My father was a rich man, though he never owned millions of rands, never lived in a big suburban mansion however my father was a rich man. My father’s struggle credentials never earned him a tender or a street name yet upon his passing I was the sole beneficiary to his rich legacy.  My father’s wealth echoes in the rhythm of backbeats and black cords, it is the sleeve of a Pringle of Scotland shirt and like him I wear it on my wrist to share his dreams that have now become a part of me.  My father’s wealth is jazz, it is the cooling shade from a Nevada cap, and the small comfort that sustains the soul and gives it the will power to withstand this turbulent journey they call life.

My father was a rich man; his was a different kind of wealth. His wealth was validated by the warm smile he gave as he watched me eat while trying to mask his own hunger. My father’s wealth is like the promise of restful night to a weary worker; it is written in the songs of Fela and Makeba. My father’s wealth is Aluta continua and Viva la revolucion, it is not the kind to be kept in banks and institutions, it cannot be withdrawn and deposited, and it can never be stolen. My father’s wealth gives the soldier courage to load up his nozzle and pull the trigger; it gives the mother strength to cook a meal fit for gods and kings with only pilchards and cabbage, my father’s wealth is a flawless myth.

My father’s wealth is serene; if we could name it we’d call it Matshidiso, because it is the comfort of knowing that though he is gone, he lives on inside me. It is the determination to continue the journey and to smile even in the midst of adversity. My father’s wealth, is my inheritance, it is in music, in clothing, in knowing that mine is a vocation set aside for an exceptional kind of gentlemen. Ke lefa laka!

Copy written by: Tshepiso Mabula