This and that with Mal'phosa - Long live the love letter

Four ‘love' letters still stand out prominently from among the many I am lucky to have seen and read. Of course, one was written by me and it made me the laughing stock of the whole class if not the whole school. My brothers had just come back from Wenela in South Africa and they had brought back old fashioned praise singing which could have been useful to my grandfather and not my generation. It sounded catchy, and one could use it for show-off, so I thought, until I was disgraced at school. I had written a beautiful and flowery letter but I spoiled it in the end by ‘singing my praises'.

"Gegela gege ntombi; kikilikigi ntombi!"And signed; "Yimi u gamgugudu ugubula zimshiye ukhasi lemali; ungulube ziyam'osh'ukiss ngoba zimfak'odakeni!" This was simply irrelevant and archaic. I guess it sounded kind of spooky to the poor girl. And this is that stupid declaration that had the whole class in stitches and the teacher seething and the girl going off sick for a fortnight until hopefully the dust had settled. But the dust stubbornly lingered around like some chronic halitosis, diffusing to other classes too. The naughty boys twisted this whole thing and called us Mr. and Mrs. Mgugudwana, despite the fact that ngangingaka qonywa. The teacher did not help matters too, calling me Mgugudwana at every opportunity. Abanye who did not know the origins of the name concluded ukuthi ngele khaya! I tried to go with the flow hoping if I didn't remonstrate, they would forget it. This stupidity also destroyed whatever chance I had hooking up with prospective dearly loved Mrs. Mgugudwana.

I met one former primary school mate the other day at Carlton Centre. He called me Mr. Mgugudwana, and asked when last I had seen Mrs. Mgugudwana. Surprisingly he was not even in my class then. That small and seemingly innocent act of seeking love left a stigma which is so impossible to shake off some forty years later.

Then there was this boy in form three – a very quiet boy who never showed any emotion regardless of what was happening around him. He always wore an impressionable expression that baffled both friend and foe. He had just one known friend. They were like lightning and thunder in many instances. Everyone wondered how these two got along since the other one was always sullen and taciturn. On the other hand the one friend was always prancing around like a toy that just got a new battery; he went through life by lying joking and copying.

"Do or die", was the Jesus-Wept kind of verse on the full-scape paper. "Die", was the vicious, red-inked answer a few lines beneath the boy's stylish signature. And I think the girl had deliberately put that letter in that exercise book just to fix him. Yes, it was him; the hand-writing and the awkwardness he displayed said it all. He hid half his face behind DG Mackeens ‘Human Biology' text book, and from where I stood, I could see only half of his face beyond the edge of the broad book, and the hunched miserly shoulders. But still, he showed no facial emotion, although he fidgeted right through the lesson. But he came to me lunch hour to apologize. I said I never found his letter offensive or criminal. The letter did not say what the other person was supposed to "Do", or what they were supposed to die of. "Hey, but stop threatening these young girls; they will think boys are monsters" I admonished.

The third letter was written by a dreamer who literally promised the poor girl all things celestial and heavenly. "I have decided to send my 377 stars to deliver this message of love to my one and only angel". And all the other confused teenage garbage coming out of a simmering combo of ‘hormones-driven' passion. I wondered why the letter had not reached its addressee. Yes, like all the rest, how do they end up in exercise books? Never mind this – but what annoyed me was the fact that students plucked out so many pages from their exercise books just to satisfy that desire to express ‘love'.

The fourth letter was written by a teacher from a neighbouring Secondary School. The man had taken a dictionary and stolen every thinkable jaw-breaker in there. I had never seen such madness in my life as a teacher. He was also a seer who saw the girl's face roll round and round, making the sun dimmer and colder and jealous. It was my first time also to see such terms as gorgeous, exquisite, perambulate, tigress, figure, copulation, fervent kiss, tears of love and such other ‘gorgeous' terms. He had started the letter well I think. "As usual, I do the pen-pushing and you do the reading - - -". And signed well too, "My pen is crying for freedom". Yes, I'd have cried too if I had been your pen! Having to spew all this trivia was entirely exhausting and discomforting?

But he came to see me after he heard what had befallen his letter. He wanted to aplogise and buy my silence and also ask for advice. I told him yes he was assured of my silence but I wasn't doing well also in that department, sorry.

And then there was this skelem of a local girl, a school leaver who used to write one letter and copy it to all her boy-friends. She used her younger brother as her fast mail courier, delivering at least three letters to her polyandrous relationships. The boy somehow forgot the three letters in his Commerce exercise book. I read through the letters or should I say letter. She was an experienced con-woman. In one letter she had told Mr. X from the primary school that it was long over with Mr. P. from the secondary school; in the second letter she declared her undying love for Mr. P, and promised that it was definitely over between herself and Mr. X from the Primary School, "Lowana uyazifosela nje; ngamala kudala - - - and you are the only one for me". In the third letter to a local guy who traditionally stayed and worked eGoli and had just arrived, "Lowo", referring to the primary school teacher who was the chief suspect enjiveni, "uyangifuna kodwa mina angilandaba laye vele". This was good work from the trickster, intended to leave each of the three thinking they were the only one in her life. Then disaster struck, as it would in such messy affairs of the heart. The boy crossed the letters in such a way that no one got what was due to them. Mr. X got a letter that was written about him; Mr. P also; and so did Mr. C. I said to Mr. P, just post back that letter and ask her to send your rightful one. He did. And the girl ran away to South Africa.

But I still miss those days of love letters. They had lasting effects – good or bad, like the one that made me a celebrity. Ngiyabonga mina!