My Son

Meeting My Son

CHAPTER ONE

Zanda

The bloody gate remote doesn't even flick its usual red light which is always an indication of proper function. I tap the damn thing hard on my left palm then attempt to open the electric gate for the fourth time but the black iron gate remains unresponsive.

Defeated, I throw the useless gadget at the back seat then honk twice knowing full well that mom is about to step out and bite my head off for disturbing her soapie viewing time. The baked goodies I brought her from Cookie lovers should more than make up for the small inconvenience. Mom loves Cookie and she even came up with the business name for her cake shop. The now popular pastry chef had initially wanted to call her shop, All Things Fresh. Tandai protested the suggestion to a point of threatening to pull out his ten thousand K investment and for once I concurred with him. The convenient store down the road is called All Snacks Fresh. To say Cookie lacks creativity is putting it mildly.

The yawning sound of the opening gate stutters me back to the present. I sit up, readying myself to drive in then catch a sight of a bubbly boy running out the door toward the gate. He looks excited to see me or my car. I drive in careful to not hit the happy child and park on the drive way.

My one party welcome committee is almost dancing from excitement when I open the driver door. I can't help but catch his energy and before I know it, I'm smiling at the child and greeting him back with the same vigour. He asks where I've been all week and I absentmindedly say "work of course". "You sleep at work?" he shoots back, surprising me with his intrusive question. Watching him lead the way, I find myself growing fond of the little fellow. There's something about him that's comfortable and familiar. And as if to confirm my new found feelings for him, he asks what I brought him. "Mom always bring me sweets or snacks when she goes away for longer than a day" he informs me as if I too am his parent. It is only then that I remember Cookie's cookies and send him back to my car for them.

Surprise - surprise, mom is not watching her usual soap operas. The overwhelming number of scattered pieces of the picture puzzle on the dining table exhaust my spirit just from looking at them. I wonder whose idea it was to even attempt this draining exercise but I don't ask. I fear I might attract an invitation to help solve the damn thing.

"Where's Asanda?" mom asks, acknowledging my arrival but not with a greeting. I didn't get the name of the boy but I'm certain that's who we're talking about right now. The little man in question walks in at that moment carrying the pink box of cookies and comfortably chewing one already. I blame myself for not making it clear I brought him nothing and that the treat was for my mother. I didn't even know I was going to find someone like him here and I find it strange that he even asked. "I take it your brother told you about Asa? And before I can answer her, she turns to the boy and says," Asanda, this is your uncle, Zanda"

Instantly, my mind flashes back to a text message Tandai sent me earlier. The message read 'You've been promoted to uncle. Call me'. I was chairing a meeting and couldn't respond then completely forgot. I expected news about a pregnancy.

"Where's my uncle, Zanda" the boy asks looking around the room? I'm internally struggling to make sense of a lot of information and the young man's struggle is obvious to me. I wonder why no one's bothered to tell him his father is an identical twin and why we're only meeting years after he was born.

*****

Tandai and I's physical appearance is so strikingly similar; mom literally gave birth to the same person twice. We both arrived weighing the same - 2.5kg, having the same birth mark - black beauty mark on the lower chin and looking exactly the same. I was kept inside a cot bed with a red ribbon on my mother's right side of the bed while Tendai's sleeping bed was on the opposite direction decorated with purple trimmings. To ensure that she never switched us from day one, our ribbon colours were wrapped around our wrists as well and even our clothes were bought in those colours for most of our childhood. To further instill individuality in us, mom ensured our names didn't relate or sound alike. We never owned not even one matching outfit throughout our lives and we were even discouraged from eating the same meal at the same time.