Kutanda Botso — Seeking a mother’s atonement

an incident he wanted to forget.
Whenever he had flashbacks of the incident in his mind, he blamed the influence of alcohol, marijuana or the devil.
He also told himself that the assault had happened more than 20 years ago when he was still young and stressed about losing his job in Johannesburg. At the that time he was suffering from too much unwarranted pressure from everyone asking him why he was not married yet.
Soon after his return from Johannesburg Razaro’s clothes were the talk of the villages. He dressed nicely in various bright red, white and blue coloured suits, hats with little feathers sticking out, gold chains, a nice watch, sunglasses and pointed white shoes.
When his money started running out people noticed frequent outbursts of anger at beer parties. His eyes were always red, a sign that he was smoking something. Everyday he talked about leaving the village forever and going back to the bright lights of Johannesburg where his Zulu lover waited for his return.
Then one morning he argued with his mother over two goats that had been eaten by a hyena. His mother blamed him for not fixing the goat pen properly as a man was supposed to do.
“The goats were eaten due to your negligence,” she said. Razaro stormed out of the village compound and went out to drink skindo, the highly intoxicating 24-four hour brew made from maize porridge, yeast and sugar.
When he came back from the beer party, his mother  and sisters were already in bed. Razaro woke them up with his shouting. He told his mother that he was the head of the family because his father was dead.
Therefore the goats eaten by the hyena were his goats and no one should challenge him on why they were eaten. His mother came outside and called him by his totem to show respect, “Nzou, Samanyanga, You are the Big Elephant, do not speak words that you will regret ever saying tomorrow.”
Razaro’s sisters also came to plead with him to go to bed and discuss the matter in the morning when he was sober. But Razaro was in his own world. He pointed at his two sisters and called them bad names. Then he ordered the one who had just had a baby to leave the village and go back to her useless boyfriend.
“This is not a home for single mothers,” he shouted, pushing his sister over. His mother stood between them and said he had no right to speak to his sister that way. After all, the young sister had proved that she can be a mother. What about him?
He was already 31-years-old, unmarried and without a child to his name. Before his mother could say anything more, in one swift move, he slapped her hard on the right cheek.
His mother saw the stars. The sisters screamed. Razaro’s mother just looked at him, tears of anger pouring out of her eyes. She shook her head and walked out of the village compound. Throughout the night she walked around the hills and valleys in anger, neshungu. Her own son had dared to hit her. She would not forgive him in her life time.
Before she returned home she went to inform Sabhuku, the kraal head of the incident.  Back in the village compound, she greeted Razaro normally, as if nothing had happened. Razaro said he was sorry and she did not reply. Speaking to his sisters he said he could not fully remember whether he had only threatened to hit his mother or whether he actually slapped her.
His sisters told him what happened. They said he should seek his mother’s atonement now before she died. After her death he would have to dress up in sack cloth and carry out the public humiliation ceremony to appease his mother’s spirit, kutanda botso. 
Sabhuku summoned Razaro to his court and gathered the elders. He spoke to him in anger, “Did South Africa make you lose our humanness, hunhu hwedu?  What if you had gone as far as America or England? Would you have come back just as mad with no respect for the mother who gave you life?
“You can be forgiven for hitting your father. But to lay a hand on your mother is not done. Hatidaro.  Even if you were to kneel down right now and say you are sorry in front of her, she would not forgive you. Only kutanda botso will free you. Mother is Sacred. That is the law.” 
Razaro’s Sekuru, his mother’s brother, heard the news and he came all the way from Mutare where he worked to reproach Razaro for his offence.
When the talk about slapping his mother was too much, Razaro packed his bags and left for Bulawayo. Over there he seemed to turn over a new leaf. He married a beautiful Ndebele woman and they had four children. For many years he did not come to the village except for a funeral. The incident with his mother was never mentioned.
But the memory of the slap did not leave him. He could not bring himself to talk about it to anyone, not even his wife. Then his mother collapsed from a stroke in the field one day and she died. Razaro brought an expensive white casket to bury his mother in.
During his graveside speech, one muroora, his mother’s nephew’s wife, shouted, “Nice coffin, but it does not give you forgiveness from your mother. When are we going to dress you up in the sack? When will you do the ceremony to appease your mother’s spirit for beating her up? Uchatanda botso rekurova mai vako riini?”
Razaro gave her a nasty look and kept on with his speech. Few months after his mother’s death, bad luck started to follow Razaro around. His son was diagnosed with a rare kind of blood cancer. He imported two kombis from South Africa to compliment his fleet of taxis. Within two weeks, both kombis had crushed injuring passengers and one kombi was totally beyond repair. 
As if that was not enough, Razaro’s mother started appearing in his dreams. In each dream, she stood in front of her kitchen hut, in the exact spot where he had slapped her. She held her cheek and cried. In the background were women whose faces he could not recognise taunting and calling him Mother Beater. Razaro woke up covered in sweat.
His wife suggested he finds peace of mind by going to church. He joined the Apostolic Faith, Johanne Masowe WeChishanu. Unlike the American evangelical prosperity gospel churches, Johanne Masowe recognised the significance of the ancestors to one’s sense of identity. Before Razaro could be allowed to wear the white outfits worn by Johanne Masowe followers, the prophet asked him if he had any confessions to make, any reparations to do, any appeasement to the ancestors.
One day, standing in front of a full Mapositori congregation on the foothills of the ancient Matopos, not too far from Cecil John Rhodes’s grave, Razaro sobbed and confessed that years ago, under the influence of alcohol and marijuana, he had slapped his mother.
The prophet told him to go back and make peace with his mother’s spirit first before becoming a member of Johanne Masowe faith. “The Bible says kudza baba na amai vako, respect your father and mother so your days on earth can multiply.  In our culture, we say the same. Go and seek your mother’s forgiveness, tanda botso,” said the prophet.
Razaro came back to the village and started the atonement ritual preparations first by informing his mother’s brothers, nephews and nieces. Varoora prepared the sack outfit for him.
They scolded, mocked him and sent him away to walk through the villages covered in ashes carrying an empty sack begging for rapoko, the red grain used in brewing beer.
Razaro passed by our village last October. We saw a figure dressed in sacks, a shaved head, face covered in ash and barefoot with a sack strung over his shoulder arriving at the village gate.
He stood on the outskirts of the village compound and shouted: “I beat my mother. It is not done. I ask for forgiveness!” Beatrice was the first to see him. She shouted back, “Hee, rakarova mai! Razaro beat his mother. Shame on you! You think nine months of pregnancy and giving birth to a man like you is a joke? You should have been aborted during pregnancy. Dog.  Dhiabhorosi Snake. Nyoka!”
Razaro walked towards us with his head down in shame. Beatrice’s abuse escalated. My mother asked who it was because her eyesight no longer saw much. He replied, “I am Razaro, son of Tambe. I beat my mother. Ndiri kutanda botso.”
My mother said he deserved the shame and he should not have waited for bad luck to multiply before he put his mother’s spirit at rest. Then she told us to give Razaro half a bucket of rapoko, scold him and sent him away. Razaro sat near the rubbish pit and we poured the grain into this sack. Beatrice did not stop: “Who told you to disrespect mothers? Who said you can forget that all men, no matter how big or how small, came from a woman?”
Razaro kept on begging for forgiveness. We threw bones and ashes at him then pushed him out of our compound for that is how such people are treated.
After two days walking and begging, Razaro collected five bags of rapoko. He brought it back to his village and varoora brewed beer from the grain. A big beast was slaughtered for the kutanda botso ritual. As per custom Razaro did not take one sip of the beer nor did he taste any of the meat.
On the day of the ceremony, Razaro sat covered in ashes and confessed again and again to anyone who asked what abomination he committed to his mother.
When the ceremony was over, Razaro dressed in his jeans the following day. He then drove back to Bulawayo feeling free, forgiven and protected by his mother’s ancestral spirit.

l Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and is a consultant and director of The Simukai Development Project.