House of Stone

by Novuyo Rosa Tshuma

  ‘The baby was dead,’ my surrogate father told me, licking my finger. I let him run his tongue all over it even when there was no longer anything there. When I raised an eyebrow, he said, ‘Stillborn. It was born dead.’

  When he shuffled into the Mater Dei, he said, eyes as shiny as Tsholotsho diamonds, and peeked into the blanket, which he’d chosen himself, a navy blue throw-over with patterns of Super Mario stitched on, parting the tiny legs for a telling glimpse, the light died swiftly in his eyes.

  ‘All of that, and for nothing,’ he said, peering at my trousers, where I had pocketed the ubuvimbo. ‘Do you know how expensive a private hospital is? All of that waiting, I had even planned a party, told friends, everything … all of that … and she brought me a dead baby.’

  How my Mama Agnes must have wept!

  ‘She killed him,’ my surrogate father said to me, matter-of-factly. ‘She was trying to kill me. She wanted to take my Bukhosi away from me.’ He motioned to my trousers with his eyes. ‘I want some more.’

  For saying that about my Mama Agnes, I denied him another finger.

  April Baby

  This morning, my surrogate father received a phone call from the police station to go to the morgue at Mpilo Hospital and identify a body.

  When he told us this, gripping his Samsung to his ear still, I just stood there, in the sitting room, licking my lips, a little electric jolt shooting up and down my spine. Mama Agnes, who was sitting on her sofa, grabbed my hand, lifting herself up into my arms, her fists gripping at my shirt.

  ‘Oh, Ma,’ I said, rubbing her back, daring to rest my head on her shoulder.

  I glanced up to find my surrogate father watching me, and quickly looked away. I tried to hush her, to assure her that everything would be fine.

  We piled into my surrogate father’s car, and honked our way through the crowded roads. Mama Agnes fiddled nervously with her phone. So, the boy is dead! I said to myself over and over as we eased into the car park outside the red-brick walls of Mpilo Hospital, its white window frames and trimmed gardens belying the death that awaited us inside. I didn’t know how to feel about this. All I kept thinking was, what did I do, Zamani, what did you do?

  That Mpilo Hospital where the boy had been born. He was squeezed out on 18 April 1990, Bukhosi, beneath the winking lights of Mpilo, this public institution that wore proud its government endorsement like a crown, tactfully near that Barbourfields Stadium where the cavorting crowds had, on that 18th day of April 1990, celebrated the nation’s tenth anniversary. Seventy-nine hours of labour in the accompaniment of song and dance booming from the stadium nearby as the nation lifted high the banner of freedom, and then he slithered out, so wondrously adorned, cascading like a river, flowing free, proclaiming victory in a beseeching little wail.

  The nation’s baby that had been reincarnated, once again, on the nation’s birth day, was now, again, dead! I thought, with growing bitterness, how Karma really was exhibiting some extreme bitchiness.

  The Reverend Pastor met us outside the hospital doors; Mama Agnes must have texted him en route. She moaned when she saw him, and burst into tears again. The Reverend Pastor declared with a flourish of his hand that nothing could happen that had not yet been first ordained by God, that all things worked together for the good, and everything would be all right. It was all I could do not to sneak in a ‘Hallelujah!’

  My surrogate father just nodded to the Reverend Pastor’s proclamations. Our eyes met again. I parted my lips, and then closed them again. He pursed his and looked away. He was breathing heavily.

  I averted my eyes as we entered the building with the sign ‘Mortuary’ hanging lopsided on the front. It was Mama Agnes and I who led the way, Mama Agnes sniffling into my shirt. Behind us, my surrogate father and the Reverend Pastor followed. I gripped Mama Agnes and shuffled her along. Bop bop bop went her head, bop bop bop. The morgue assistant led us into the musky room, past rows and rows of covered trolleys, several toes or a leg or a dangling arm peeping from beneath some of the sheets.

  The assistant lifted a sheet and beckoned us for a closer look. Mama Agnes stumbled, but I held her, and though my own legs were threatening to give way, I leaned forward, steeling my face, and peered beneath the sheet.

  ‘It’s not him!’ I exclaimed, now flinging the whole sheet off the naked corpse. It was a ghastly sight to behold, the body of a boy yes, so small, the thin limbs attenuated by rigor mortis, with lips almost like Bukhosi’s, the same plump pout the colour of wet soil. But the front teeth were tiny and not oversize, like Bukhosi’s, the jaw was firm and not slack, and the ears flared out like a pair of satellite dishes, unlike Bukhosi’s that sat flat against the sides of his head.

  ‘It’s not him!’ Mama Agnes repeated. ‘It’s not my boy! It’s not him!’

  She began to laugh, slapping my chest, and then cry. I was about to put my arms around her when the Reverend Pastor muscled me aside, pulling Mama Agnes to his chest, letting her sob into his Canali lapels. I glared at him, and was about to cut between them when I saw my surrogate father standing alone, tears streaming down his sodden face, tremors assaulting his body. I went over to him. He let me embrace him. I hugged him, hugged him like I sometimes used to do for Uncle Fani.

  And now, here I am, in the Mlambo living room, contemplating the miracle that is life, leafing through the Tiffany-blue baby album that usually sits on the bookshelf between the Edgars Club and O magazines. Above me is the framed photo of baby Bukhosi with his face cupped in a bonnet strung around his chubby chin appraising the living room. Behold those emerald baby eyes beholding the living room with shimmering virtue! Yes, the boy, although he has Mama Agnes’s walnut complexion, inherited the emerald eyes of his true patrilineage, the Thornton Family Line. It was only thanks to the inverted teardrop nostrils, which belong undeniably to my surrogate father and are also a family feature of his biological clan the Thorntons, that Mama Agnes was not kicked out of her marital home under the charge of attempting to pass off another man’s offspring as her husband’s.

  It overbrims with life, the baby album, it holds in its pages the measure of seventeen years of living. Behold, impilo lesikhathi – la vita e i tempi! There is baby Bukhosi on the first page at just three weeks, his tiny, walnut face peeping from a Super Mario blanket, his emerald eyes ashimmer, his mouth pinched around Mama Agnes’s teat. He clinches that teat for dear life. Only an apocalyptic happening can separate him from the teat. Beware the enemy who dares to tear him away from his beloved teat!

  These opening pages show the little prince in a series of varying poses, from that three weeks to twenty months or so, suckling on various substitutes for the beloved teat, which, for one reason or another, has been denied him, and denial of which is clearly not going down well; a frown in one snapshot while moulding the tiny lips around a little fist; a snarl in another while trying to stuff the foot of a teddy bear into the tiny mouth; an alarmed Mama Agnes in yet another, bent over, trying to brush soil out of the clenched hand being worried at by the greedy little gob. And then a tranquil snap of the little prince, at nine months old, in which he sits on the floor suckling on a dummy.

  Next is a family of photos from twenty months or so to around three years in which we are presented with Bukhosi the philosopher of the human condition, helping us to realize the limits of our (im)mortality, our minds and dreams whose wildness is imprisoned in our bodies that bring us back to earth with every defecation. There is little Bukhosi lying atop a soiled nappy, having been betrayed by his little body; there again, crouching in a baby dish with his index finger prodding his anal orifice, looking up into the camera with a delighted grin; crouching in the same baby dish still, now smelling the index finger, now sucking on it, now smearing baby faeces on the walls of the baby dish; there, in a different snapshot, squatting on a potty, staring perplexed at the camera; squatting on the potty still, now crying.

  Here is Bukhosi the three-to-six-year-old, standing on his parents’ bed smiling into the cam
era, naked, one hand wrapped around his tiny phallus; now staring pensively at that phallus, now wagging it, now frowning; there, in another photo, stumbling in the backyard in our father’s brown boots; in another snapshot, clinging to Mama Agnes’s dress with his face pressed into her navel, as though hiding, perhaps from that other man our father, or just the camera.

  Bukhosi the youngster-teenager; a face flattened against the living room window, with the tongue pressed to the pane, whorling circles of spit; now seated on one of the chocolate-coloured tables at Haefelis, stuffing pizza into his mouth; now standing outside Spar Supermarket, eyes closed, head tipped back, a bottle of Fanta, which he grips rather possessively with both hands, tilted to the lips.

  There’s a strange photo, tucked at the back of the baby album, of him at six or seven years old, suckling on Mama Agnes’s breast, a sleepy jewel eye eyeing the camera. It’s the only photo of its kind, belonging neither to the teat, phallic or Fanta guzzling years. Also, in many of the photos, it’s Mama Agnes, and not my surrogate father, who is with him in the frame; it is she who hugs him, touches him, leans towards him, anchors him. But, as the years progress, he’s more often alone in the photos. There’s something precarious in the way he fills a frame; it is here that he reminds me, although I’m not sure why, of my Uncle Fani, and also of my surrogate father the day he told me about Black Jesus.

  It feels as though the threat of disappearance had always been there from the very beginning.

  Poof!

  Abracadabra!

  But this wispiness did not stop his parents from letting him spoil; by the time I met him earlier this year, he was skinny only thanks to the six-plus years of food shortages and runaway inflation that continue to plague the country.

  During those early years of his childhood, as Mama Agnes told me after Abednego slammed her into the wall for trying to leave for South Africa, my surrogate father became, once again, affectionate with her, loving even. He stopped beating her, and instead would take her out to the drive-in on Fridays, where he let her choose what to watch, and even agreed to let her see Honey, I Blew Up the Kid twice, and where they’d sit in the back seat of his Peugeot 504 sharing a box of popcorn and sipping Coke from the same straw, he silently groping her, she perfectly still.

  One day, while writhing to music blaring from the TV, her face scrunched up, her eyes closed, flinging her mfushwa hair from side to side and blaring along with Tina Turner, What’s love got to do, got to do with it, she opened her eyes to find him standing there, leaning against the door, his jacket slung over his briefcase. She stumbled. But he was smiling.

  ‘You shouldn’t play the TV so loud,’ he said. ‘This is the city, not a growth point dhindindi.’

  She lowered the volume.

  ‘Did you used to go often?’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To the growth point dhindindi.’

  ‘Ah! Never.’

  ‘Then where did you learn to dance like that?’

  I can picture her giggling, blushing. ‘Tell me,’ my surrogate father would have purred. ‘You know how to dance. I don’t know how to dance. Teach me. I want to learn.’

  Later that night, as Mama Agnes told me – and I can imagine her ensconced in the nook of his arm, enjoying the scent of him, his soft snores purring in her ear – she watched him and thought, contentedly, how he had become somebody she could love.

  ‘Zamani, bra – what’s that? What’s bra?’

  ‘It means “brother”, Ma,’ I said, beaming.

  ‘… bra, long time. Sorry I haven’t writn – written? What kind of spelling is this? – written earlier. I just had two – to? – get away. I’m in Jozi working on a few things. I’m fine, crashing double-u – what’s “w”?’

  ‘That’s short for “with”, Ma,’ I said, and offered to read the rest of the message for her and my surrogate father:

  Im fine, crashing w some friends, looking 4 a job. Zim sucks, tshomi, n im trying my luck here. Things r betta here, bra, w 20 rand I can afford 2 buy myself a 2 piecer from KFC. They have KFC here, bra! Tell ma im comng hme soon, engaworry, I’m cool, I just had 2 get away 4rm that house uyazi, im tired of that man always beating me. U r the only one I can talk 2. Thanks 4 being always there 4 me. U r the bro I always wished I had. Will write u soon. Will let u knw which bus I’ll be coming on.

  Later, bra.

  Khosi.

  I haven’t felt such energy in our house since the boy went missing! Such electricity! My Mama Agnes was ecstatic, trying unsuccessfully to lift me off the ground, kissing my surrogate father on the forehead, which elicited a strained smile, though he remained seated by the kitchen table, cupping his cheek and staring at the message. It was because of what the boy had said in his message, I knew – that he had left because of him. I was hoping Mama Agnes would be the one to note this particular line in the message, but she was too excited, and only sang praises to the Holy Ghost.

  And so, when we found ourselves alone in the kitchen, my surrogate father brooding still at the kitchen table in the sitting room, I tapped Mama Agnes on the shoulder and hissed, ‘Ma.’

  ‘Yes, mfanami?’ she said rather loudly.

  ‘I’m worried, Ma. About—’ I nodded towards the sitting room. ‘He’s been violent with you lately and now to learn that it’s because of him that Bukhosi ran away …’

  Her face darkened, her hand pausing midway through stirring the soup she was cooking for supper; we were expecting the Reverend Pastor for evening prayers.

  ‘I don’t think you should be alone with him,’ I continued. ‘But don’t you worry. I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let him do anything to you and the boy. Not any more. Not while I’m here.’

  *

  It came to me as I lay awake last night in my pygmy room, worried sick that I’d wake up one of these days to find her gone – and if she goes, how will I ever conquer that Gehenna, Bhalagwe? A few days ago, the day after the scare at the morgue, I found a brochure with the schedule of the Greyhound bus to Jozi in her handbag, some dates and times circled in pen. I figured the best way to stop her from going after the boy was to get the boy to come to her. But how to get him to come without coming? It was only as the sky began to pale outside my window this morning, that crisp, delicious morning breeze fanning the smells of the township into my lodgings, that it came to me: Facebook. Bukhosi and I opened Facebook accounts a few months ago, though we had never used them. But we’d heard Facebook was the new craze among young people over there in America, much cooler than MySpace. Now, finally, I would put this Facebook to use. I got up, spurred on by a fresh burst of energy, and set to work creating a fake account in Bukhosi’s name. I even used the profile picture that’s on his original account, the one I took the Sunday before he went missing, at the Rainbow Cinema where we had gone to watch Spider-Man 3. And then I sent myself a message from this fake account.

  When I showed Mama Agnes the message this morning, she raised her hands and shouted, ‘Praise the Lord!’ She beckoned my surrogate father, and together they huddled around my MacBook on the cobalt kitchen table.

  It was all too easy, really, and would have been perfect, had she not told the Reverend Pastor about Bukhosi’s Facebook message when he came for prayers this evening. He dared, that Reverend Pastor, to question me; he demanded to see the message, he scrunched up that chubby face of his as he read it, squinting, scowling, I don’t know what the hell he was doing to his face. As though this was not enough, as though he meant to not only question me but outdo me, he declared:

  ‘I can get my IT guys to trace it and get an accurate location of the boy.’

  He could get his IT guys to do what, get his IT guys to – who the hell had asked for his help? And who were these IT guys?

  I could feel the sweat beads forming on my forehead. ‘Is it necessary?’ I said. ‘After all, Bukhosi is coming home, he says so, in the message, that he’ll let me know.’

  The man flashed me those Colgate teeth
. ‘Still, it won’t hurt,’ he said. And then, like those perfectly timed TV pastors with their Hallelujah shows, he turned to Mama Agnes, furrowing his brow in just the right way. ‘I want to do all I can to help.’

  Mama Agnes gazed at him reverently. The bastard! Did he think he could mooch off my hard work? I had to swallow my rage, though. I had to smile and nod in agreement as she kept nudging me and saying, her eyes blazing at the man, ‘Isn’t he great, Zamani? Glory be to God. Isn’t he amazing? Hallelujah.’

  I had to beg leave from the evening prayers, and stumbled away before Mama Agnes could see the tears I was trying so desperately to blink back, ignoring her offer to take a plate of that scrumptious meal she had prepared. I was hyperventilating by the time I got to my pygmy room. I rummaged through my things, flinging everything aside until I found the Red Album. I stared at it, trying to control my breathing. I felt its weight and ran my hands across the cover, which was made of tough, red plastic. I opened it. I leafed through it, kissing the pictures, sniffing them, wetting their plastic pockets with my tears. I gazed into those brown eyes floating in their super-white sclerae. The irises glimmered darkly, the pupils opaque. That Reverend Pastor! How I wished to thrash him, to smash his face and wipe away that smug smile he always shines on Mama Agnes. I would punch him, bash him, bloody his stupid Canali suit. I would squish him like the fly that he is. Who the hell did he think he was? I would – I saw myself then, glaring into my eyes in the Red Album, the lamp next to my little put-me-up bed arresting my profile, my wet, velvet cheeks glittering like a starry night sky. My eyes shimmered darkly, too, but it seemed with … fright. I was dismayed to see fright so naked there, and I could not bear it, I quickly closed the Red Album, shutting myself away.