by JL Powers
Zi’s crying, holding her stomach.
The gogos surround us. One of them pats her back. Another pats her arm. Little Man’s taxi disappears around a curve, the road empty now.
The gogo I spoke with earlier glances at me, a slight look of accusation on her face, and I snap because I can’t help it, “Your babies are fine, I promise.”
A few seconds later, several khumbis pull up in the normal fashion and, just as I said, the gogos’ grandchildren pile off, in no hurry and with no worries. The gogos acknowledge me with a slight nod and then they head down the road with their grandchildren.
I take Zi’s hand and we walk home. I don’t ask what happened. I know once Zi is ready, the words will come pouring out of her mouth like a sudden October rain and she won’t stop talking.
Sure enough, as soon as we sit down for a cup of tea, Zi puts her little brown hand on mine. “Please don’t be mad at me, Khosi,” she says.
“Never!” I say, even though we both know that’s a lie. Now that I’m her mama, I get mad at her all the time. But that’s her own fault. If she was just a little more thoughtful…less heedless… But a leopard can’t scrub off its spots, nor a lion shave its own mane.
Her eyes twinkle at me. At first, I think it’s because she’s laughing but actually, her eyes are shedding tears.
“Another khumbi pulled up next to ours,” she says. “First we were laughing and Little Man told Bo to race them. So we started speeding up. And then, the next thing, two of the men on that khumbi were pulling out guns and they were pointing them at us and shooting.”
I jump up at Zi’s words and stand at the window, the one that looks out on the road that leads into town. It’s too late to see Little Man’s khumbi drive past, of course—he’s long gone—but that’s what I’m straining for, a glimpse of it, just one last sign to know that he’s safe, at least for the moment.
So the taxi wars have started again.
When I was younger, about Zi’s age, there was a terrible taxi war—not just in Imbali but in all the townships around Pietermaritzburg. Because taxi routes are not organized by the city government but by private taxi owners, anybody who controls them is guaranteed a good income. For months, taxi drivers in one association shot at taxi drivers in another association. They hijacked taxis at gunpoint, beat up competitors, and held customers hostage. All of them were trying to gain control of different taxi routes. They were little more than gangsters. And it tore the township to bits. Taxi drivers died. Innocent people died. Children died.
If another taxi war has started, everybody is in danger. Most of all, Little Man. If a taxi war has started, can he remain the gentle man I’ve grown to love? No. He must leave this job. He must.
I pound my hand on the table so hard, little tendrils of pain shiver up and down my arm.
“Are you angry?” Zi asks.
I whirl around. It’s not just her tiny, little-girl voice that makes her seem so small. Poor little Zi, always shorter and smaller than other little girls her age. She may be nine but she looks like she’s only six or seven. “I’m not angry at you, Zi,” I sigh. “But I’m angry, yes. Why is life so impossible? How can I let you get on another khumbi? How are you going to get to school?”
“I have to go to school, Khosi,” Zi says. “But I’m scared.”
I pull her towards me to hug her. “We’ll figure something out.”
Even as I say it, my head screams no. How can Zi go to school if the taxi wars have started again? I can’t risk her life every morning, every afternoon. But how can she stay home? If she does, the state may come and say I cannot keep her.
“We will get up early,” I start to plan out loud. “We’ll walk. And then I’ll return to get you.”
“You will spend all day walking,” Zi says. “And then have no time to work. We’ll have to leave before it’s light outside and come home after dark. Will we be safe?”
I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I spoke it out loud but I have to think. Think, Khosi.
“I will spend a great deal of time walking, it is true,” I say. “But not all day. And for now, we have no other choice.”
I sit in bed beside Zi, wrapped in blankets, a hot-water bottle wrapped in a towel and placed at our feet to keep us warm. The cold house is quiet, as though it, too, is listening. I’m waiting still to hear from Little Man. The minutes pass and I begin to envision his khumbi riddled with bullet holes, Little Man splayed on the hard ground, bleeding from fatal gunshot wounds.
Stop it, Khosi, I chide myself in as stern a voice as I can muster.
The phone rings once, sharply. Little Man! But as soon as I pick it up and say hello, the line is already dead.
Wouldn’t it be horrible if he’d called to say goodbye just now and that was his final phone call ever? My last vision is the khumbi pulling away, half of Little Man’s body inside and half out, as he shouted at me, promising to call later.
A few minutes later, the phone rings again. I jump up and take my phone into the hallway and out to the kitchen. I look out the window at my neighbors’ house and the sea of orange-yellow lights burning in the night.
“Sorry, Khosi.” Little Man sounds breathless. “We must be quick quick.”
“You’re OK?”
“Ehhe.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he says this. I let it out in a small, controlled whoosh, hoping he doesn’t hear it. “Are you home? Are you safe?”
“Ehhe,” he says.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“OK, OK.” He laughs and I picture him holding his hands defensively in the air, as if to ward off my words. “I’m not home yet but I’m almost there. I’m walking up the hill to my house. If you go out into your front yard, I’ll see you.”
I unlock the front door and go out onto the front stoop.
“I’m waving at you,” he says.
In the distance, on the hill towards Little Man’s house, a blurry blob is moving around. I’m guessing that’s Little Man. I wave back.
“I can see you,” he says. “Can you see me?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Are you and Zi safe?”
“Of course,” I say.
I start to add, “But we’re not OK—” except he interrupts with such a strong declaration: “Good. If you’re OK, I can sleep then. If you need me—”
So I—well, I lie again. “We’ll be fine,” I say.
“All-right, I’m starting to walk again. I’ll be safe just now, promise. I can see the light that Mama keeps on for me.”
I decide to push him a little bit. “What about tomorrow? Will you be safe tomorrow? Or will there be more guns? Is there a war?”
“We don’t know. It was Langa’s men. They chased us off. We can only show up tomorrow and see what happens.”
Langa is a big big man in Imbali. He owns twenty khumbis. Yes, he would do this, to regain control.
“What did Bo say?” Bo is his boss man.
“He said it can’t happen again.”
“What does that mean?”
Little Man is silent.
I make my question more specific: “Is he bringing a gun with him? Are you going to fight back?”
“I don’t know.”
I wanted Little Man to say it himself. To say, if it means a taxi war, I’ll quit my job. I don’t want to push him to say it. But—
“No,” I say. “No guns. Please, Little Man, promise me.” My voice is shrill and high, demanding—not the way I wish to be with him. But I can’t control it. “Let’s talk about this. Let’s make a plan. Let’s—”
“S’thandwa, sweetheart.” His voice is low, countering mine, placating. I picture him facing his house, the single lightbulb next to his mother’s door shining out in the night to welcome him home. “You know it isn’t my khumbi, Khosi MaKhosi. I don’t make the decisions. Bo is my boss.”
I take deep breaths.
“What can I do?” he asks and waits for my answer.
&nb
sp; Little Man is not like some men, filling the silences with words just so that it isn’t awkward. I am silent a long time. I walk from the kitchen to the bedroom and gaze down at Zi, sleeping in the bed we share. She used to share this bed with Gogo. Now I share it with her and my own bed, the one I shared with Mama until she died three years ago, is in the living room, our make-shift sofa.
I want to force Little Man’s hand, make him promise not to go to work tomorrow, but I know that would be stupid. He’s either going to make this choice or not. And then there will be another choice. And I also have choices. I do not believe this thing of fate or destiny. It is your destiny to make choices. Good choices.
“Don’t come for Zi in the morning,” I say, trying to make my voice steady.
“Khosi?” He sounds surprised, like maybe I’m breaking up with him.
I hurry to add to my declaration so he doesn’t read too much into it: “Come tomorrow when your work is over. You can tell me if it’s safe. Then I will decide about Zi.”
He starts breathing again as though my earlier words had caused him to stop. “I will be there tomorrow. Khosi…”
“Yebo?”
“Will you ask Mkhulu to protect me?”
I laugh, not because it’s funny but because, well, it’s like he’s asked me to breathe.
“I will ask,” I reassure him. “But you should know that their protection is never a promise.”
“Nothing is a promise,” he says. “Even a promise.”
What does he mean by that? I want to ask but I don’t dare. We hang up and I watch the hillside he’s walking up towards his house. His mother has indeed turned on a light. I can see it, shining out in the twilight. For three years now, that light and that house have reminded me of my friendship with Little Man. Since Gogo died, it has made me feel as though I’m not alone. But now, I don’t know. How will he respond to this problem, the taxi war? Will he resist—or join in? What kind of man is Little Man going to turn into? Can I trust that he will be the same man I fell in love with? Oh, I hope so. God, go with him. Keep him safe and make him strong. Let him be the Little Man I need him to be…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WALKING THERE AND BACK AGAIN
I wake Zi while it’s still dark. She yawns and starts to complain but shuts up when I give her a tall thermos full of milky sweet tea. We dress quickly, feed Nhlanhla, and leave just as the sun comes up, Imbali bathed in a soft orange light.
News of the taxi war has spread. We’re not the only ones walking to town. Gardeners and domestic workers trudge ahead of us on their way to work, while some women haul heavy bags of jewelry and carved wooden animals on their trek to town, where they will spread their wares on blankets to sell in front of Freedom Square or the Tatham Art Gallery.
It makes me feel safer to follow the crowds, especially through the darkened streets.
Besides taking Zi to school, I have things I want to accomplish. Last week I saw a flyer in downtown Pietermartizburg advertising a talk on what it called “sangoma medicine and sustainable practices” at the university. If I have to drop Zi off at school, I can at least hear the talk and spend the day in the city.
I estimate a little over an hour’s walk to Zi’s school and I am right, just. We run the last half block to make it as the bells start ringing. Zi runs inside and I turn to go.
“Khosi Zulu,” somebody calls. I turn around to see Beth, one of my former classmates. Her hair glints red in the sunlight. “What are you doing here?”
“I am dropping my sister off.”
She jogs over, her face full of frank curiosity. “I heard you quit school.”
The way she says that stings. “I did not quit,” I say. The sting comes out in my words, I can see it in the way she draws back, away from me. I gentle my tone. It isn’t her fault, after all. It’s my own. “My grandmother died and I didn’t have money for tuition.”
“Khosi, they have scholarships available.”
I shrug. I’m not going to share all the factors with a perfect stranger. Beth was always nice but you can tell just by looking at her that she doesn’t know what life is really like for most of us. “Not for me,” I say. I don’t want to go into the details that, in fact, I did have a scholarship. But trying to keep my grades up while training to be a sangoma—and then when Gogo got sick and I was trying to care for her and Zi… Well, the end of the story is that I lost my scholarship. Zi’s still on scholarship…but I barely had enough to pay her extra fees.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re smart. You could get one. You know any of the teachers in this school would recommend you.”
I start inching my way off the sidewalk to cross the street. “It was really nice to see you, Beth. Good luck in school.”
“I’m not letting this go, Khosi,” she yells after me. “You were the best science student in our grade. You should be in school. I heard you gave it all up and for what? To be a sangoma? Shame!”
I flutter my hand at her and make my escape.
Does she mean shame that I had to give up school?
Or is she saying shame that I’m a sangoma? She’s white but many white South Africans believe in this thing of African science and medicine. They have seen the power of muthi. Some of them have African ancestors, even if they didn’t want to admit it during the time of apartheid.
“At least talk to the headmaster,” she calls. “At least talk to him! Don’t just give up!”
The university is still looking disheveled from some of the student protests this past week. Ripped signs litter the lawn in front of the clock tower. A burn spot on the pavement marks the grave of a random car that student protesters set fire to. Students have been agitating against the high fees they must pay to go to university. I understand what they are saying, I do. But I can’t even pay the fees to matriculate. I’d like that chance first—to finish all my classes, to take my exams, to prove that I am worthy of the first of many diplomas. Maybe I should start protesting the fees just to finish school before even going to university!
The campus is quiet today. Maybe people are still staying home, afraid of what might happen. A couple of gogos zigzag across the front lawn, picking up ripped signs and garbage and putting it all in large plastic bags.
I ask one of them for directions and find the building I want, climbing the stairs to enter a classroom, almost empty because so few people dared to come. I’m surprised, after all, that they didn’t cancel it. The talk has just started when I arrive so I take a seat near the back. Then I scan the people gathered here. Only one other sangoma is here, an older woman sitting in the middle of the room. We acknowledge one another.
The talk is…interesting. The speakers say that traditional medicine, as practiced, is ecologically unsound. Too many sangomas gather rare wild plants to the point that those plants are now endangered.
I understand the talk perfectly and I realize they’re right. But it’s one thing to say “sangomas should” do this and “sangomas shouldn’t” do that and another thing to get a quarter million of us to do this thing they want us to do. The speakers are more sophisticated than that, of course, and use phrases like “using indigenous knowledge to conserve medicinal plants” or encouraging sangomas in the “propagation and cultivation” of medicinal plants rather than wild-harvesting so that what we do is “sustainable.” But even if we cultivate the herbs we need, will that stop or reverse the destruction of the wild versions? This question is not asked or answered.
Also, there were so many things talked about that are not even a part of the medicine I trained in or now practice. For example, animal parts. I’ve met sangomas who use the parts of animals—a lion’s foot, for example—but it is nothing I learned or would implement. That kind of medicine is usually for Other Things. Things we don’t speak of. Things I would never do, though I’ve been accused of it. And of course, I’ve had close encounters with the witch that lives on the hill, the one that left me the goat. I’m sure she uses or has used animal parts. But if somebo
dy came and asked me to do what what with animal parts, I’d tell them what what, believe me.
By the time I leave, I have a headache. I go to the front to talk with the young woman who spoke. “Did you spend time with sangomas?” I ask her.
“I did field research with three sangomas for six months,” she replies smoothly and firmly.
Her spirit is closed. But I still have to say what I need to say.
“Every sangoma is different,” I say. “We all practice our medicine differently because we have different ancestors. Not all of us gather wild herbs, or even the herbs you mentioned. Do you think you worked with enough sangomas to really understand what we do?”
“Yes, I believe I did. And I don’t appreciate you questioning my research methodology.” She looks beyond me to the next person. Dismissed!
I nod at her, briefly, and then walk away. She could have invited me to speak more openly. Perhaps she simply thought that I’m an opportunist. What do you think of that, hey, Mkhulu?
Still, even if she was rude, I could sense some truth in what she said to the audience, and something is beginning to burn deep in my belly in response to it all, but I’ll have to think about it by myself. I still don’t think she has the whole picture.
When I was in training, Mkhulu asked me to go to the ocean and bottle ocean water to bless. It required a long khumbi ride to Durban, a long walk to the sea, and a long khumbi ride home. It took all day. It certainly wasn’t something I did for pleasure—I did it because I had to. A few times, he asked me to go to the Umgeni River, and once he asked me to go all the way to the mouth of the Thukela. I brought water back and I sprinkled that muthi all over our garden and our house, for protection and for blessing. I use it to this day.
Even now, I make some medicines with nothing but tap water and words. Maybe that’s the Catholic part of me. Gogo, do you hear this? I may be struggling with this thing of God right now but it is still a part of me.
Water is not an everlasting resource, of course, but I think more sangomas could be trained this way. Of course, each sangoma follows the direction of their ancestors. Mine love water. I do too. It’s cleansing and abundant. It can be polluted when you gather it but it’s easy to purify through straining and boiling. And the body needs it to survive. Our bodies are, after all, at least half water. Water naturally purges the body of toxins.