“Asimbongi ngegolide, asimbongi ngegazi… (We don’t thank with gold, we don’t thank with blood…) Simbonga ngothando olungapheliyo.” (We thank You with a love that never ends.)”
Thando’s lips tremble. She tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Lwando scoffs and heads for the door.
Thando’s younger brother, Lwando , is leaving for Johannesburg tomorrow. He’s angry—not at her, but at the world. He blames the ancestors, the church, and everyone who promised they’d be “blessed” if they just prayed hard enough. “Where was uThixo when Mama was suffering?” he yells. Simbonga Ngothando feat. Vusi Nova
Vusi begins to hum the melody. It’s the song of Simbonga Ngothando . A song not of asking, but of thanking —even in the dust, even in the silence.
Thando hasn’t sung a note since the funeral. She believes God has forgotten her. Thando’s younger brother, Lwando , is leaving for
No one speaks for a while. Then Vusi sits at an old, out-of-tune piano in the corner (Mama’s piano). He plays a single chord—the same chord from Thando’s dream.
Lwando stops at the door. His hand falls from the handle. He turns back. Without a word, he sits down, puts his head in his hands, and weeps—not from grief, but from release. “Where was uThixo when Mama was suffering
Months later, the song becomes an anthem in the Eastern Cape—played at funerals, weddings, and church services. People ask, “Who is singing?” The answer is always: “That’s Thando. And Vusi. But mostly… that’s Mama Nomvula.”
“Your mother used to sing this,” Vusi says softly. “She wrote it during the 1980s, in the struggle. She said, ‘Vusi, if I ever go silent, you sing it for my children.’”