So Nomvula pushes the spigot and sure enough, nothing comes out, not even a drop. Letu and Sofora laugh at her so hard, and for just a second, Nomvula thinks about knocking them both upside the head with this iron pot of hers. Instead she clucks her tongue at them, props her pot up on her head, and prepares for the long hike to the solar well on the other side of the township.
Nomvula starts down the main path, passing shack after shack, and as she comes to the top of a hill, she can see all the thousands of brightly colored tin shanties spread out across the valley below, so many they don’t even seem real. Nomvula turns left and cuts through Mr. Ojuma’s prized herd of goats, popping them on the head as they nibble at the hem of her skirt, their scratchy beards tickling at her knees. She passes some kids playing soccer with a tattered ball, pocked legs and dusty feet like her own. The whispers of teenagers slip past Nomvula’s ears as they gossip over their beadwork crafts, making pretty bracelets and necklaces. Women cook up big vats of stew or beer in cast-iron pots, and somewhere the sweet smell of bread makes her stomach crawl up, letting Nomvula know that it’s waiting.
“Soon,” she says as the rumbles get louder. She hopes no one else can hear it but her. She trots along, bare feet padding along through the dirt and gravel, faster and faster, but when she turns down the path that leads to the well, she’s met by a line at least a hundred people long.
She’s got no choice but to join them. Ma’s already so weak and can’t afford to skip meals. Nomvula’s stomach growls in agreement, loud enough to make the man in front of her turn around. It takes a second to recognize his old, ragged face, but when she does, Nomvula’s pot slips right off her head and thuds on the ground.
“Dear one, let me help you with that,” he says, bending over and reaching for her pot.
“No!” Nomvula shouts, then instantly feels foolish. Her cheeks burn. Mr. Tau is an elder, skin dull as dirt, face long and worn, and hands sharp like a vulture’s talons, and even if he had done those bad things to Ma in a dream, he still commanded respect. “I’m sorry, baba,” Nomvula says bashfully, averting her eyes. “But I can get it myself.”
Nomvula presses her lips together and picks up her pot. She wonders if she should come back later, but then the line might be even longer. No, she’ll stay put, not look at him, not talk to him, just as if he’d never turned around.
Mr. Tau sets his pot down and pulls out a piece of cloth. He carefully unwraps each corner until he exposes a piece of bread. Nomvula smells it. Fresh, and probably still warm. Her mouth gets all slippery inside, but she keeps on pretending that she’s not looking.
“Maybe you’d like a piece while we wait,” Mr. Tau says, holding the loaf in both hands and waving it right under Nomvula’s nose.
“You’re kind, but no,” Nomvula says.
“Not even a little bit? The roar your stomach made gave me a bit of a start. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not very,” Nomvula lies, but Mr. Tau doesn’t seem like the kind of man you can lie to. “It’s my mother. She says I shouldn’t talk to you.”
“Oh, I see,” Mr. Tau says. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to get you into any sort of trouble with your mother.”
Mr. Tau faces forward in line, but Nomvula can still see him shoving a big bite of bread into his mouth, enjoying every last crumb. Mr. Tau seems like a nice man. And Ma’s so far away, back in their shack. And this line is so, so long. And her stomach is getting awfully angry.
“Maybe just a little piece,” Nomvula says, tapping Mr. Tau on his back. He turns around, smiling, holding out the cloth. She snatches up a bit of bread and eats it quickly, and Mr. Tau offers her another. By the time they reach the front of the line, they’ve become good friends. It feels nice to have someone to talk to, Nomvula thinks. Nice to have someone who doesn’t cry and cry and cry. Nice to have somebody who looks her right in the eyes.
The next day, Nomvula’s heart flutters with excitement when she hears their solar well is still broken. She kisses her mother on the cheek and tells her she’s going to get water for pap and bathing, and not to worry if she’s gone for a while because the line might be long. Ma moans and blinks once and keeps staring off into the past.
Nomvula happens to pass by Mr. Tau’s shack on her way to the well, and he happens to be sitting out in his small yard, a tree stump between his legs and his tools sitting on top.
It’s amazing how things just “happen” like that.
“I see you, baba,” she giggles, her fingers eagerly clenching the worn chain links of his fence. “Are you busy?”
He turns toward her, his eyes lighting up as they meet hers. “Oh, good day, Nomvula. No, I wish I were busy. I’ve got this lovely block of wood and nothing to carve. Maybe an elephant? Those sell well. Still, it’d be a pity to use such nice wood on a bulky piece.”
Nomvula remembers the figure from her dream. She hesitates for just a second before blurting out, “You could make a woman, one with wings.”
“A woman, you say? With wings . . .” Mr. Tau scratches his chin. “Sounds complicated. I’d need to find a good model, and I haven’t got time. I’m catching the bus into town tomorrow, you see. But a giraffe, a giraffe might work quite nicely.” Mr. Tau picks up his tools and sets them into the wood.
“Wait!” Nomvula says. “Maybe . . . maybe I could be your model?”
“But you’re just a girl.”
“I’m nearly a woman. Almost as old as my mother when she had me.”
“Mmm. Come here.” He extends his hand, and Nomvula rounds the fence, careful not to step on the splinters of wood scattered around his yard. Mr. Tau looks her up and down, then tilts her chin up with his finger. “Could work. But certainly your mother would object to such a thing.”
“She wasn’t mad at all that I’d stood in line with you,” Nomvula says, which isn’t exactly a lie, since Nomvula had never mentioned the incident to her mother.
Mr. Tau is very gentle with her. He takes her inside, helps her find a comfortable pose, then he sits down, knocking chunks of wood off at a time. And while he works, he tells her stories of an ancient time, with gods and wars and trees brought alive by animal spirits. Nomvula smiles as she listens, trying not to move too much. She thinks Mr. Tau has a wonderful imagination and that he’d be fun to play pretend with.
In no time, a recognizable shape begins to form.
“Okay, Nomvula,” Mr. Tau says after nearly an hour. “You may stretch your legs now.”
Nomvula gets up and takes a look at the sculpture; the face looks just like hers, and he’s even gotten the pattern of her skirt perfect.
“It’s still rough,” Mr. Tau says. “I’ll work the details out later.”
“She’s pretty. But can you make her nose smaller?”
“For you, my dear, I can do anything.” And with three quick taps, she’s got a delicate nose, just like the woman in her dream, except one thing.
“Do you think she’d be prettier, just wearing her skin?”
“Nude, you mean?”
Nomvula nods, then swallows. She shouldn’t have said that. She should have left it alone. So what if the sculpture wasn’t exactly like in her dream?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tau, but I think I need to get back to my mother. She’ll be wanting her pap soon.” Nomvula starts for the door, but Mr. Tau grasps her wrist, his hand as rough and hard as stone.
“Nomvula,” he says. “Don’t go.”
“I have to, Mr. Tau. Please!”
“I wish there were more time,” he says, and then reels her into him. His rough hand slips under the back of her shirt, sliding up against her skin. “I need you to trust me, Nomvula.”
And it’s then that Nomvula sees what’s so frightening about Mr. Tau. Not one big thing, but hundreds of tiny little things: the words he speaks like he’s trying too hard, the way he moves like a stranger in his own skin, the way his eyes seem much older and more powerful than they possibly could be.
“You did rape my mother!” Nomv
ula screams. “In her dreams, just like she said.”
Mr. Tau frowns as he pulls Nomvula’s tight red shirt up and over her arms. She shivers at his touch, hand midway up her back. “For eleven years, your mother’s grief has haunted me. I wish it could have been easier on her, but it had to be done.”
“You’re not Zulu! You’re some kind of devil.” Nomvula shrills as loudly as she can, hoping someone will hear her and save her, but Mr. Tau puts his hand over her mouth.
“Quiet, dear. In a moment, all will be revealed.”
Nomvula feels a familiar pinch between her shoulder blades, one she hasn’t felt since she was a little girl flying over the brush and teasing birds and hoping to reach the sun. Her back warms and itches like she’s being gobbled up by tsetse flies. The thin threads of her wings break through her skin and sizzle as they meet the cool air. Nomvula grits her teeth. Tears stream down her cheeks. This is pretend, Nomvula tells herself. But then Mr. Tau stretches her wings out, like the wispy straw of an old broom, holding them by their very tips.
“This is a trick.” She sobs softly. “Mama Zafu says people don’t have wings.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Tau says, his own golden wings slicing through the fabric of his shirt and burning bright like the rays of the summer sun. “People don’t . . . but we do.”
Chapter 5
Muzi
Muzi isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he sure as hell knows it wasn’t this. The witch doctor, Mr. Sohobese, stands in his living room, two sheets to the wind, and a hard breeze from the grave. A velour tracksuit hangs from his slender body like loose skin, zipper open to reveal a tangle of bone necklaces dangling around his neck. His wrinkled hand tremors slightly as it palms the knob of a walking stick that Muzi is pretty damned sure is made from ivory.
Mr. Sohobese and Papa Fuzz embrace, and their boisterous greeting soon turns to hushed whispers. Muzi finds himself straining to hear, inching closer yet wishing he were a million miles away. They’re speaking about him, he’s sure. About his manhood. Fear surges through Muzi as this foolish decision of his suddenly seems all too real. The floorboard creaks beneath his tackies, and Papa Fuzz looks up. Too late, Muzi ducks back around the corner.
“Muzikayise!” his Papa Fuzz calls. “Come meet an old friend of mine.”
Muzi clenches his eyes shut, his mind still wobbly from the godsend. From Elkin. His thoughts whip back to his childhood where Papa Fuzz would chase him down the hall, calling his name, and Muzi would scream at the top of his lungs “Come and get me! Come and get me!” giddy with the anticipation of tickle hugs when he was finally caught. He could run now, and no one would ever catch him—because he sure as hell knows there’s no tickle coming at the end of this meeting. The last whispers of his childhood had slipped through his fingers this afternoon, and men didn’t run when fear reared its ugly head.
Muzi takes one timid step into the living room, keeping one hand on the back of his mother’s favorite sitting chair for support. “Mr. Sohobese,” he says, other hand extended, then manages to utter, “it’s an honor . . .”
Papa Fuzz beckons Muzi closer. Muzi tries to comply, but his knees are locked and there’s no budging. The witch doctor’s dull eyes come to life, darting all over Muzi’s body, so hard, Muzi feels the steely gaze nicking away at his skin, chopping away at his locks. He shudders at the way Mr. Sohobese makes him feel so naked. Maybe if Muzi didn’t have to go through this alone. Maybe if he’d bothered to learn the rituals of his ancestors. Maybe if Mr. Sohobese hadn’t just drawn a spear blade from inside that damned velour jacket of his, then maybe Muzi could have seen this promise through.
Muzi turns and sprints down the hallway, back to his room. He locks the door, then falls to the ground, a shivering wreck. The lion mural his sister had painted stares at him—those riveting yellow eyes, proud narrow face, its mane a stylized spray of autumnal leaves in reds, and golds, and deep browns interwoven with double helixes. Themba was his name. Too majestic to be confined in captivity, but not majestic enough to stop a poacher’s bullet from exploding his heart. It was his DNA that ran through the bioengineered versions of lions that roamed the veld these days. To Muzi, Themba embodied equal parts hope and longing—a longing for the innocence of the past, and a hope for the future to come. And here Muzi also stands right in the crux of it all. No longer the child of his past, but definitely not yet the man he hopes to be.
A soft knock comes at the door. The knob twists to no avail. “Son?” comes Papa Fuzz’s voice. “Can I come in?”
“Is he with you?” Muzi says.
“It’s just me. I know this is a tough time, and I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing something you’re not comfortable with.” The inch and a half of solid oak does nothing to dampen the disappointment in Papa Fuzz’s voice, and it cuts at Muzi worse than Mr. Sohobese’s blade ever could. Muzi would give just about anything to look into his Papa Fuzz’s memories, to see how he’d dug up the courage to go through this rite. It would probably make Muzi feel worse though—seeing his papa all those years ago, out in the brush with his freshly shorn head, body painted with white clay, a tight smile upon his lips like the pain was nothing. Muzi knows he can never live up to that. He bites his lip and feels his face flush with anger and frustration. And embarrassment.
“I just want to be left alone,” Muzi says.
“It’s okay to be a little scared.”
I’m not scared! Muzi almost yells, but that would be a lie that neither one of them would believe.
“I was scared,” comes Papa Fuzz’s voice, softer now. “I cried. Before. And after.” Even softer, so soft, Muzi isn’t sure he’d heard right. Surely not his papa, the man who in his prime had rapelled down Table Mountain with the aid of nothing but a pair of leather work gloves and an old rope, who’d gambled with his life at the edge of Victoria Falls in the dead of winter, who’d taken a bullet to the shoulder during the Bot Labor Riots of ’43 while saving a young mother. Muzi had been mesmerized by that tear-shaped scar on more occasions than he could count.
Muzi unlocks the door, but he doesn’t open it. He’s on the other side of the room when his papa comes in, and Muzi faces the wall so the streaks from his own tears won’t be seen. The springs in his mattress groan as Papa Fuzz takes a seat.
“Manhood isn’t an on-off switch. That’s what nobody tells you. It’s more like a river . . . you jump in too fast and you’ll get swept away. It’s perfectly acceptable to start by wading ankle-deep along the bank as you observe how the others who have come before you have learned to brave its currents. But right now, all you need is the courage to take that first step.”
Muzi casts his eyes up and sees his papa sitting there on the edge of the bed, just as he had so many nights to read stories to Muzi when he was a child. Muzi remembers the last time he’d sat in his Papa Fuzz’s lap, remembers because he’d known it was going to be the last time. He was already too big for it, but he was just as reluctant to put an end to that chapter of his life. Papa Fuzz had been there for him afterward, even more so, helping him with his homework when it became too overwhelming, encouraging him through the terror of rugby tryouts against boys twice his size, advocating to Muzi’s parents that he was responsible enough to have his own alpha bot even after Papa Fuzz had caught Muzi drinking (barely) with a few school friends the first time he was left home alone. Papa Fuzz had kept that little indiscretion a secret, though a party that lame barely warranted punishment as it was.
Muzi takes a hard seat next to his papa and crosses his arms over his chest like a bratty toddler. “I’m not shaving my head,” Muzi says. “And I want to see him sterilize that knife with my own eyes. And none of that herbs and berries stuff. I want real pain medicine.”
Papa Fuzz smiles his perfect smile and lays a hand on Muzi’s back. “Are those all of your demands?”
Muzi nods.
“I’ll speak with Mr. Sohobese. I’m sure he’ll be willing to make a few more concessions, seeing
as we’ve already strayed from custom. Just be thankful you don’t have to experience the smell of a mountainside hut that’s been lived in for six months by five newly minted men.” Papa Fuzz puts his hands on his worn knees and, after a good amount of effort, is back to standing. “And I’m not even going to mention the sheepskins.”
Muzi sniffs and smudges the tears from his eyes. “I thought you said it was three months.”
“Did I? Well, it certainly felt like six.” Papa Fuzz laughs and tips Muzi’s chin, looking at him. Really looking at him, like he’s noticed that something’s different about his beloved grandson. He raises a brow. “I’ll go let Mr. Sohobese know you’re ready.”
As Papa Fuzz turns toward the door, Muzi reaches out to him suddenly. “Wait! There’s one more thing. I want you to be there by my side. Through all of it.”
Papa Fuzz nods, slowly and deliberately. “Always, son.”
Muzi relaxes, but only marginally, and as the door shuts behind his papa, he still can’t believe he’s actually agreed to go through with this. He trusts Mr. Sohobese about as far as he could throw him—with those trembling hands, and those bloodshot eyes, and that walking stick made of ivory. Maybe it’s just NuIvory, Muzi tries to convince himself, but deep in his heart he knows that stick looked too old to have been bioengineered in some lab. His chest tightens, and all at once, he’s tenser than a rhino’s brow.
His Papa Fuzz will be there by his side, and that’s something, but Muzi can’t help but feel like he’s going through this journey alone. His papa had his abakwetha, his learning cohort who became men together. What did Muzi have besides himself?
The Prey of Gods Page 3