Whispers of the Debt
FICTION
Image by August de Richelieu/Pexels
In a leafy corner of Durban’s quiet suburbs, where jacaranda petals softened the pavements and children played between garden fences, the Mbatha family lived with quiet dignity. Their home, warm with the scent of vetkoek and simmering stews, echoed on Sundays with hymns sung in isiZulu and laughter from cousins chasing each other between rooms.
To the outside world, the Mbathas were just another close-knit family. But those who knew them well would tell you—never ask a Mbatha for money. And never, ever offer them a loan.
It wasn’t written anywhere. It was just known. Like a hush that settled whenever the topic of money came up.
To Themba, the eldest son at twenty-one, the silence felt like suffocation.
That Sunday afternoon, after the usual feast of chakalaka, grilled boerewors, and a second helping of malva pudding, he decided to break the silence.
“Baba,” he said, trying to sound casual as he spooned custard over his pudding. “I’ve found a car. It’s perfect. A 2012 Toyota—decent mileage. I’ve saved most of the money, but I’m short by just fifteen grand.”
Sipho Mbatha didn’t look up. He placed his spoon down gently, the clink loud in the stillness that followed.
“We don’t lend money, Themba,” he said, voice low but firm.
“I’m not a stranger. I’m your son,” Themba snapped, the mask slipping. “You have the money. Why watch me struggle?”
Sipho’s jaw tensed. “You know our ways.”
“They’re not my ways,” Themba muttered. “This is backward thinking—fear dressed as tradition.”
Before the tension could thicken, Zandile, his mother, touched Sipho’s arm. “Let it rest,” she whispered.
But Sipho’s eyes didn’t leave his son’s. “Not fear, Themba. Wisdom carved from blood.”
A Secret Woven in Shadows
Later that night, as wind rustled through the tall trees outside, Zandile folded laundry by the flickering hallway light.
“We can’t keep it from him,” she said quietly. “He’s not a child anymore.”
“He’s not ready,” Sipho replied, gaze distant.
“But the curse doesn’t care about readiness,” Zandile whispered. “It only cares about debt.”
Sipho closed his eyes.
“I’ll tell him,” she said.
The Debt That Cursed Blood
Themba sat at the kitchen table, half-listening to the kettle boil, when his mother entered with an old photograph. It was frayed at the edges—sepia-toned, a man in traditional dress standing beside an oxen cart.
“Your great-great-grandfather, Jabulani Mbatha,” she said. “A respected man. A healer. A farmer.”
She sat down across from him.
“He once lent money to his cousin Mandla, to save his homestead. Mandla promised to repay him. He never did. Worse—he mocked him. Called him a fool.”
Themba raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“Jabulani was humiliated. In desperation, he called on the ancestors for justice.”
She lowered her voice.
“They heard him.”
Themba gave a short laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“He began to feel pain in his joints. Then white patches appeared. Sores. At first, they thought it was a coincidence. Then Mandla’s son began to show the same signs. Then Jabulani’s daughter. It spread, not like disease, but like… punishment.”
Zandile’s eyes darkened.
“The ancestors cursed both sides—for lending and for borrowing. Our family vowed never to engage in financial loans again. To give, yes. To receive freely, yes. But never to lend or borrow.”
Defiance and Desperation
Themba stared at her. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“It’s our blood,” she said. “You may not believe, but the ancestors do.”
But disbelief is loud in the hearts of the young.
The next day, Themba approached his sister in the backyard as she hung clothes.
“Nandi,” he whispered, glancing around. “I need help. Just R15,000. Baba won’t give it. You can. You know I’ll pay you back.”
She hesitated.
“You believe in this curse?” he added, half-laughing.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But Mama… she once told me stories of a cousin who borrowed R200 from his uncle. A month later, the uncle’s crops failed, and the cousin lost his voice.”
“That’s just a coincidence,” Themba insisted. “Come on. Don’t make me beg.”
In the end, love won. Nandi transferred the money.
And so the car was bought.
The Whispering Begins
At first, life seemed brighter. Themba drove through the city like a king, music blaring, windows down. But a week later, he woke with a strange ache in his fingers.
By the following weekend, Nandi stood at the mirror, frowning at a pale patch forming on her temple.
“Eczema?” she guessed. “Sunburn?”
When the patch grew, and Themba’s knuckles began to swell, they both knew.
They confessed.
Sipho’s hands trembled as he listened.
“You thought we were controlling you,” he said. “We were trying to protect you.”
Zandile wept silently. “The curse doesn’t forgive dishonour.”
Scars and Salvation
Themba sold the car. Used every cent to pay for Nandi’s treatment. Some of the symptoms eased, but the scars remained—on skin, and between them.
They travelled to consult elders. One old woman in Nongoma listened without judgement and said, “You cannot undo what was done. But you can honour what remains.”
So Themba returned home, quieter, slower.
For Those Who Come After
Years later, the family gathered beneath the stars around a crackling fire. The children sat with wide eyes as Themba recounted the tale.
“There’s a reason we don’t lend or borrow,” he said. “Ubuntu means we give when we can. Freely. Without strings. Because money can strangle even the strongest bonds.”
The flames danced in the children’s eyes, shadows flickering like ghosts from another time.
And somewhere beyond the firelight, the ancestors listened. Silent. Watching.