Just Aromatise it

In a country fractured by the absence, silence and violence of fathers, this collection reclaims the power of fatherhood through unique South African voices. In this edited extract from ‘Lessons from My Father’ — which was compiled and edited by Melinda Ferguson and Steve Anderson — Lindiwe Hani writes about her father, struggle hero Chris Hani

EXTRACT

People know the legend, the great Chris Hani. The commander. The comrade. The man with steel in his spine and the country in his mouth. He is the man whose name lives on: on street signs and in schools. There’s even the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital named after him. But I knew the man who believed Aromat could fix any meal — and maybe, if we are being honest here, a few of life’s other problems too.

He was that father. Loud jerseys. Nerdy dance moves that made you question your bloodline. An unfounded confidence in the kitchen. You had to love his cooking. Mostly because you had no choice.

He cooked like he led: with full conviction, no consultation, and in the deep belief that any problem could be resolved with enough seasoning. And by seasoning, I mean Aromat. “Just aromatise it!” was both his instruction and solution.

One day, he made bean soup (or what he called “bean soup”). The beans were so hard, we joked that they had survived the boil. They floated stubbornly in the pot like little revolutionaries refusing to soften under pressure. He dished them up anyway, proudly, as though tenderness was an optional extra.

My father was a man raising three daughters. And he showed up. Not with fanfare. Not with performative declarations. But with presence. With consistency. With real love — the kind that does not have to be spoken to be known

—  — Lindiwe Hani

We ate the beans, because it was Daddy. (And because criticising the food of a man who was staring down apartheid felt disrespectful.) And then, of course, there was the dancing.

My father danced as though rhythm was a concept someone had once explained to him — badly — and he decided to freestyle from then on. Picture Bill Cosby in those loud sweaters before the man turned out to be someone we could not defend. That was Daddy. Offbeat. Chaotic. Fully committed. Arms in one time zone, legs in another. And yet, when it came to the toyi-toyi, the man was untouchable. Feet like thunder. Shoulders militant. That was not dancing. That was power in motion. Protest embodied.

At family parties, gatherings, or just our lounge on a Sunday afternoon, he danced like no-one was watching. Unfortunately, we always were. It was a source of our deep embarrassment. And yet, what a gift to have a father who did not need to be cool to be adored. He also had a full-blown vendetta against long phone calls.

According to him, phones were strictly for function.

“It is just for communication!” he would bark. “Say what you need to say and hang up!”

He policed the landline like a security threat. My sister once got told she had “no telephone culture” — a phrase so specific and so hilariously dramatic that it deserves its own plaque.

It did not matter that we were teenagers, or that friends were our oxygen. Once a call passed the five-minute mark, you could feel his energy shift, even from another room. A cough. A shuffle. A sigh.

If you ignored the signals, the line might just “mysteriously” cut. He was shameless.

But, while he did not believe in long phone calls, he believed in us.

What I hold closest now — what I reach for in the silence — is not the dancing, the bean soup, or even the teasing. It is this: My father was a man raising three daughters. And he showed up. Not with fanfare. Not with performative declarations. But with presence. With consistency. With real love — the kind that does not have to be spoken to be known.

For much of our early lives, he was not physically there. Exile and duty made sure of that. But when he returned, he made sure we felt him. He made up for lost time not with grand gestures, but with the everyday. Meals. Conversations. Mischief. Discipline. Laughter. When he came back, he came back fully. Not as a myth. As a father.

He adored my mother. I say that not as her daughter, but as a witness. He respected her out loud. He did not diminish her voice. There were no theatrics to their love — no grand public declarations — but the way he deferred to her, the way they moved in partnership, said everything. I saw in him the kind of man who could lead thousands, but still ask his wife where she kept the dishtowels.

THE FRANSCHHOEK LITERARY FESTIVAL, SA’s PREMIER LITERARY EVENT, POPS UP AT STEYN CITY!

Date: Thursday, 9 October

Time: 17:30 for 18:00 start

Venue: Steyn City Sales Lounge at City Centre

Join celebrated South African change-makers, Dr Imtiaz Sooliman and Lindiwe Hani as they reflect on their contributions to ‘Lessons from My Father’, a moving anthology honouring the influence of fathers and father figures. Michelle Constant will guide this insightful and poignant conversation on legacies, connection, and the stories that define us.

Local wine, with compliments of Porcupine Ridge, as well as delicious canapés, form part of this exclusive glimpse into the annual Franschhoek Literary Festival experience.

Tickets R100pp, available through Webtickets.

Exclusive Books will have copies of the book on sale.