that his wife was in danger and that they needed help. The headman refused to help and said he would see to that on the following day, and left.
What Daluxolo witnessed while he was hiding was horrific – he heard the men asking my mother why she took the poles and she replied, saying that she took them because they had already fallen and she needed them for the fire she was building.
Daluxolo heard the men arguing, some of the men were forced to be there and where vocal about my mother being let go. While the ring leaders of the group – Mthetheleli Mqambeli and Mxolisi Nozibele, my mother’s nephew and an old man called Mshiywa were adamant that my mother be killed. With the poles that were there, they made a fire with them and sang songs around it. My mother was praying and pleading with the men, not to kill her - promising them money and a cow to spare her life. However, Mshiywa was resolute in his desire for her to be killed there and then – which he told the men to do. That’s when Daluxolo saw Mthetheleli and Mxolisi stabbing my mother, thereafter making all the other men lick the blood. Daluxolo believed that my mother was thrown into the fire alive. He said, Sis I was crying and I couldn’t help my mother because I was afraid they were going to kill me too. He continued, I had hope that maybe people would come and save my mother’s life – but no one came. Later, when it was too late when my mother had already burnt to ashes – some men came to the scene. One of those men was my father’s cousin Dumokude Mqambeli – who turned out to be the only man who would help us follow up on the hearing of my mother’s case. He was later shot and killed for trying to stand up for the truth or what he may have believed to be the right thing.
The police took time to come. They didn’t even care that much about what had happened. My aunts and grandmothers collected the ashes using a sack. There was nothing left, not even bone. The same way that I heard about my mother’s death, that was also the way my two brothers Vuyani and Khumbulani found out about the passing of their mother. I decided to go to town to do some preparations for the burial of my mother’s ashes, which I managed to do. I however, missed the last bus to Nomkolokoto, and I had to stay sleep at my cousins’ place at Lubacweni Mise. In the morning when I was heading to town, when I reached down town I saw a man crying, running towards me, crying out loudly – my mom, my mom and kept on repeating those words. When I could finally see who this man was, it turned out to be my brother Vuyani. He also had the bad luck of hearing about the death of our mother from someone – who was not family. I talked, begged, pleaded with him to calm down. I took him to the bus station, where another heart wrenching moment was taking place. My other brother Khumbulani was sitting inside the bus crying out helplessly – after being told by some other person about the killing of my mother. I decided to be strong for all of us at that moment - because the both of them were saying that they could hear our mother’s voice calling them – it was a bad time for the three of us.
So we buried the ashes. Turning back to the culprits, we heard that they ran away from the police custody. That was after they had appeared once in the Mount Frere court where their case was postponed. That is where the incompetence of the Mount Frere police showed itself. The police could not follow up on the case even though I had personally went to them and told them that the culprits had been seen at Mxolisi’s place – they did not do a damn about the information I had given them. That is where I decided to go to the Chiefs palace at Mphoza to see the Chief - who at the time was a woman was named Noluthando. I walked a great distance to reach the place; I remember that I was still pregnant at the time with my son Mkhululi. I arrived there and I still cry for the waste of time I spent going there. She simply told me that there was nothing to do – as the headman who I mentioned before was a relative of hers – she ultimately told me to go to Mount Ayliff. I went there and talked to the station Commander. Which is when some movement in the case could be seen; the police came to Nomkolokoto and arrested the men. This was for the shortest time, because they managed to escape from custody once more, in fact the police in Mt Frere were being bribed by the culprits. The people doing the bribing had no shame in telling people about bribing the police. It was a struggle. They stayed at Mxolisi’s place again, that is when my uncle came home from Johannesburg. He was very angry and he took the matter into his own hands. He looked for the men himself; found them then and took them to the police station. Thereafter, he had his home torched and was left homeless.
To shorten things, the case ended up in front of a judge in Mthatha. Which was the first time we attended the proceedings, myself, my husband, sister in law Nofezile, uncle Dumekude and my dad attended court that day. They were given R50 bail, their lawyer Holomisa in my eyes, is a man whom I see as supporting woman abuse. I say this because of the way my mother was killed, which was horrific, being burned into ashes. I also consider the judge to be a useless one, as he failed us, failed my mother. Since bail was given to the men, some of them especially the ringleaders never attended the trial. I personally didn’t see any movement on the side of the law, to re-arrest them. The last time the case was tried and dismissed was in Bizana, I could not go as I was giving birth to Mkhululi. My dad came back very angry and confused. The only culprit that attended was the guy from the noMatshaka family. That was the end of it.
I want to say, the law failed my mother, even us her own children failed our mother. It is not as if we did anything after the last trial. I will not try justifying any of our actions. I tried to get a lawyer but I couldn’t afford the charges that they wanted to be paid. Money for me was a problem, so I had to bear with the outcome. On the other hand there was my uncle Mthuthuzeli, who tried and was then turned homeless. I still feel guilty about it and ashamed of myself for what happened to him. I wish that my mother can forgive me for that. Yes, some of the men are dead, but it still does not feel like justice to me – just a disgrace. I still feel as if they won both the battle and the war. To prove what I say is the fact that they were not ashamed of what they had done nor where they sorry. I am told that one of them approached my brother Khumbulani to ask for forgiveness, and my brother told him to meet the whole family – I am talking about the ringleader Mthetheleli. He was given the date of the 24th of December 2014 – where he could meet and apologize to the whole family. We waited, and hoped that we would finally receive the closure we prayed for. We as a family were happy for the day to come as we would finally hear what had happened from the main culprit, what had driven them to do such a cruel and inhumane act. What had my mom done to deserve to die the way she did? Why did they hate my family so much? I called my eldest son Vuyolethu to tell him something good was about to happen, someone was finally coming forward with information about the death of his grandmother. He was overjoyed, he might have been young when it happened, but he knew what did happen and also wanted answers.
The day before the big day, I received a phone call from Khumbulani to tell me that the man was no longer showing up – he told him that he was not released from work and could not make it or something of that sort. It felt as if my mother had just died in that moment again. I felt the pain inside my chest, which I still feel to this day. It was a betrayal for the second time – he won, he made us look like fools once more. I would like to know how the man feels about killing my mother and having no consequences come about, and then fool us and again not have any consequences for his actions.
Now I am going to speak for myself. I still have not yet gotten closure. Why you may ask me? The answer being; I feel as if my mom got lost, we still have to look for her – I did not see any dead body only the ashes. It could have been anything that got burnt. Whenever I used to go home, when my dad was still alive I used to think I am going to see my mother as well. I am 56 years old now, but I still think that my mother is still alive – weird neh? But that is not the case for me.
The grave that supposedly holds my mother is just a grave, there is no mother there. The place they said she was killed at is just a site – no one respects it. Where is my mother? Where should we pay respect for those who believe in that? I know that the soul does not belong to earth; we are however, black people with our own culture and morals. I believe in ancestors and I also believe that my mother is one of them. Protecting me and my children – where do we pay our respect? I wish that her spirit is resting in peace, no matter how she died. Her spirit can protect us no matter how she died. We are her children, grandchildren and grand-grandchildren.
Speaking of grand and grand-grandchildren, she left only four grandchildren – Vuyo, Siphe, Abongile and one from Thandanani's first wife. But let’s count now: Thandanani had 9, Nokhanyo(3), Khumbulani (4), Vuyani (3), Daluxolo (1), Phumlani (1), Kuzu as she used to call her (2) and grand-grandchildren – Khumbulani (1), Vuyani (1), Nokhanyo (1) from her beloved grandchild Vuyolwethu– who I left with her while he was 2 months old, imagine that.
We were robbed of our mother, our kids their grandmother, and their children their grand-grandmother. She was robbed of seeing her seed growing, progressing and becoming wonderful people. She was robbed of seeing her grand and grand-grandchildren running, fooling around and laughing and smiling with them as all grandmothers do. She missed spoiling her only two daughters, whispering in each other’s ears. She missed going to church and singing like an angel, because that is what she did best; singing, laughing, joking and also her small temper so to speak. She also was robbed of going to the field and ploughing and hoeing her mealie fields. That is what she did and loved most. She was robbed of helping people in need, which she did with so much joy and love in her heart – there are people who received old age money because of her. She got food parcels for the poor – which she would get at Mt Frere at the Show grounds. She just loved helping people, without ever expecting or wanting anything in return. She missed out on going to the forest to collect firewood, which she used to collect a lot. She used to tell me to start taking wood from outside the forest and she would make a big bundle for me and my sister Kuselwa. She liked that a lot. I imagine what she would have said to Abongile, Amanda, Yenzekile, Thando and the other girls. I imagine she would have taken them with her to collect the wood, as she had done with me and Kuselwa. I still miss you Mavitsheka, I still think about you and laugh to myself.
I still see that day as a terrible day for my sister Kuselwa who witnessed the whole ordeal happening in front of her. Sometimes we sit together and talk about our mother, laughing and thinking about the good times we spent with her. When we do so, we avoid talking about the sad part. If there is something that I can say about the death of our mother is that, it brought the family sadness – all the while people tend to say that death will bring people closer. Unfortunately for us, it divided us terribly. It never brought us together for the longest time. I will leave it to the individual being to confess on it. As the saying goes, ‘Umntu yinkosi ukuzazi’ we are the only ones who can tell the world what happened. But for everything there is a season.
Let me conclude by saying. The only person who could provide us with real answers, a good explanation – is the one who denies us that opportunity namely Mthetheleli Mqambeli. He is the only one who knows the truth and nothing but the truth. They used to say that ingalo yomthetho inde, but for me it is the shortest arm there is – believe me when I say that.
One last thing, mom was born in 1933 August. When she died she was only 54 years old, even younger than me. What I am sure of is that your grandmother would have been the most loving granny ever.
To conclude this my mother's mother was Noziwe Jenett Nozibele, her father was Shindi (Hlikihlintshontsho). My grandmother was (intombi) yakwaJola, her father's brothers were: Ntshungu and Sthupha, I will leave it to Khumbulani to tell you about them. On our mother's side there were 3 kids, first born Zwelibandzi, followed by our mother Christina Nosabelo and the last born Ndafika. Her father had two wives, our grandmother and Mapomela who had a daughter Nosusa who had her children: Sdudla, Malani and the killer who killed our mother Mxolisi.