by Malla Nunn
“I have questions that need answers.”
“Ask,” he says.
“Will you tell my mayme what happened to Annalisa?”
“Yes, I will. She needs to know. Neville won’t hear a thing from me. That I can promise.”
We turn onto the dirt lane, lit by lanterns and candles and electric bulbs burning in the shacks with windows. Father Gibson heaves a long sigh to see the rusted holes in every wall of every tin building.
“To imagine someone from your family living here . . .”
He’s right, but I prickle at his tone. This is my home.
“We have shelter,” I say. “We have enough.”
“Enough to survive is not enough to build your best lives, Amandla. Your family should be ashamed of themselves. The gospel of Timothy says: ‘If anyone has no care for his family and those in his house, he is false to the faith, and is worse than one who has no faith.’ ”
More words. I agree with them, but other worries creep into my mind. The police investigation into Jacob’s death for one, and the possibility, however unlikely, that William Caluza will try to avenge his younger brother. Jacob was an addict, but William had hope that one day he would find a good life with a good woman. Now that hope is gone.
We find ourselves back at my house. I push open the door and lead Father Gibson inside. Dr. Dlamini and Mrs. M are cleaning up dirty bandages and wiping down the bedside table. I concentrate on Mrs. M’s face and try to read her expression. Is she worried or hopeful? She looks away, and Dr. Dlamini says, “The wound is cleaned and closed, but it’s still touch and go. The next few hours are crucial. Nurse Mashanini will monitor her through the night.”
“But she’ll be okay? She’ll live?”
“Her chances are good if the bleeding stops and if an infection doesn’t set in . . .” Dr. Dlamini says. “If not, we’ll have to move her to the intensive care ward at the Bollard Institute.”
If the bleeding stops. If an infection doesn’t set in . . . The word if means there’s a chance that Annalisa could die. That can’t be right. I lean into Mrs. M, desperate for reassurance.
“Calm your mind, Amandla. Your mother is young and strong, and when she wakes up, she will have a scar to remind her of her good luck.” Mrs. M told me the same thing when she bandaged the cut on my hand earlier. Scars are lucky charms, signs to the ancestors that you have already suffered and now God must go and test someone else. Mrs. M believes our old suffering wards off new suffering, despite our township being full of people who have been hurt over and over again. Some of them die. True fact.
I push down my fear and go straight to Annalisa. She’s still unconscious. The rise and fall of her chest is barely discernible, but she seems peaceful. She almost died for me today. Part of me wants to scream at her for doing it. What was she thinking? Instead, I grab a wet cloth and wipe her face with even strokes, the same way she did for me whenever I had a fever. Annalisa is not perfect, but in this moment, she is my one perfect thing.
If she wakes, I will tell her.
22
Father Gibson stands between Dr. Dlamini and Mrs. M at the kitchen table. We hold hands, and he bows his head to pray. Annalisa believes in angels who take a personal interest in everything she does, whether it’s shopping or sleeping or working a crossword puzzle. I’m lukewarm on the idea of a hands-on God, but how can a quick word with the boss upstairs hurt? It might help Annalisa pull through the night and into the light of a bright new morning.
“Heavenly Father, thank you for sparing Annalisa today. And for bringing Mrs. Mashanini and Dr. Dlamini to help. Surround Annalisa with your unfailing love and care at this time of injury and pain. Help her to heal.”
Short and sweet and to the point.
“Amen,” we all say. And we mean it. We open our eyes and raise our heads.
“Amandla,” Mrs. M says, “put the kettle on, my girl. It’s time for tea.”
I fill the kettle, light the gas, and admit that I’m scared but not yet terrified. A nurse, a doctor, and a priest came to Annalisa’s aid. It doesn’t matter whether or not there is a higher power looking out for us. Today proves that people down here are looking out for each other.
“Thank you.” I include everyone present. “For helping my mother.”
Dr. Dlamini stretches her arms above her head and turns from side to side to loosen her tight muscles. She is toned and stylish and smells of cardamom and other warm spices that I can’t identify. Dr. Dlamini is the black version of Annalisa before the fall. “Amandla, it is my pleasure to help Amanda Bollard’s daughter. And her granddaughter,” she says. “Your grandmother has been very kind to me and so generous in her support of the wound care department at the Bollard Institute. This is the least I could do.”
I understand. The Bollard family’s money buys more than food and shelter. It buys doctors who will come when you need them.
“Please, sit.” I remember my manners. “I’ll pour the tea.”
It’s not the English breakfast or black Darjeeling tea that I imagine the doctor and the priest are used to drinking, but rooibos, a red bush tea that grows in the craggy Cederberg mountains. We ran out of the good stuff a week ago, and with the money pile thinning out, the second-best stuff is all we can afford. I reach up and grab the unopened Romany Creams biscuits. If ever there was a time to crack them open, it is now.
I pour water into the teapot. Dr. Dlamini takes a Romany Creams and passes the packet to Mrs. M, who takes two of them and bites into the first one with a long sigh. It’s only 9:20, but it’s already been a long night.
The door creaks open and Goodness and Lil Bit walk in, followed by Lewis, who dumps a burlap sack in the corner. They are clean and dressed in fresh clothes, and if you didn’t know that Jacob was lying dead somewhere, you’d never guess that the four of us helped kill a man today. Or rather, we stopped him from killing us today.
“Father Gibson and Dr. Dlamini, meet my friends Lil Bit, Goodness, and Lewis. When Jacob attacked us in the alley, they helped to fight him off. Without them, both Annalisa and me might be dead.”
Dr. Dlamini nods, and Father Gibson shakes each hand held out to him. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s good to know Amandla has friends she can rely on.”
“No problem, Father,” Lewis says quietly, and touches my arm. Everything that happened today propelled us past the friendship-with-flirting stage. It feels like the four of us are blood brothers and sisters now.
“How’s your ma?” Lil Bit asks, and I turn to Dr. Dlamini and Mrs. M, who cleaned and stitched the wound. I let them give the prognosis. If I speak, I will cry.
Dr. Dlamini says, “If she gets through the night without a major bleed, she should recover. I’ve left painkillers, antibiotics, and instructions in Mrs. Mashanini’s capable hands.”
“Not to worry.” Mrs. M is confident. “I will take good care of Miss Harden.”
The doctor packs her medical bag and snaps the lock closed with a loud click. I shuffle from foot to foot, nervous at saying what has to be said.
“You came all this way, and I’m sorry, but I have no money to pay you, Dr. Dlamini . . .”
“Consider the biscuit payment. I’m taking another one before I go.” She grabs a second biscuit on the way out and eats it in two bites. “If you need anything, call Father Gibson and we’ll arrange it. Take good care of your mother. Take good care of yourself. I hope to see you again, Amandla. In a nonmedical situation, though.”
I soak in the details of the doctor’s angular face and high cheekbones, her brown eyes that slant down at the corners. Even now, dressed in a bloodstained pantsuit and with her long braid of hair unraveled into a frizz of curls, she is a queen. She is everything I want to be in the future: educated, confident, and skilled.
“Thank you again.” I open the door to let her and Father Gibson go home. I’m humbled by their generosi
ty and strangely embarrassed to be on the receiving end of it. Annalisa says that we live in Sugar Town, but that we don’t belong here, and tonight proved that she is at least partly right. We are connected to the world outside of the township, and a single phone call brought a doctor to our door—something that our neighbors will never experience.
“We’ll walk you to your car,” Lewis says, and an exhausted Mrs. M waves us out with a yawn before collapsing onto my cot. Lil Bit and Goodness come out into the garden, and it’s comforting to have the four of us safe and together. “Where are you parked?”
Father Gibson squints the length of the lane in one direction and then the other. It is night now, with a half-moon rising. “In front of a pink house with a blue door. The number has slipped my mind.”
“Maggie Mabula’s house,” Lil Bit says. Impulsive Maggie Mabula, who once ran into the street in a pink bra and panties to save her one-eared dog from being hit by a dump truck. Maggie, who distributes letters and packages to the right address when the postman is too busy or too scared to approach a house with a dog in the yard.
“Down here, Father.” Lil Bit and Goodness lead the way, and Lewis and I fall behind. Not on purpose. It just happens. It’s strange to walk through the Sugar Town streets in the dark. Normally, we lock the door at seven sharp and do not go outside till after dawn. In my own way, I have been guided and protected and kept from harm by Annalisa’s constant presence.
“Who are they?” Lewis asks as we walk side by side.
“I told you. Father Gibson and Dr. Dlamini.”
“No,” he says. “I mean, who are they to you?”
Lewis is right to ask. Doctors do not make house calls to shacks in Sugar Town. Doctors are gods who keep short hours at the clinic and disappear back into the city, defeated by the number of patients still waiting for treatment.
“Father Gibson is the family priest, and Dr. Dlamini knows my grandmother.”
“Not many people in Sugar Town have those kind of connections, Amandla.” Lewis gives me a long sideways glance. “So your ma was right. You don’t belong here, and one day soon, you’ll be gone.”
If Annalisa lives, there’s a chance that our dream of moving out will come true. If she doesn’t make it through the night, well, who knows where I’ll end up?
“There’s a difference between dreams and reality,” I tell Lewis. “Let’s just say that I’m not going anywhere soon.”
Maggie Mabula’s house is a few feet ahead; Father Gibson stops at a white car with tinted windows and white hubcaps that have, by some miracle, escaped the notice of our local car thieves.
We reach the new-model sedan, gleaming and perfect. Dr. Dlamini pulls a ring of keys from her coat pocket and presses a button to open the doors. She takes the driver’s seat. It’s thrilling to see a black woman behind the wheel of a powerful automobile. Lady . . . I want to be you in ten years’ time. Father Gibson pulls me into a bear hug. “I’ll let Amanda know what’s happened, and I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
The engine of the immaculate car growls. It pulls into the badly lit street, turns toward Durban, and disappears. After a moment, we walk back home together in the softly lit darkness. Goodness bumps her shoulder against mine.
“Oh, by the way, we’re all staying overnight at your house,” she says. “My mother grumbled about it and Lil Bit’s mum grumbled about it, but I told them both straight, ‘No arguments. It’s happening.’ ”
“But why?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” Goodness says, and my face burns to think of Lewis lying close to me in the dark.
23
Lil Bit pours petrol into the metal garbage bin that Lewis rolled from the corner of Tugela Way and into our front yard. I dump Annalisa’s bloody bandages inside, light a match, and drop it in. The match falls, and flames lick the bandages before they catch fire and burn. Flames rise.
“I love fire,” Lil Bit says. “Let it build.”
Goodness drags the burlap sack that Lewis brought with them to the edge of the crackling barrel. Smoke billows, and I rub the sting from my eyes. I will have to shampoo twice to get the wood-fire stink out of my hair.
“Now what?” Lil Bit asks Goodness. “Do we go in order or all at once?”
“There is no order.” Goodness opens the sack, and the metallic smell of blood is strong. “All right, everyone. I called my Auntie Mags. She said to burn everything with blood on it. She’s a sangoma, a healer, so she knows the right way to do things. The fire will get rid of the bad luck. After this, we have to wash in a river or in the ocean, to make sure that every bit of blood is washed away.”
Traditional religion and Christianity go hand in hand in the township, but this will be the first time that I’ve taken part in a Zulu ceremony. I find it comforting to be shown a way through the terror that still beats inside my heart. The moments in the alley are etched in my mind: the stone wall, Jacob with his knife, Annalisa bleeding on the ground, Lil Bit and Lewis attacking Jacob, and Goodness using the brick to send Jacob reeling into me with the knife pressed into his chest. I want it all gone. Wiped away. If burning our clothes and washing in a river or the ocean helps, I will follow every word of Auntie Mags’s advice.
“I’ll go first.” Lewis reaches into the sack and pulls out his shirt and jeans, dark with Annalisa’s blood. His hand shakes as he drops the filthy rags into the flames. The fire splutters, then ignites the material.
“Now me.” Lil Bit pulls out her clothes and drops them into the bin. I grab the sack and snag my T-shirt, jacket, and jeans, all soaked in Jacob’s blood. I sacrifice them to the flames and notice, too late, that I have accidentally dumped the T-shirt that Goodness used to put pressure on Annalisa’s open wound.
“Oh . . . I didn’t mean to burn your stuff.”
“No big deal,” Goodness says. “The ancestors will understand.”
The T-shirt saved my mother from bleeding out in the lane, and it is my honor to feed it to the cleansing fire.
“I’ll do the rest.” Goodness throws the entire sack into the bin. Bloodied bandages and sheets. Annalisa’s T-shirt and jeans. They all burn to ash. I hold my hands out to the fire and feel the heat lick my fingers. My body warms up, but, deep inside, a part of me stays cold.
Jacob is dead. He fell on his own knife while we fought to save ourselves and Annalisa. We acted in self-defense. So why does his dying feel so bad? Why do I feel so guilty for attracting his attention in the first place? I must have done something to draw his eyes to me. Did I laugh too loud at one of Lil Bit’s jokes? Are my clothes too tight? Is my smile too bright? I have to find what I did wrong so that I never do it again.
“Is Jacob’s body still in the lane?” I ask.
“No,” Lewis says. “The police picked Jacob up from the lane and took him to the morgue. My father dropped by the police station and told them that we talked to William and we’ve sorted the matter out between ourselves. They recorded Jacob’s death as ‘accidental,’ and that was the end of it.”
But it’s not the end. Not for a long, long time. Not ever. Even Jacob Caluza was loved by someone.
The dark shape of a person enters the lane from Sisulu Street, and the four of us tense. Goodness grabs a stone from the ground, and Lewis’s hands flex into fists. We are still nervous from today and expecting some form of payback.
I squint into the low light and see that it is William Caluza, carrying a small bundle wrapped in wax paper and tied with string. Goodness holds the rock up, ready to throw. Stay right there if you know what’s good for you. He stops and opens his arms in a gesture that indicates he’s not here for more violence.
I wave him closer, relieved. He comes over to the fence and holds the package out to me. “Chicken legs for your mother,” he says. “The best for Miss Harden.”
“Thanks.” I take the gif
t, and the fire throws light onto William’s tight jaw and swollen eyes. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He is sad and afraid. Lewis and his brothers have told him to forgive and forget, and that is what he is here to do.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you and your mother, but at least now I can sleep at night. No more worrying about Jacob. Is he sick? Is he well? When will he go to jail again?” William says. “All that is over.”
He walks away, a lonely silhouette. Tears stream down my face. William has lost a brother, and I feel his pain.
* * *
* * *
Goodness’s Auntie Mags says that we have to stick together till dawn; if we are alone, the demons will pick us off one by one. Demons love the taste of human fear, and with Annalisa still in danger, I have plenty of fear stored up. Auntie Mags said that if we stick together, we will be too strong for the demons to attack. Together is how we can send them back to the darkness they came from.
We roost like chickens in the small amount of space available inside the house. Mrs. M sleeps in my cot, too tired to make it across the way and into a house crowded with children. Lil Bit, Goodness, and I squash together on the kitchen floor, and Lewis takes the space under the table. We are packed together, and it feels safe. I’ve never had a brother or sister, so being this close to this many people is new and different for me. I could get used to it.
“You wanted action on the holidays and you got it,” I tell Goodness. “Bet you wish that you’d stayed away from Lil Bit and me now.”
“No.” She stretches out like a cat. “I was with you in the alley. My being there made a difference, and it had nothing to do with anyone in my family but me.”
“But your parents give you everything,” Lil Bit says. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
Goodness turns to face us. “That’s the problem. I have everything, except none of it is mine. When people smile at me, they are smiling at my parents. The same with my brothers. But me, Goodness, myself? I don’t fit. All that township social stuff doesn’t have anything to do with me.”