THE ORDER OF KORES

Ses

"In other and more important news, let's talk about the economic decline of our country, Rabeka," the radio host spoke to his co-host.

"I'm honestly just sick and tired of corruption in this country, Mike. Let's look at the Deputy Minister of Education, Frank Duma, he's currently facing charges of up to 40 years in prison for the unaccounted R176 million, that had been split into various accounts belonging to his family."

"Just to provide context to the listeners, he was stealing this money over years, taking 2 million here, 10 million here, and the largest transaction was 25 million at once."

"This money was meant to be used for the education of the underprivileged in this country. It was meant to put children who came from the rural areas through school, it was meant to buy textbooks, to buy pencils, to buy food for the children to eat, and this...this selfish man and his selfish family, took that money and divulged on expensive holidays, expensive homes, and luxury cars, and the usual that these politicians spend on."

"You know, I know some pretty twisted people, but this really is beyond me. You can see thousands, hundreds of thousands– in fact, millions of 7, 8, 9, 10 year old little children in the villages, walking barefoot to school, crossing rivers and walking kilometres, to try and get that basic education, and you have our deputy minister of education and his counterparts all eating that money that's meant to better us as a country. I mean, really? What happened to having basic compassion? Or is the money that much, that you'd rather not send children to school and use that money to fund private businesses and family affairs?"

"We're not talking about 1 million, or 2, or 3, we're talking about 176 million. That's a lot of money!"

"It's a lot of money!"

"And he bought a private plane, yes he did!"

"A private plane?!"

I rushed to switch off the radio, swallowing my cries as I struggled to see through my blurry vision as I tried to find a place where I could stop the car. My heart was breaking, my ears were pounding, and I felt sick to my stomach, hearing what those people had to say about my father and my family.

I felt absolutely horrified about what these people were saying, about what the truth really was. I couldn't help but feel ashamed to bear the surname of my father with my name, to be associated with him and my family. It ate me up and killed me inside that my father stole from all those poor children, stole from the money that was meant to send children to school, money that was supposed to fund schools.

I pulled the car off the side of the road and parked there, resting my head on the steering wheel. I cried silently as my fingers moved with their own mind and reached for my phone, dialling my father's number that I had memorised. I looked down at the screen, seeing the little droplets of my tears on there as it began to ring.

I watched as the screen flashed, indicating that he'd answered it. I brought the phone to my ear, and heard my father speak. "Evelyn," my father said my name in that warm and fatherly voice of his. His voice always brought a comfort that only a father could. I'd been such a daddy's girl growing up, and even now, I can't help but almost smile at the sound of his voice saying my name. He said it with a strange accent too, as if even after all of these years, he didn't know how to really pronounce my name.

"Baba," I greeted softly, my voice cracking showing that I was crying.

"Unjani ngane yami?" (How are you my child?) he asked, and I took in a deep breath.

I hadn't spoken to him in months, but he had this habit, of when I called, he'd talk to me like the last time we spoke was a few days or even hours ago. I was trying to cut myself away from my family as much as possible because I didn't want the stain of their reputation on my already tainted name.