Best Debut Short Stories 2021

by Yuka Igarashi

  Nkhono’s feet bulging through her sandals is another thing that I cannot unsee. I know we’re halfway to my father when this starts to happen. I’ll know we’re closer when her feet start to slow down. I’ll know we’re closest when her feet start to drag, and I’ll know we’re there when her feet stand across a worn plank bearing my father’s name.

  Plot N

  “Is this it?” I ask Nkhono as we stand across a heap of red sand.

  “I think it is. Although without a plank, hard to say.”

  This is true. In Avalon rest hundreds of thousands of graves in different plots, each a grim tale. Plot A–H the story of a Black struggle for liberation; Plot I–M the story of a pandemic that took our neighbor away; and Plot N the story of a mother who can’t find her son’s grave.

  “Let’s start again,” Nkhono says.

  I watch her fragile feet maneuver the narrow path separating each grave, scrambling across the rocks as she retraces the steps we’ve taken during each visit.

  Each attempt leads us to a different grave. Some with planks bearing the names of strangers. Others with no plank at all.

  Nkhono has never had to take pills for her mind because she’s sharp and always remembers to pack everything we need: a water bottle for the drinking fountain that promises no water; an empty bag for her eggshells; toilet paper for the exit toilet, which has none; and an umbrella to shield us from the sun on our walk home.

  “Must be the strong winds that yesterday brought,” she says. “The same winds that carried the litter must have swept the planks away.”

  Nkhono turns toward a different part of the graveyard, widening her search to encompass a different plot.

  Plot O

  A crowded funeral brings our search to a stop. We watch the coffin being lowered to the melodic singing of a congregation of women dressed in blue-and-white church uniforms.

  I imagine it to be the funeral of an important person because the coffin is covered in our country’s flag. Either that, or the deceased did well at showing face.

  “This is why it is important to attend the funerals of others,” Nkhono whispers to me.

  She attends at least one funeral each weekend. Says it’s important to show face at others’ funerals, because when you die families will return the favor.

  My father’s funeral was empty and on his coffin lay my Sunday dress. Nkhono told me it was empty because my father didn’t show face enough at funerals, but my aunt, who tells me things young people shouldn’t know, disagrees, saying it was empty because people can’t get off work on weekdays.

  My father never attended church, though he always encouraged me to attend with his aunt, Nkhono’s sister.

  “Just to be safe,” he’d say.

  The Methodists also wear uniforms. A black skirt, white hat, and red blouse with five buttons. The buttons are a reminder of something I cannot remember, something that happened to Jesus five times.

  Nkhono says church uniforms are a waste of money. But Nkhono’s sister says church uniforms are important in order for differences in clothing to be hidden, so that the rich and poor can look the same. Makes me wonder why Avalon hasn’t learned this—whether the graves of all deceased should be dressed with tombstones so that the rich and poor can look the same.

  A backhoe interrupts, making the singing of the congregation faint against its beeping sounds.

  It took a dozen gravediggers and me to cover my father’s coffin. They scooped up the sand with their shovels and I with my hands. Repeatedly. Half-conscious until a belly of sand protruded from the spine of the grave. It should take only a few more scoops for the man on the backhoe to finish.

  We watch the machine’s long arm reach for the ground, tossing the sand into the burial hole until Nkhono jumps at the sight of a plank being dropped into the hole.

  “Wait!” Nkhono yells, her voice drowning in the rattling metal of the backhoe. She pushes her way through the crowd and stands at the edge of the grave. “Wait!”

  The engine stops. The singing dies. The weeping I hadn’t noticed before now audible.

  “My granddaughter and I have traveled from far to quench my son’s thirst.” Nkhono gestures at the bag of Fanta in my hand. “However, the plank that marks his grave seems to be missing and we have spent the afternoon searching for his grave.”

  The mourners shake their heads in sorrow, releasing long and heartfelt moans of despair.

  “So what would you have us do, Ma?” yells a man I cannot see in the crowd.

  The mourners gradually become quiet as they listen attentively to Nkhono.

  “While the tractor was pouring sand into the grave, I noticed it pick up a plank and toss it into the hole . . .”

  Silence.

  “If only one of you could climb down into the hole and fetch the plank for me . . .”

  Uproar.

  “It would help me verify if it’s my son’s plank,” Nkhono cries out.

  “Quiet down, quiet down, believers!” the pastor interrupts, thrusting his walking stick in the air. I notice that the pastor’s belly sags over his pants, and I wonder if he chose to wear a vertical-striped shirt to make himself look lean. “What does the word say, but to fear not anything and everything, including this harmless hole in the ground?” he says.

  The pastor’s words are met by respectful yet disapproving glances from the believers.

  “Now which one of you will help this mother?” he asks.

  “I’ll fetch it,” the backhoe driver says, climbing down from the vehicle.

  With no delay he leaps into the hole. The congregation quickly closes in and looks over. The driver digs his hands into the sand, searching. He stops and pulls out the plank Nkhono saw, dusting it against his trousers.

  I breathe short breaths, while Nkhono’s only deepen and lengthen.

  “Eh . . .” he says, glancing up from the hole, “the paint has rubbed away a little, Ma, but from what I can read, this person was born sometime August 1971, born again on 8 March 2019, and died 11 March 2019.”

  “Thank you,” Nkhono says. “My son was born only once.”

  Empty Plot

  We sit under a knobthorn tree on an open plot soon to be another letter of the alphabet. A gentle wind cools us down.

  Nkhono speaks a great deal about the changes in the wind, measuring its frequency and intensity by the dust it leaves on the countertops. “When I was young,” she often tells me as I routinely wipe down the counters, “one thorough dusting a week was enough.” But my aunt, who tells me things young people shouldn’t know, once pointed out that Nkhono speaks of the dust the winds have brought when she cannot speak of the grief the winds have caused.

  As I rest my back against the bark looking across the open space, I wonder if one day this plot will tell the grim tale of even more lives taken by the strong-strong winds.

  Nkhono’s hands find themselves in the soil, unconsciously plucking at the weeds. She collects the weeds in the plastic bag with the eggshells. “Have you seen him?” she asks the ants that emerge from the soil. “A fourth deceased son? A man with an uneven hip, one leg shorter than the other?”

  I remember wishing Papa would walk like the other fathers. That his limp wouldn’t stand out as much. Even in his coffin he lay in a suit that fit one side better than the other.

  “It’s what makes me special,” he would say.

  Today I only wish that he would stand out. That something special would set him apart from the scattered heaps of sand with no plank.

  THE CONGREGATION OF women in blue and white pass us. Their work is done. Not ours.

  “Have you found the grave you were searching for, Ma?” a member asks.

  “Not yet, my child,” Nkhono says.

  “You should inquire at the cemetery offices. They should be able to help you find it.”

  The congregation of women murmur in agreement.

  “What time do they close and where do we find these offices?”

  “At the e
ntrance,” she says, pointing to the gates of the cemetery, “but you can follow us there.”

  Nkhono opens her umbrella and shields us from the sun as we walk alongside the religious women. Some speak, while others chant hymns. Nkhono stopped attending church because she says the Methodists sing like goats. But my aunt, who tells me things young people shouldn’t know, once said Nkhono doesn’t attend church because church uniforms are reserved for first wives. And Nkhono, apparently, is a second wife.

  A member walking next to me nudges my shoulder.

  “Take,” she says, handing me a box of some leftover Eet-Sum-Mors, “to have with that drink of yours.”

  I politely nod, though I know we won’t because the Fanta in the bag is not ours.

  We reach the exit of the cemetery.

  “That room over there, Ma.”

  A member points to a mustard-colored room attached to the toilets by the exit. I always imagined the toilet paper to be kept in this room—stacks of toilet paper that someone has failed to carry over to the toilet.

  “Speak to the man in charge,” one member shouts.

  “All he’ll need is your son’s surname!” a second cuts in.

  “Mm, ask him for the grave number!” a third replies.

  “Yes, from there you should find your son!” another adds.

  “Good luck!” a final one concludes.

  What I know is that all these women were simply showing face, because when it’s your father or son you’ve just buried, you don’t have much to add.

  WE STAND AT the door of a cluttered small room. Nkhono softly knocks and a middle-aged man with a smirk on his face looks up from his desk.

  “What can I help you with, Ma?” he asks.

  “Good afternoon, my son. Eh, we are looking for the in-charge of this cemetery.”

  “I am the person in charge, Ma. Please, what can I help you with?”

  “I’m here with regards to the strong winds from yesterday and the harm they have caused me.”

  “Did you lose a loved one?”

  “No.”

  “Then what can I help you with?”

  “The marker that stood above my son’s grave has been carried away by the strong winds that yesterday brought, and we’re here to request his grave number so we can locate him.”

  “Are you sure it was the wind? I don’t recall it being that strong. Our trees are still in the ground and the roof to my office intact, so yesterday’s winds were definitely not that strong.”

  I realize that perhaps it’s not by its strength that Nkhono should refer to yesterday’s wind but by its nerve.

  “His grave was marked by a plank and, like many others’, his has been blown away.”

  “The planks we supply were never meant to be a long-term fixture. Only a placeholder until families can erect something more permanent.”

  I wait for Nkhono to explain her unpreparedness—that mothers aren’t supposed to bury their children—only she remains looking down.

  “You actually caught me in the middle of working on some exciting new offers we have for our grievers.”

  He stands up from his chair while Nkhono and I settle across the table from him.

  I place my father’s Fanta on the table and Nkhono places the bag of weeds and cracked eggshells on her lap.

  “For example, we’ve recently added a backhoe to our funeral cover, and soon we’ll be offering white doves at funeral processions,” he says, beating his hand against an empty cage on the wall. “We’ll also offer a trumpet player and bottled water to quench the thirst of our grievers.

  “Speaking of, may I?” he asks, pointing at the Fanta on the table. I expect Nkhono to say no, but again she chooses silence.

  The in-charge pulls a tray of mugs from the tea station in the corner of his room. He places the stained mugs before us and reaches for the Fanta. I quickly shut my eyes, but the fssst I hear only confirms my fears. He pours some into each of our mugs, leaving the bottle empty.

  “Now, mother,” he says as he takes a sip, “what did you say your son’s name was?”

  By now I expect Nkhono to choose silence again, but she speaks.

  “His name was Kelebogile Lehlohonolo Mokoena.”

  “And which year did he die?”

  “Two, oh, one, six,” Nkhono says as her finger traces a 2-O-1-6 in the air. “June,” finger tracing a 9.

  “Nine June 2016?”

  “Yes,” she says, her nod a beat behind.

  The in-charge’s eyes search through a stack of books below the dove cage. He blows off the dust to reveal labels on the spine of each.

  “There you have it,” he says, picking up a book so heavy you would think it carried the weight of each of the deceased bodies. He flicks through each page, his fingers scrolling through all the names.

  “Mokoena, Mokoena, Mokoena,” he murmurs, before his finger docks on one of them.

  His eyes are hard to read, but I can read what’s in the book. I can tell the Mokoena his finger rests on died the year I was born. I know this because it’s written 2-0-0-7. But Nkhono cannot read this because she didn’t go to school. She cannot even tell you the date she was born. Says back then, no one kept a good record of birth dates.

  The same way the in-charge hasn’t kept a good record of my father’s burial date, it seems.

  He searches through a new stack of books. This stack is placed on top of a dozen toilet rolls lined up in a row. He pulls out a book, beginning the process again.

  “Mokoena, Mokoena, Mokoena,” he murmurs, before his finger docks on another incorrect Mokoena.

  “But you know, Ma,” he says, his back to us as he searches through another stack, “these winds are only warning of the end days. The coming of Jehovah Jireh. My only question to humankind is: When will we start paying attention?”

  He pulls out another book from the stack, beginning the same process we’ve watched him repeat countless times.

  “Mokoena, Mokoena, Mokoena,” he murmurs. “Ehe, here we go. Kelebogile Lehlohonolo Mokoena, 9 June 2016. Plot N, grave number KLM 993678.”

  Nkhono looks at me. I nod, reassuring her that I have noted the grave number in my head.

  “Thank you,” Nkhono says, as we stand from our chairs to leave.

  “Any time Ma, but please, before you leave,” he says, pushing the tray of Fanta closer to us, “drink.”

  Mathapelo Mofokeng is a writer from Johannesburg. In 2018 she completed an MA in scriptwriting at the London University of Goldsmiths, after being awarded the Chevening Scholarship. Her short films have screened at BFI Soul Connect, Underwire, London Shorts, and Aesthetica, among others. Her short story and essay publications include adda, Popshot Quarterly, and Goldsmiths Press. Mathapelo was long-listed for the 2021 Commonwealth Writers Short Story Prize, is currently working on her debut composite novel, The Ministry of Sadness.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  We chose to publish Nishanth Injam’s “The Math of Living” because it stood out as a memorable and unconventional story about an American immigrant’s experience of family, nation, and loss. The careful precision and control of Injam’s prose constructs a story of subtle but powerful emotional resonance. In his innovative integration of coding language into the story, Injam plays with the limitations of conceptual frameworks for dealing with complex emotional experiences.

  Heidi Siegrist, Assistant Editor

  Virginia Quarterly Review

  THE MATH OF LIVING

  Nishanth Injam

  I’VE BEEN WORKING for the Chicago Tribune for about a year when it strikes me that I will go home in six months. The ticket has been booked, and I’m ready. My boss has reviewed the JavaScript code and made his updates for the day. The code is in production.

  I’VE BEEN WORKING for the Chicago Tribune for about two years when it strikes me that I will go home again in five months. The ticket has been booked, and I’m ready. My boss has reviewed the JavaScript code and made his updates for the day. The code is in pro
duction.

  I’VE BEEN WORKING for the Chicago Tribune for about four years when it strikes me that I will go home again in three months. The ticket has been booked, and I’m ready. My boss has reviewed the JavaScript code and made his updates for the day. The code is in production.

  Everything about my going home is formulaic. Sometimes I think this is my legacy—not everyone can write themselves a home. I tell myself it’s the next best thing to being on a plane.

  MATH OF LIVING [i] {

  By the time this plane lands, I will have traveled for twenty-six hours.

  This is not new to me.

  The distance between the place I live and the place that lives in me is more than eight thousand miles.

  Each hour of the journey home, I will look at my watch, even though the screen in front of me has a world clock. This is so I’m not fooled by the time zone changes. Each minute of the journey, I will have the consciousness of going home. I will try to forget it and involve myself in a good book. But there is no such thing as a good book when you are going home after [x] months. I can’t but sense where the plane is heading.

  The plane will land, and people will rise. There will be an extraordinary wait to get off the plane; men and women will argue about their place in the queue after retrieving bags stowed elsewhere. Then it will be over. I’ll get through customs and exit the terminal. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. My parents will be at the airport, waving at me from a sea of onlookers. They will be as excited as children. My father will do [a] or [b]. My mother will do [b] or [c] or [d]. It’s not surprising that my parents will shower me with love. I know they cannot help it; they haven’t seen me for a long time. They will offer to take my bag and ask [e] questions about my well-being. I will feel the weather greeting my skin. At this point, I haven’t gotten into the cab yet, but I don’t have to reach the house to know the conclusion of this journey. I’ve already walked through the door in that moment outside the terminal. Home is the recognition of the lives we led together once, the things that only we knew of. It is the sound of the river that runs in our veins. Or rather the shape of a story we tell ourselves. Who doesn’t love a good river?