By Lesego Linda Plank
I remember on the 1st of November 2020, a Sunday morning when my biological father Dingane Arthur Nyanisa was lying on his bed; silent, unmoving and with no pulse. I held his cold hand and made a promise to him that I will tell our story and that people will know about him and that his death will not be the end of his existence. I was primarily raised by my biological father and my paternal grandmother, of course with the assistance of my maternal family and other women who have played a role in my upbringing, and this included my father’s partner(s). Like the meaning of his name, Dingane which is loosely translated as ‘need’ or ‘the one you need,’ my father was an important figure we needed in the family and in my life as his daughter. His presence has always been of paramount importance because it has played a role in the woman I have become and becoming.
I used to call him Dingy-Dingy, to shorten his name and he used to call me Ndodakazi, Mama or Mashegos and when he was strict with me, he would refer to me by my full name Lesego. I was the apple of his eye, and he was my hero and my first love. My father had this aura about him, indoda emadodeni- which meant a real man amongst men. He was confidant, funny and intelligent. He often would joke that he did not get the opportunity to further his education after matric, but that he was an intelligent man. That he was, there was nothing my father did not know. We would often remanence with my grandmother about how he knew everything from history, politics, music, food, people’s surnames and languages. As a single parent, Dingy-Dingy needed no applause, as he would often state. His presence was never because he was forced to father me, but because he wanted to be the present biological parent.
In Dingy-Dingy I had a friend, a confidant and my biggest cheerleader. My father was proud of me, he clapped the most and always complimented me, as he would reiterate how proud he was. He taught me the ethos of love, humility and care. As he openly wore his heart out on his sleeve. I have never met someone who loved so much and loudly. Men are socialised to hide their emotions, to shrink their vulnerability and to be hardcore masculine. Dingy-Dingy loved and respected everyone, be it young or old, familiar or a stranger. With strangers, it felt like he had known them forever. With my friends, he was their father as well.
Some of my friends would often wish he were their biological father as some of their fathers have been absent in their lives, or they are non-resident fathers. As much as I could not resonate with father absence, but I could with biological maternal absence. In my mother’s absence, my father was present, and he would often say he was grateful that my mother allowed him to physically raise me, as her absence provided him with an opportunity to father me.
Indeed, there are many shades to fatherhood, and the story I have, is that of a present and loving father. Who was intelligent, handsome and kind. He loathed violence against women and children. He was a community leader, when people did not have funds to bury their loved ones, they would knock at our door, and surprisingly my father was not a ward councillor, but he would make sure that they get the burial assistance they needed. Some neighbours would come and ask him to interfere when their children were mischievous. Young boys in the neighbourhood would ask him to be their soccer coach. He would organise people to clean the community passages and patrol for safety in the community. He was not only a father to me and my brothers, but also a father and a son to the community.
The dominant narrative of father absence is a scourge truth, but it also takes away narratives and experiences like that of myself and Dingy-Dingy. I hardly see stories of father’s like mine, who are present in their children’s lives and not only financially present but physically and emotionally present in childcare labour. Even though my grandmother was responsible for childcare, my father did also perform some childcare responsibilities. He would at times ensure that I am bathed, I have eaten, when I was sick, he would take me to the doctor, and we would go shopping together be it for grocery shopping or for clothes.
Dingy-Dingy taught me how to love a variety of music, like Jazz, Kwaito, RnB, Classical Music and all types of house music. Even though he was funny and loved joking, he was strict, especially with my curfew. I was not allowed to be out in the streets after 5pm, and that is the reason I did not wander around when I was a teenager. My routine was me going to school and coming back home to my books and TV. Over the weekend he would ensure that I have a book I read or a newspaper or magazine, so I do not have an idling eye. In the community and in our extended family, they all knew me as intombazane kaBaba (Daddy’s little girl).
Stories that have Dingy-Dingy as the protagonist are often silent or rather absent in literature, in the film industry, and in the media discourse at large. I wonder is it because our narrative is not enormous enough or is that family studies are captured from a homogenous experience that accolades and promotes nuclearism? The present father I have been exposed to in literature, in movies and in academic discourses, is the nuclear biological father and the deadbeat father. Not Dingy-Dingy, a single father, who raised his daughter. The nuclear family structure is not as ideal in South Africa, as most families here do not fit this family structure.
Some of my friend’s fathers like Nqobile, Nala, Zamo, and many others are non-resident fathers, but they are present and involved in their lives. Yes, they do not physically stay with them, but they are not absent either in their lives. The question is: when do we write about these father’s and document the nuances and the relationships they have with their children?
Through the various work that the Sonke Gender Justice Organisation, the HSRC and academics who write on the fatherhood discourse like Prof Grace Khunou, Prof Kopano Ratele, Prof Mzikazi Nduna and many others; it has been evident that fatherhood, like motherhood is not biological, as we have men like uncles, community men like priests who are known as ‘social fathers’ and they would assume the role of father’s in the lives of children in families and in the community. Like Dingy-Dingy was to many children in our extended family and in our community. He was one of the present father figures to my cousin-brother Sizwe. I remember when Sizwe was rendering his eulogy at Dingy-Dingy’s funeral service, he could not contain his emotions because of how close he was with Dingy-Dingy, he mentioned as he was one of the best father figures in his life. Me and Sizwe went to the same High School and when my aunt could not fetch Sizwe’s report card, Dingy-Dingy would be allowed to fetch it, as my aunt had stated to the teachers and the school principal that Dingy-Dingy was Sizwe’s father.
I refer to Sizwe as my cousin here in this anecdote, but my father would yell at me because he raised us in a manner in which, cousinship does not exist, but that I had to regard Sizwe and my other cousins as brothers and sisters. Thabang as well, even though according to capitalistic and nuclear terminologies, I would define him as a cousin. But in Dingy-Dingy’s world, Thabang is my little brother. Thabang lived with us while my father was alive, the closest relationship I had observed outside my personal relationship I had with Dingy-Dingy. Thabang referred to my dad as ‘uBab’Omkhulu,’ which would be loosely translated as an elderly father, as he is an older brother to Thabang’s biological father. However, in white nuclear family structures, my dad would be regarded as an uncle for both Sizwe and Thabang. This interchangeable use of uncle in African families, is problematic because it ignores the distinctive terminologies used in African families, we use to refer to each other from maternal and paternal sides of the family. Dingy-Dingy was a father to Thabang, they had common love for soccer and for movies. Dingy-Dingy would be the only one in the family, who would encourage Thabang to play soccer, but to also focus on school, as he believed education is the key to a successful life.
Dingy-Dingy was filled with love and encouraged us as a family and community to love one another. I remember one evening, he gave me an instruction to play his favourite song by William Wee-Gee Howard’s (1980) titled ‘children hold on to your dreams’ at his funeral. We were to play this song when his body was to leave the house or when we were to lower his coffin. When listening to the lyrics, it was easy for me to conclude that my father’s principle was love. As the song encourages young people to believe in love, to let love be the light that shows us the way. Before his burial, when people came to offer their condolences, most of everyone exclaimed how my father was full of love, as he loved loud and showed his emotions. Even when society has socialised men to not openly express their emotions.
This anecdote does not take away the height of father absence and the detrimental effects it has on children, as this is a lived reality for most. But this narrative is to tell a story about my late father, my Dingy-Dingy who was imperfect but an amazing soul that has set the bar high. His presence and love have made me believe that given the opportunity, good fathers and good men do exist. Like he would often say, as a society, we need to unite so to build each other and dismantle structures that divide and conquer us as a people. To dismantle patriarchal and capitalistic structures that make it difficult for biological fathers to be present fathers in their children’s lives.
PS: Happy Father’s Day to you my Dingy-Dingy, I told you I will tell them about you Daddy. May your soul continue to inspire me to tell the stories we shared. With Love, your daughter- Lesego Linda Plank.
- Lesego Plank is a researcher at the Unisa Chief Albert Luthuli Research Chair
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