We used to keep busy during the days playing Bheki Mseleku’s Mamelodi on Mme’s Vinyl player. My grandparents shared a deep love for Jazz music that we also inherited as we spent more time under their roof. She wouldn’t want anyone to touch her husband’s vinyl player; it was her most cherished possession in his memory. She often told the story of how Ntatemoholo saved up over a year for the vinyl record player so he could enjoy Winston Mankunku Ngozi’s ‘Molo Africa’ album every Sunday after church. It was a tradition in Mme MmaMotaung’s house to jam to the likes of Abdullah Ibrahim’s music over this wooden record player she so cherished, while enjoying a hearty Sunday meal. Often, my grandmother’s house would be filled with the neighbours’ children every Sunday, as she took pride in feeding the youth of Orlando West. This would be where I would meet Sechaba when we were both just 10-year-olds.
But since she had fallen ill, often spending most of her days in bed, Sechaba and I got up to using the Motaungs’ most prized possession – the Vinyl turntable – to enjoy our own favourite artists – Herbie Tsoali, Bheki Mseleku, Andile Yenana, Zim Nqawana, etc… The first day we started hanging out, Sechaba had been sent to our house to check on how my grandmother was doing after she was discharged from the hospital. Sechaba’s aunt, a nurse at Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital, was my grandmother’s informally adopted ‘baby’, and she helped take special care of Mme at the hospital or often checked on us to see if Mme needed anything. Both are God-fearing women whose relationship was strengthened by their devotion to the church’s women’s prayer ministry. It’s unclear who adopted whom, but Mme loved Aus Lerato as if she were her own child. So, on that day, Sechaba found Mme sleeping and insisted I have a chat with him over a cup of tea. He had not been shy to express that he had wanted to have a conversation with me ever since Grade 2 and was delighted that he finally got a chance to, 9 years later. Grade 11 had just began and we spent time debating whether William Shakespeare’s ‘The Merchant of Venice’ was a better play than ‘Othello’, which we had just started reading. That was the first night I was to spend alone with my grandmother after she suffered her first stroke, and I was the most scared I had ever been in my life. He did not know this, I tried not to show it, or maybe he did, given how long he had stayed with me that night… And although the conversation hardly focused on the pressure of the moment, I felt so safe to loosen my chest around him, after carrying a heavy and sore chest for a week and a half. Before this hangout with Sechaba, I had only ever felt that safe with one other person – my grandmother.
The following weekend, he came over with a new vinyl record – Zoe Modiga’s “Yellow” album, and he helped me bake bread. My grandmother loved a good sourdough loaf with some Rama butter, and after the days she’s had, I was determined to revive her appetite with one of her favourite meals. We were hand-mixing the dough, my hands in Sechaba’s hands as I was trying to maneuver the dough in this bowl that was too small for four hands. I enjoyed how playful that moment was. I hadn’t stimulated my playful side in so long, and even as the softness of his hands sent waves of electricity down my spine with every tickly touch, I was mainly grateful to be standing here in my grandmother’s kitchen, thankful to have my hands held through this labour of love.
I often felt awful that Sechaba was saving me, saving me from the terror of this moment by pouring into my faith with his, saving me from myself by making me feel human again, shooting some life up my bones with a simple hug sometimes. I felt guilty for needing him so badly, that he was just 17, saving another 17-year-old. When Mme was starting to get better, when she was feeling good enough to sit in the sitting room and watch some TV, we would sit outside on the stoep playing some music and looking up at the stars. These were the kinds of nights from which our big Johannesburg dreams were sown. I loved listening to him talk about his dreams, aside from mine, they were dreams that I too wanted to live for. I wanted to see his dreams come true so I could one day look into little Sechaba’s eyes and show him he was not going to feel abandoned forever, that I knew all along he would grow up to one day find a soft landing. We’d plan our future as we listened to Langa Mavuso’s Sunday Blues, begging each other to stay together forever, as we sang along with Langa. Our relationship was no stranger to intensity. Even at such a young age, we could relate when Langa spoke about saving a lover from the heavy clouds.
[This Week’s blog is the second instalment of the 4-part February love story series. The series features a collection of fictional stories inspired by love songs, celebrating February as the month of love.]
Muse Journal 
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