Ways of Dying

by Zakes Mda

  ‘You are a beautiful woman. I think I have fallen in love with you.’

  ‘But I am heavy with child!’

  ‘You won’t be like that forever.’

  That Mountain Woman felt flattered that even in her most shapeless moments, a whole doctor found her attractive. He told her that even though she was pregnant, there would be no problems if they were to decide to seal their newfound love with a bit of adult merriment. ‘And I should know, because I am a doctor,’ he added.

  ‘There is no way we can meet. I come from the village over the hills.’

  ‘I have a plan. This evening pretend that you are ill. Ask your people to send for me. Tell them that I am the doctor who examined you today, and I am the only one who understands your illness. Then I’ll come.’

  The health assistant ran away quickly when he heard the footsteps of the nurse in the corridor. ‘Don’t tell her I was here,’ he said. ‘Otherwise she will spoil our thing.’

  That evening, That Mountain Woman was attacked by strange pangs in her abdominal area. She moaned and wailed and asked for the doctor who had attended her that day. Old women of the village who knew everything about childbirth and all the complications that sometimes occurred in women, came and offered to help. But she cursed them out of the house, and demanded to see no one but the doctor who examined her that day. A horseman was sent to the clinic over the hills, and found the health assistant waiting for just that message. He said, ‘Yes, I am the doctor you are looking for. Go back and tell my patient that I’ll get the clinic Land Rover and come immediately.’ The horseman rode back with the message, and the health assistant went to ask for a Land Rover from the nurse-clinician in charge of the clinic.

  ‘Why do you want the Land Rover at this late hour?’

  ‘We are supposed to hold a meeting with the village health workers in the village over the hills. I need to go there and make arrangements with the chief.’

  ‘You are indeed a hard worker! You are always thinking of your work even after hours. I am surely going to recommend you for promotion when I write my report to the head-office.’

  Unfortunately the Land Rover was being used by another nurse-clinician who had gone with some nurses to visit the outposts. What was he going to do, since he had already promised the desirable woman that he was coming? How would he placate the fire that raged in the crotch of his pants? Wearing a white coat, with a stethoscope stolen from the nurse-clinician’s office hanging around his neck, our health assistant went to the police station and asked the officers for their Land Rover. He told them that there was an emergency in the village over the hills. ‘Don’t worry, doctor, we’ll take you there ourselves.’ And two conscientious policemen drove him to the village over the hills.

  He rushed into the rondavel where That Mountain Woman was lying on a mat on the floor, groaning in pain. Grandmothers were all around her, trying to persuade her to chew the herbs that would drive the pain away. He knelt down beside her, and began to palpate her belly. Then in a grave voice he said, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, grandmothers, but I think we are looking at something very serious here. I must remain alone with the patient. Please go out, and don’t let anyone disturb me.’

  Soon a crowd had gathered around the hut. The grandmothers had spread it throughout the village that the woman was dying. The miracle doctor who, by the grace of God, happened to be at the clinic over the hills just at the time when his help was needed, was trying to save her life. Wasn’t it fortunate that the clinic which had never had a doctor stationed there before, but had always been staffed by nurses and nurse-clinicians, happened to have a doctor at that very moment? Indeed she was a fortunate woman. The crowd grew larger and larger, and at the same time festal chatter grew louder and louder. Soon the doctor would come out and announce what was ailing the poor woman. But minutes passed, and the doctor did not come out. Those people nearest the door thought they heard some delicate moans and heavy breathing leaking out of the door of the rondavel. The poor woman must be suffering so much!

  An hour had passed, and everyone was beginning to get worried. Had something terrible happened to the poor woman? Or perhaps to the doctor? A naughty grandmother whose mind was full of dirty thoughts jokingly said, ‘Ha! Wasn’t it odd that she smiled when the doctor entered?’ Then all those who were in the hut when the doctor arrived suddenly remembered that, yes, she did smile.

  These idle babblers planted a seed of suspicion in the mind of the woman’s father. Ignoring the advice of those around him, who said that if he angered the doctor his daughter might never be cured, he suddenly kicked the door down. He rushed into the hut, followed by those who were nearest the door. Inside the hut they were greeted by a scene that left them sweating with anger and disgust. Those who were outside the hut were amazed to hear screams. Then the doctor was flung through the door like a piece of rag. His pants flew after him, and fell in the midst of giggling schoolgirls. Men used their sticks on him, and he screamed, ‘You don’t understand, good people! I was using a new method of curing the pains on her!’

  But the villagers did not believe in new-fangled remedies that involved nakedness. They would have killed him had it not been for the policemen, who took the disgraced doctor away to beat him up themselves. They were even angrier than the villagers, for they said the fake doctor had wasted their time. The young men of the village were not satisfied with the arrangement. ‘Why should the police have the monopoly on beating up this pig? We need our share too.’ But who could argue with the dogs of the government, as policemen were known throughout the villages? The last time the villagers saw the naked figure of the doctor, it was being frogmarched in front of the police Land Rover, in the glare of the headlights, and it was screaming, ‘Please forgive me, fathers! It was all a mistake! I will never do it again!’

  We told the story over and over again, and we laughed, and we said, ‘That Mountain Woman has no shame.’ But one could detect a smack of envy in our voices when we said that. Those were adventures that would never be seen in our conservative village. Noria was born a month after this incident with the doctor. Six months later, when That Mountain Woman returned to our village with baby Noria on her back, we already knew everything about the scandal. We thought she would be hiding her head in shame, and would at last be a humble person, but no, she continued to be her old brash self. She even laughed when someone, who happened to be braver than the rest of us, asked her discreetly and in well-chosen words about the scandal. That Mountain Woman had no shame.

  When Noria was born it was generally believed by the mountain people that her ears looked like those of the doctor. The story spread to our village as well. Though we had never seen him with our own eyes, we strongly believed until this day, that the doctor contributed Noria’s ears. The nurses at the clinic tried, to no avail, to explain that Noria could not have the doctor’s ears since That Mountain Woman was already eight months pregnant when she had merriment with him. Noria was already formed, with ears and all. But we refused to believe the nurses, who would obviously say anything to protect their colleague. We insisted that Noria’s ears were those of the doctor. We all marvelled, ‘Xesibe has no features. How did he manage to make such a beautiful girl?’ Indeed Noria’s father, a stubby man who wore a dirty brown blanket at all times and in all types of weather, had a permanently wry countenance.

  It can be boring just to sit and watch ships come and go, especially on Boxing Day when there are not many ships moving in and out of the harbour. Some come, but they will only be unloaded tomorrow, after the holiday, unless they carry perishable food. But memories of his past fill Toloki’s time, so much so that the boisterous noise of the drunken sailors and their prostitutes does not disturb him at all, for he cannot hear it. His thoughts are of Noria and of the village and of the people of the village. When Noria left the village he never thought he would see her again. And later he also left. But now it would seem that his road, and that of Noria, were meant to cross from time to time i
n this journey of life. They grew up together as children. Come to think of it, at the very first funeral he ever attended back in the village, he was with Noria.

  The first funeral. He was thirteen and Noria was ten. The first Nurse that he saw in his life was the principal of the village primary school where he was a pupil. A schoolgirl, who had been Noria’s friend during her life, had died a painful death of the gun. She was the first person that we knew of in our village to be shot dead, and it happened in the city. She had gone there, with other pupils who were in the school choir, to bury another pupil who came from the city to attend the village school where there were no disruptions, but who had unfortunately caught pneumonia and died.

  The school principal hired the old bus that travelled between our village and the town. Toloki was among the boys who were sent to town to speak with the owner of the bus. It was his first trip to town, which was about two hours away from the village by bus. It was enchanting for him to walk on the gravel road, and to admire the three stores, the post office, the bank, the milling company, and the secondary school that comprised the town. It was a world that was a far cry from the huts of the village, and the rusty tin-roofed school that doubled as a church on Sundays.

  The owner of the bus was quite happy to hire the bus out to the school, but he said, ‘The city is very far away. It takes one whole day and one whole night to get there. My bus is very old, but it will manage the journey. I must take it to the garage first so that they service it properly.’ This meant that those people who depended on the bus to go to town would not be able to go until the bus came back from the city. However, a lot of people went to town on horseback.

  When Toloki got home he told his parents about the death of his schoolmate, and of how he was sent with boys who were much older than him to town to speak with the owner of the bus. The pupil who died was a member of the school choir, like both Toloki and Noria, and so the school choir was going to sing at the funeral. Would his parents allow him to go?

  ‘No, you can’t go.’

  ‘Please, father!’

  ‘You are too young.’

  ‘But Noria is going, and she is three years younger than me.’

  ‘Noria has more brains in her little finger than you have in your whole body.’

  ‘Father of Toloki, that was not a nice thing to say to your son. And it is wrong not to allow him to go when all the other children of the school are going.’

  ‘Who are you, Mother of Toloki, to teach me how to bring up my children?’

  ‘But, Father of Toloki . . .’

  ‘You know I don’t argue with women, Mother of Toloki. If you want to be the man of the house, take these pants and wear them. Can’t you see that this child of yours is so stupid that he will get lost in the city?’

  At the end of it all, Toloki’s mother was crying, Jwara was staring blankly at the figurines in his workshop, and Toloki did not go to the city. Noria went though, and in addition to the provisions of a whole chicken and steamed bread that her mother prepared for her, Jwara bought her a quantity of sweets and chocolate. Toloki’s mother fumed, ‘You did not allow your own son to go, but you are not ashamed to spend all your money on that stuck-up bitch Noria!’

  We got the whole story of what happened in the city from the Nurse. The choir from our village sang at the night vigil. The principal himself was the conductor. Under his baton, the choir had that very year won a trophy in the district school choir competitions. At the funeral of their schoolmate, the voices of those children in the tent where the vigil was held were even more dulcet than they were when they won the competition. Nobody knew of them, as they were from a faraway village no one had heard of. People of the city were asking, ‘Who are these children who sing like angels?’ After the song, a relative of the deceased made a speech and explained that these beautiful children, with such melodic voices and faded gymdresses with patches all over, came from a village where the mother of the deceased had been born. The poor child had been sent there to acquire better education because the children of the city did not want to learn, but preferred to run around the streets, sniffing glue and smoking dagga. But unfortunately God decided to call the poor child to his mansion, since a beautiful plate is never used for eating, but is only displayed to be admired. ‘In any case you will hear all the details of this child’s death from the Nurse at the funeral tomorrow,’ he added. ‘I merely wanted to tell you who these angels are.’

  After this brief but much appreciated speech, a local choir took the stage and sang. But people did not seem to be interested in it. They wanted the village choir to come back and sing for them. In the meantime, Noria and her friend went outside the tent to get some fresh air.

  ‘You know, Noria, I fear something terrible is going to happen.’

  ‘Something terrible has already happened. We have come to bury our schoolmate.’

  ‘I feel we are going to be attacked. Some people don’t like our choir because it is doing well.’

  ‘How can you talk like that?’

  ‘There is nothing we can do about it, Noria. When one is called no one can prevent it. I am going to die laughing.’

  While they were standing there laughing, for Noria took the whole thing as a joke, they heard an announcement from the tent that the village choir was going to take the stage again. They went inside the tent, joined the other choir members, and sang their hearts out. The people of the city were moved to tears. A man stood up and said, ‘I work for the radio station. I want to record this choir so that we can play its music in one of our choral music programmes. We shall surely go to the village to record this choir.’ It was at that moment that a man with a gun stood up and shouted, ‘You shall record them in their graves!’ People screamed and threw themselves on the floor. The man opened fire and Noria’s friend was hit in the chest. She died laughing.

  It was at her funeral that Toloki came face to face for the first time with the ritual of the Nurse. When the Nurse related in detail how this our little sister died, and her premonitions, and the last words she uttered, and her final laugh, he was no longer the principal that Toloki knew. He was completely transformed, and his voice was not the voice he used at school, where he was always angry and did not hesitate to make the cane work on the buttocks of naughty boys and girls. When he explained how the bullet had pierced the heart of the innocent girl, we wailed, ‘People of the city killed our daughter only because she had a beautiful voice.’ He modulated his voice, and it blended well with our wails. For Toloki, who at that time did not have an inkling that his future calling would be in the cemeteries of the very city where they killed this our daughter, it was a magic moment. It was only marred by his parents. When the Nurse spoke about the cruel people of the city who had murdered our child, Jwara whispered aloud to his wife, ‘You see why I refused when Toloki wanted to go there, Mother of Toloki?’

  ‘But that stuck-up bitch Noria went there, and you bought her things.’

  ‘Noria is not stupid and ugly like Toloki. She is a child of the gods.’

  ‘If Toloki is stupid and ugly, it is because he has taken after you.’

  They were shouting at each other. We stopped them, and told them what a disgrace they were. How could they bring the quarrels of their household to the funeral of an innocent child who had died such a painful death? During all this storm, the Nurse never lost his cool for a moment. Noria stood next to Toloki in stunned silence. Later we said it was good that she did not cry, both for her dead friend, and for her name that was being bandied about at a public funeral, for that would have cast an even heavier blanket of gloom over the village. Toloki was so embarrassed that he wished the ground could open and swallow him, especially when suppressed guffaws were heard from the direction of his schoolmates.

  In the afternoon Toloki walks to the taxi rank, which is on the other side of the downtown area, or what is called the central business district. The streets are empty, as all the stores are closed. He struts like a king, for to
day the whole city belongs to him. He owns the wide tarmac roads, the skyscrapers, the traffic lights, and the flowers on the sidewalks. That is what he loves most about this city. It is a garden city, with flowers and well-tended shrubs and bushes growing at every conceivable place. In all seasons, blossoms fill the air. Sometimes when he goes to a funeral he picks a flower or two, as long as no one sees him, as you are not supposed to pick the flowers in the city parks, gardens and sidewalks. And that gives him a great idea: he might as well pick a few flowers for Noria. Just to make doubly sure, he looks around, then picks a few zinnias. He would have preferred roses, but he would have had to cross two streets in the opposite direction to get roses. So, zinnias will do. At least they are long-stemmed, and come in different colours.

  Like the streets, the taxi rank is empty. Usually there are rows and rows of mini-bus taxis, and dirty urchins touting passengers for this or that taxi. And traders selling cheap jewellery and stolen watches. Or fruit and vegetables. This is where he buys his green onions when he comes back from funerals. Or sometimes, when he has had a good payday, a small packet of dried tarragon, which he likes to chew. And then he crosses the street to his favourite bakery to buy Swiss rolls.

  An old kombi arrives and drops off a group of domestic workers and people wearing the blue and white uniforms of the Zion Church. That is the taxi to Noria’s squatter camp. He gets into the kombi and takes a back seat. The taxi will not go until it is full. People trickle in, but for some strange reason avoid the back seat. It takes up to thirty minutes to fill all the other seats, and those who come after that have no choice but to take the back seat. They sit facing the other way, trying very hard to give their backs to Toloki, and covering their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs or with their hands.