The following story is fictitious but realistic, reflecting a situation many people may face. It is written in the first person, but the names and places do not refer to real individuals.
Three weeks ago, my cousin Vho Joyce Rambani called me to a meeting at her house, insisting it was urgent. When I arrived, I found others already gathered: my brother Dan, a veteran teacher of more than 30 years; Pastor Luruli; Joyce’s husband, Mr Rambani; and their eldest son, Dembe.
After greetings, Joyce wasted no time. “I called you here as my closest relatives,” she began, her voice trembling with anger. “My son’s behaviour has changed so drastically I don’t know if it’s him or a demon. You all know he passed matric two years ago and should now be in his third year at university. But instead of studying in Pretoria, we discovered he has been living in a squatter camp in Johannesburg. This is witchcraft! Who was I to think my son could qualify as an engineer?”
Her voice rose, sharp with fury. Dembe sat motionless, staring blankly, as if half-dead.
At that moment, Mr Rambani cut in. “My wife is beating about the bush. This boy” — he pointed directly at Dembe — “is a drug addict. There is no witchcraft here. He brought this upon himself.”
Dembe shot up from his chair. “You’re talking nonsense! I’m tired of your accusations!”
I intervened. “Stop right there, young man. I didn’t come here to hear you insult your father. Show some respect.”
My brother Dan remained silent, as was his nature. The pastor had also not spoken a word. But my rebuke seemed to ignite Joyce. She stepped in, her voice now thundering. “You will not blame my son for things he didn’t do! Ask the pastor - he is a prophet. He knows the truth!”
The meeting spiralled out of control. Joyce stood up, called Dembe to follow her and stormed out. Pastor Luruli followed. Suddenly, only three of us remained: myself, Dan and Mr Rambani.
Mr Rambani sighed heavily. “Gentlemen, nothing I say is ever accepted in this house. To keep the peace, I must agree with my wife. Each time I speak, she shouts me down. Tell me, did I say anything that warranted them walking out?”
I could see the problems ran deeper than Dembe’s behaviour. “So, what is the way forward?” I asked.
“Let me tell you my side,” he replied. “If Joyce ever decides to share hers, she will call you.”
For the first time, Dan raised his hand. “Gentlemen, Joyce blames witches for everything. But as a teacher, I must be honest. Drug use among students is rampant. Three years ago, I called both of you to the school because Dembe was already involved in drugs. Only you came, Mr Rambani - Joyce refused. Even then, it was clear your son was in trouble. Sometimes he would vanish into the bushes with other unruly boys and girls. I spoke to you not just as his teacher, but as his cousin. But I could not confront Joyce alone - she would have misinterpreted everything.”
Dan continued, his voice heavy with experience. “There are groups of students who board school transport every morning, and when they arrive at school, they disappear into the bushes. They only reappear after school to catch transport home. We teachers know this, but we are not security guards or police officers - we are here to teach. The real problem is that when we call parents to discuss their children’s behaviour, they refuse to come. Just as my cousin Joyce refused when I called her. How else can we help? When I called you that day, I already knew Dembe was one of those drug users.”
Mr Rambani nodded grimly. “I remember that day very well. I went home and tried to explain everything to my wife, but it all backfired. She accused me of hating my son, of allowing my mother to bewitch him.”
To find out what happened to Dembe, read next week’s column.