“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.)”
Then Vusi starts singing the first verse in his trademark velvet tone—raw, aching, yet resilient: “Kukho imithwalo esiyithwalayo… (There are burdens we carry…) Kodwa uthando lwakho lusisindisa…” (But Your love saves us…)” He looks directly at Thando. Her throat unlocks.
That night, Thando has a dream. She sees her mother dancing in a field of sunflowers, but her mother’s mouth doesn’t move. Instead, the voice coming from her mother’s spirit is soft, broken, yet hopeful. It’s singing a melody Thando has never heard.
Thando hasn’t sung a note since the funeral. She believes God has forgotten her. Simbonga Ngothando feat. Vusi Nova
The three of them spend the night arranging the song. Vusi records it on his phone. Lwando adds a bass line from an old guitar. By dawn, the shack isn’t a tomb anymore. It’s a sanctuary.
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.
She wakes up with tears on her face and a single lyric in her heart: “Simbonga ngothando, hayi ngezinyembezi…” (We thank You through love, not through tears…) She sees her mother dancing in a field
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.
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.
“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.’” Thando hasn’t sung a note since the funeral
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.”
Thando’s lips tremble. She tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Lwando scoffs and heads for the door.
The next morning, as Lwando packs his bag, a knock comes at the door. It’s Vusi Nova , a family friend and a traveling musician who once played at Thando’s wedding. He heard about Mama Nomvula and has come to pay respects.