This Thing Called the Future

by J. L. Powers

  The contents of that bottle have been cursed and I have to stop her before she manages to place some of it on our house. But before I can rise to get out of bed, she reaches the bedroom window and rubs a long muddy streak just underneath it.

  As she turns away to go back to her own place, I pass by, trying to reach out and stop her. But I’m moving so slowly, she slips right through my fingertips.

  Like she’s made of water.

  Even as I look at the mud smeared on the wall, it changes to blood, dripping bright red onto the ground.

  I wake up clutching a pillow, my heart beating, a river of dread flooding every crack and crevice of my mind. If only I could warn Mama—but even if I tried, she wouldn’t believe me.

  In the morning, Gogo finds a long streak of dirt rubbed on the side of our house.

  “Do you think it’s witchcraft muthi?” she asks, taking me around the corner of the house to show me.

  The streak of dried mud is exactly where I saw our neighbor smear it in my dream.

  I try to smother the uncontrollable noise my mouth is making but something deep inside is shrieking at me.

  “What’s wrong with her?” We both look at the next-door neighbor’s house as I babble. “Mama was just trying to help her. If this kind of revenge is what comes of helping people, perhaps we shouldn’t help people. It only results in jealousy and accusations and curses.”

  “Khosi, shame!” Gogo cries. “You cannot pass by a hut and fail to tie a knot. We must always help people when they need it.”

  I try to repair the damage of my thoughts. “But why should we help people if they just turn around and curse us?”

  “Eh, if we have been cursed, we must do something about it,” Gogo says. “I will go see the sangoma today. We cannot wait.”

  “Can I come?” I beg. She hesitates and I take advantage of it to add, “Please? School isn’t as important as this.”

  “Elizabeth will never listen to me, her old superstitious mother,” Gogo says. “You had better come so you can convince her that she needs to do something to stop this thing. She’ll listen to you, her oldest daughter. We’ll go when you’ve returned from school.”

  I don’t think Mama will listen to me. But it’s becoming clearer and clearer that our neighbor is so angry, she’s employed witchcraft against us. I can’t sit by and pretend like nothing has happened, just because Mama doesn’t believe it has any power to hurt us.

  After Mama falls asleep that night, Gogo, Zi, and I sneak outside. We walk through Imbali to the sangoma’s house in the growing darkness of twilight. As we climb the steep street, dogs come running out to bark at us. Young people stand in groups here and there, flirting with each other. Other mothers and grandmothers greet us as we pass.

  My stomach cramps as we approach the tuck shop but the old man is nowhere to be seen. The bucket he sits on is upended, rolling in the dirt.

  We hurry past.

  I hold Zi’s hand on one side and support Gogo on the other. Gogo puffs her way up the hill, gripping my arm so hard, I’ll have bruises tomorrow.

  “Zi, why don’t you run ahead and tell Thandi’s gogo we’re on our way?” I suggest. “I’ll help Gogo up this last little bit of the road.”

  The apprentice is sitting in front of the rondavel, weaving a grass mat and talking with Inkosikazi Nene.

  “I’m not surprised to see you, Sisi,” Inkosikazi Nene says when we join them.

  “Sho! Why not?” Gogo asks.

  “I lose my appetite quite a lot when spirits are fighting,” she says. “I haven’t been hungry for two days. But the ancestors have not yet spoken to me about this thing. They are waiting. Perhaps they’ll speak this evening.” She gestures towards her hut. “Please, my friends, take your shoes off and enter.”

  Still out of breath, Gogo grunts and pushes Zi towards the apprentice.

  Zi grasps my hand like she won’t let go. She tugs until I lean down. “I want to come inside,” she whispers. “Please, Khosi?”

  I give Gogo a pleading look but she shakes her head. “You’re too young,” I tell Zi. “Here, you’ll be sitting right next to the door. We won’t be far.”

  Reluctant, she drops my hand and goes over to stand near the apprentice.

  Elders go first so the sangoma enters. Gogo struggles with the low entrance. It is so hard for her to bend down—her knees are too swollen. She mutters, tries, straightens back up. I reach out a hand to help her but she shoves it away. Almost like Zi, wanting to do this thing for herself, asserting her independence.

  Slow and rusty, she begins to lower herself. Suddenly, her knees buckle and she crashes to the ground, her legs splaying out behind her.

  Tears spring to my eyes as I rush towards her.

  She’s breathing heavily and spittle gathers at the corners of her mouth as she quickly turns herself over, her face grey.

  Walking here was too hard on her. She almost never goes this far, up such a steep hill.

  “Gogo, I can go inside by myself,” I say, helping her up and over to a chair by the entrance. She heaves herself onto the chair, taking deep, heavy breaths. “Stay with Zi.”

  So I crouch down and crawl through the entrance, joining Inkosikazi Nene inside. The sweet scent of impepho swells and disperses throughout the entire room as it burns. The scent will linger in my plaits and school uniform. I should have thought to change before coming.

  Smoke curls upwards in thin wisps while the sangoma arranges herself on a cloth spread on the floor towards the center of the hut. She takes out a small drum and, placing it in front of her on the cloth, begins to drum, a steady beat. Eyes closed, she hums then sings, a high-pitched melodic song with each line ending on a wail.

  While she prepares herself for the ancestors to speak, I gaze around at the plastic bottles and glass jars filled with brown liquids, the animal skins strung along the walls and the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

  She drums and drums and drums. The everlasting beat lulls me into a state close to sleep. If only I could lie down and take a nap.

  But though I can hear the muffled rustles, the whispers, like the world is swirling around me and I’m about to faint, I can’t understand the words. It’s like the wind carries them away.

  The beat echoes in my head, begins to sound like a voice speaking to me. It seems to come from the animal skins on the right.

  My eyes fly open as I hear the sangoma gasp. She’s sitting upright, one hand posed over the drum. “You are wondering if the ancestors have lifted their protection?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I agree.

  “Let me ask them,” she says.

  She begins to drum again, a slow beat this time. “Everything is so murky,” she says. She is staring at me so hard it makes me fear what she will see: doubt, fear, anger—so many of the things that make a person impure. “The voices of the ancestors are blurred. They are faint because there is so much fighting going on. So much fighting. They are all talking at once.” She closes her eyes again and asks, “Is it possible—is it possible that the ancestors could be angry with one of your relatives? A female?” She asks like she doesn’t want to ask but must because of what she’s hearing.

  “It’s possible,” I say, beginning to shake, a deep shaking that feels like it isn’t part of my body. It’s deeper than that.

  “Your—your mother,” she says, uncertain. “Could they be angry with her? Has she done her part honoring her ancestors?”

  There is so much to honoring the ancestors—cleaning their graves, making sacrifices, and what what what. It is so expensive! Too expensive for us to afford. Anyway, even if Mama believed in the old ways, we would probably have failed in some ritual sometime, there are so many. I know we are not as faithful cleaning their graves as we should be. When was the last time? Oh, a year ago or more. That is too long.

  If you do not honor the ancestors, they may lift their protection.

  I bow my head, ashamed. “These days, it’s difficult to do what we should,
” I admit. “Especially with the modern way of life.” And because of doubt, I want to add. My mother doesn’t believe in any of this. She’s never honored the ancestors. And she never will.

  Inkosikazi Nene looks toward me but her eyes are downcast. “You have a very strong ancestor who watches over you, Khosi,” she says. “I can see him, sitting beside you. He sits, just the way you sit now.”

  My skin prickles when I realize she’s averting her gaze so that she doesn’t look my ancestor right in the eyes. She’s showing respect in the old way to one of the old ones.

  “It’s your grandfather on your maternal side,” she says. “He is very jealous of your life and wants things to turn out well for you.”

  “Gogo’s husband?” I ask. “Babamkhulu?”

  She nods.

  “He died the same day I was born,” I say.

  “No wonder his protection over you is so strong.” She smiles.

  I wonder if I should feel him next to me. But all I feel is this shaking. And this sudden fear. Is this normal?

  “Have you ever told Thandi anything like this?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Thandi? She has none of the spirits about her!”

  I guess I already knew that.

  “Khosi, can you hear him?” She pauses. “Listen. What is he saying?”

  It’s true, I hear it myself, a dim whisper as present as the air that surrounds us, a whisper from those that have passed to the other side. I breathe it in. My babamkhulu. And others too. My fears stilled. Even though my family hasn’t always done its part, they are still here, watching over us.

  And suddenly I know the truth. “My family has been cursed,” I say.

  “Impela, this is also the thing I sense,” she agrees. “Let us ask who has cursed you.”

  But I already know. “It’s the next-door neighbor,” I say. “She’s been accusing my mother of cheating her out of some money. I’ve seen her with that sangoma who lives in the big house at the top of the hill, the one Gogo always says is a witch.”

  “Are you very sure your mother hasn’t done this thing? That she hasn’t opened up the floodgate of evil?”

  “Why would she steal money?” I ask, thinking back to the conversation where Mama said she would steal if we were starving. “She has a job. We have enough food. Anyway, she’s an honest woman.”

  “I know this, but you should not accuse anybody of witchcraft unless you catch them in the act. Have you seen your neighbor putting muthi anywhere near your house?”

  I shake my head, but then I tell her about the dream I had and how we found the streak of mud under the bedroom window, exactly where I saw the neighbor rubbing it in my dream.

  “Sho!” she exclaims. “This dream may be the proof—but it is hard to know because you have never been trained. Is there anybody else who might have a reason to be angry with your family, besides this woman?”

  I stop to think about it. “You know about the witch. But there’s also this man,” I say. “He keeps bothering me. I don’t know—Mama tried to get him to stop but it didn’t work.”

  She closes her eyes again, listening. We both listen. Maybe it’s a strange thing to do but in this little hut, with the sangoma beside me, it feels like the most normal thing in the world. Still, I’m not going to tell anybody that I hear voices. They might think I’m a freak.

  Words form in my mind and I tilt my head to listen better to the chant beating its rhythm in my head: Pur-i-fy the house. Cleanse the soul. Hon-or your dead and dy-ing. Heal the land.

  “Gogo, I want this thing with our neighbor and with this drunk man to be over,” I say. “Even if we don’t have proof of witchcraft, I do know our neighbor’s very angry with us. And there’s the drunk man, his anger smolders so deep, I am afraid of what it will do to me if it doesn’t disappear. Can’t anger be a curse?”

  She nods. “Yes, strife can cause disease or prevent us from healing or give us bad luck in our daily life.”

  “But I don’t think it’s just the next-door neighbor,” I admit. “I keep hearing these words that I don’t understand. Purify the house. Cleanse the soul. Honor your dead and dying. Heal the land. That’s what I keep hearing, over and over, in my head.” In fact, I still hear those voices whispering, even as I talk.

  “Yes,” she says. “I hear it too. The spirits are fighting each other—something has happened within your family to bring this on.”

  “You mean…this is something we’ve done to ourselves?” I ask.

  “You’ve felt it.” She reaches out a hand to touch me.

  Holding back tears, I ask her, “What can you do to help us?”

  “You and your grandmother can go through the purification. I can help your family search your hearts, to find the things that have allowed this evil to take hold of you and cause these problems, this self-doubt and the neighbor’s anger and the man who keeps bothering you. We will do what we must so that you will have the ancestors’ protection again.”

  “Purification is hard on the body,” I say, wondering if Gogo has the strength to do it.

  “You cannot fight an evil disease with sweet medicine,” she reminds me.

  I forget that I’m supposed to let the sangoma leave the hut first, since she’s my elder. I just crawl through the entrance, popping my head out to look at Gogo. “We’re going to do a purification, Gogo,” I announce. “We’ll start as soon as possible.”

  I’m glad we’re going to do something to help the family. But I’m scared too. What if we find out something I’d rather not know?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  BLACK MUTHI

  Mama calls on the cell phone as we walk home from the sangoma’s. “Khosi, I woke up and Gogo isn’t here. Uyakhona nawe?”

  “She’s here, Mama, but we’re walking along the road and it’s better if she doesn’t talk just now.” Gogo is breathing hard as we puff our way back down the hill. She’s limping, probably because of her fall, and leaning hard on me.

  “Where have you been?” she asks. “It’s so late.”

  I can’t lie to Mama. “We went to the sangoma’s, Mama. I had a dream last night, and we found some muthi smeared on our house this morning. We think the next-door neighbor put a curse on us.”

  She is silent, then says, “Khosi, really.”

  “Mama, it’s just because we care.”

  She sighs. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

  And she is not happy. She yells at Gogo. “What do you think you’re teaching my daughters?”

  “They are my daughters too,” Gogo says. Zi is hiding behind Gogo and peeking out at this mad Mama of ours, sitting up in bed, her hair a wild mess of clumps sticking straight up off of her head.

  “You can do what you want, Mama,” Mama says, “but please leave my girls out of it.”

  I take a deep breath. “Mama, this is something I want to do.”

  “No,” she snaps.

  “Mama—”

  “Don’t,” she says, just the one word, before she starts coughing and gagging. I grab the rubbish bin we keep near the bed. Blood and saliva pool out of her mouth in long thin red and silver threads.

  I never do get Mama’s permission. She’s just too sick, and the sangoma arrives early the next morning, while it’s still dark, ready to begin the purification. Guilty and afraid, I make the decision to do it even though Mama disapproves. Gogo is urging me on. And I don’t know what else to do to help my family.

  Inkosikazi Nene cuts the soles of our feet, our ankles, and the skin just behind our ears with a small razor blade, dabbing with a newspaper as blood pools near the skin. Gogo accepts cuts on her legs as well but I shake my head. I don’t want scars where people can see them.

  After cutting us, she rubs a mixture in each open wound. It burns at first; then it starts to itch, slow and steady, as though a small bug was crawling around under the skin.

  She takes a plastic bottle from her bag, pouring a liquid mixture of grey-water and brown-black sludge into plastic cups.
It contains bile, bits of gall from a slaughtered cow, herbs, perhaps some crocodile oil. Who knows? The contents of muthi are secret. Each sangoma concocts it with guidance from her ancestors.

  We take plastic tubs and go outside.

  “You need to drink all of it,” she says.

  It tastes like toilet water and rotten meat. I start heaving as soon as the first few drops hit my lips.

  “Force it down, Khosi,” Gogo urges.

  Gagging at the thought of the taste, I plug my nose and drink the entire glass in one swallow. Then I puke into the blue bucket, all the liquid coming back up with the same taste as it went down but mixed with breakfast.

  “There are five days of this?” I mutter.

  “Yes,” the sangoma says. “Five days of black muthi to purge you from evil, followed by five days of red muthi, to get rid of the last bits of evil clinging to you. Then you’ll take white muthi, to replace the evil with good.”

  “Two weeks? It’s going to kill me!” I joke.

  Gogo and Inkosikazi Nene just look at me.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Gogo is so weak after she purges herself that I help her to the door and inside i-dining, where she sits on the sofa by the television. Inkosikazi Nene follows us and I offer her another chair. The two of them sit, talking quietly, while I go into the kitchen to boil some water and bring them tea.

  As for me, I feel a sense of power and energy, like we’re going to beat this thing, this curse, even that we might find some luck to carry us through these sad days.

  After Gogo and Inkosikazi Nene have had their tea, I walk Inkosikazi Nene home. Zi zooms out the door to join us on the walk. “Why don’t you run ahead and make dogs bark at us?” I suggest. So Zi runs ahead, weaving back and forth across the dirt road, creating a big noise at all the houses we pass, dogs barking and children yelling.

  “When I received my call to be a healer, I think I had as many years as you now have,” Inkosikazi Nene says as soon as I close the gate behind us, “although we did not celebrate birthdays the way you young folk do now.” She laughs. “I do not even know how old I am, can you believe it?”