Chapter 8 : The Man Behind the Grease

 

My name is Qondanisa Qwabe. I am thirty-eight years old, I come from KwaMashu in Durban. I was always a smart child, I got A's in my matric. Everyone expected great things from me, my teachers said I would go far. My father smiled whenever my results came out. He never said much, but I saw the pride in his eyes. I wanted to study mechanical engineering. But to be honest, I only wanted to do it for formality. I already knew everything about engines. My father made sure of that. He was a strict man but a good father. He taught me everything I know.

When I was five years old, he put a spanner in my hand. "Qondanisa," he said. "This is a tool. It will feed you one day." I did not understand then. But I listened, he showed me every tool and every spanner. He told me what each one was for. He taught me the names of every panel and every bolt. By the time I was ten, I could strip an engine and put it back together. By the time I was fifteen, I was fixing cars for the whole neighbourhood.

It happened suddenly, one morning he was fine, by evening, he was gone. A heart attack, there was nothing anyone could do. I was nineteen years old. My world fell apart, my mother cried for days. She would not eat, she would not speak, I had to be strong for her. I had to take care of her,  I put my university dreams aside. There was no money for school. There was no time for school. My mother needed me.

I started fixing cars full time, I worked from our yard. People brought their cars to me. I fixed them for a fair price. The money was not much, but it was enough. I supported my mother all these years. She is old now, she still lives in the same house in KwaMashu D section. I built a workshop at the back. That is where I spend most of my days. The women in the township hardly noticed me. I was always busy, dirty with oil. My hands were stained black. My clothes smell like grease. I was not the kind of man women dream about. I was the kind of man they call when their car breaks down.

"Qondanisa!" they shout from the gate. "My car is making a noise again!"

I fix their cars, they pay me they leave, that is how it has always been.

Still, I have met women who tried to come close. I remember one day after work when a woman approached me outside the workshop. She smiled and said, “Qondanisa, you are always working so hard. You must take me out one day.”

I looked at her and asked calmly, “What do you want from me?”

She laughed lightly. “Why are you asking like that? I just like you.”

I nodded slowly. “Do you like me, or do you like what I can give you?”

Her smile faded a little. “You have money. You can take care of me.”

I wiped my hands and shook my head. “Then you don’t like me. You like what I have.”

She walked away without another word. That was not the first time, and it was not the last. So I stopped entertaining such situations. I decided it was better to focus on work and my mother than to waste time on confusion. One evening, my mother and I had another long conversation at home. She was sitting in the living room while I fixed something small in the kitchen.

She called out, “Qondanisa, are you listening to me?”

I answered, “I am listening, Ma.”

She sighed loudly. “Then answer me. When are you getting married?”

I paused and leaned on the counter. “Ma, I don’t even have time for that.”

She raised her voice again. “Time? You have time to fix everyone else’s cars, but not to fix your own life?”

I laughed softly. “My life is not broken, Ma.”

She replied immediately, “Every man needs a wife. I am tired of speaking to myself in this house.”

I smiled and shook my head. “You are not speaking to yourself, Ma. I am here.”

She went quiet for a moment, then said softly, “But you are not really here. You are always working.”

That sentence stayed with me longer than I expected.

Because she was right. Even when I was at home, my mind was still under a bonnet, still thinking about engines, still solving problems.