by JL Powers
Even though I was also trained in more traditional purging, the kind that causes people to vomit those things in their body or spirit causing their illness, I am not sure I will use that method. I suppose that means I’m not entirely traditional. That is, I’ve come to think of sangoma medicine as “adding to” rather than “subtracting from.” Purging is subtraction rather than addition.
I myself nearly died, I think, when I used purging medications to expel evil from our lives just before Mama died. So it is not something I would recommend lightly. In fact, I have never once asked somebody to purge. I respect it, as needed—sometimes we must remove evil before we can replace it with goodness, similar to the way doctors must remove cancer. But I think water is just one example of a better way to flush the system of evil or toxins than by puking—which is not to say that sometimes the body reacts to spoiled food or poisons by expelling it. But that’s a natural process of the body to protect it from harmful substances.
The talk ends while the day is still early and I have too much time before I have to pick up Zi from school so I wander around the university, pausing outside a laboratory. Posters on the walls and equipment identify this as a lab for the biological sciences.
My mind laps up the words on the posters, quick and so eager, and then I feel suddenly ill, like I consumed too much sugar all at once. I rush outside just in time to throw up.
One of the students sitting on the grass outside glances at me, askance or concerned, I’m not sure which. “Are you all-right?”
“I’m fine, just—sick.”
“You shouldn’t be here then,” she says, demolishing any sense of sympathy. “You could get somebody else sick.”
“You can’t catch what I’ve got,” I say, turning away and walking through the gates to the busy street beyond.
It’s true, though, we speak about my condition and illness using the same words. People fall sick. I fell…
Well, Gogo, you know how I fell. But it is early yet. We cannot yet consider this thing to be settled.
Zi’s school isn’t far from the university so I walk there slowly, thinking. How can I find a way to go back to school? Is there a way to go to university without passing matric? Or is my life going to follow a different path? My stomach churns with this thought. Gogo, I don’t wish to betray you or the promises I made.
I’m looking at the street ahead, just a tree-lined street of houses with green lawns hidden behind tall, electrified fences. But instead of houses and plants, I suddenly see Little Man, an uneasy smile on his face, gesticulating with his hands, talking talking talking—like he’s pleading or perhaps trying to get himself out of a bad situation. And then he falls backward like something’s knocked him over.
I rush forward to help him and find only empty streets. I glance around. A curtain flicks in one of the windows, the domestic help watching, wondering if I’m drunk or crazy.
My hand shakes as I take out my phone and dial his number. On the other end, it rings and rings, no answer.
I have little reason to talk on the way home. Inside my head, I’m chanting, Mkhulu, keep him safe.
Zi chatters away. She’s telling me a story her history teacher told them today, one I’ve heard Gogo tell, about what happened when Chameleon ran afoul of God.
“Nkulunkulu told Chameleon to go and tell the people they would never die,” Zi says.
I’m only paying half attention while I keep trying to reach Little Man on his phone. I try four times but each time, it does nothing but ring. I send a quick text: “Little Man, I’m worried. Call me please.”
“But Chameleon got so distracted by some fruit he wanted that he never delivered the message,” Zi says. “Nkulunkulu was angry, so he sent Lizard to tell the people that they would all die, they would all die indeed.”
My attention is suddenly riveted to her worried face. “That story scares you.”
She nods. “Everybody dies, Khosi.”
“Zi,” I say gently. “Don’t you know how that story ends?”
“Yes, everybody dies,” she repeats. “I already know that. First Mama, then Gogo, and next—you’re not going to die next, are you, Khosi?”
I smile at her. “Listen, Zi, this is important. After God sent Lizard, what happened next?”
“The Chameleon reached the people with the message that they would not die, but he was too late. Lizard had already arrived with the message that the people would die.” Zi sounds sullen. “So the people were angry and they killed Chameleon.”
“Yes, exactly,” I say. “The people killed him…they killed the bringer of good news! The same way the people killed Jesus. But the story doesn’t say Chameleon was wrong. The last message is the one we should remember. Lizard said everybody would die. Chameleon said they would not. Which one was right? I say Chameleon is right! Haven’t Zulus always believed in life after death?”
She nods slowly.
“So you see, death isn’t the end of life. That’s what I think the story says. People will die…but yet they will not die. They may leave earth but they just go on to something else. We don’t know exactly what we will find when we go to the other side but we know we will be greeted by all our loved ones, the ones who have gone on before us. They are all there, waiting for us. Just remember, the lesson of the story is that the grave is not the end of life. It is just the beginning of another.”
Even as I say this, even as I tell Zi this, I’m frantically dialing Little Man’s phone number for a fifth time. Worried about what it means that he has not yet answered. Worried that he could be hurt or, worse, dead.
I didn’t lie to Zi. I do believe that death is just another beginning. But I’m certainly not ready for Little Man to take that beginning on yet—that would mean the end of us, here, now.
Please let him answer, I beg God. Now now.
But yet again, he fails to answer. There is nothing to do except wait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A VOICE AS THIN AS THE SKY
Even though Nhlanhla greets us with wild kisses, the house feels empty and cold when we arrive home. I sit in Gogo’s cracked pink plastic chair by the kitchen door while Zi boils water for tea. Auntie didn’t want this chair because it is old and ugly. But I’m glad to still have it.
When Gogo was alive, nobody sat in this chair except her. She used to sit here while I made dinner. You don’t mind, do you, Gogo? Sitting in your chair makes me feel closer to you, like you’re right here, in the flesh, not just in my head.
Tonight, dinner is a packet of biscuits and milky sweet tea, which we eat in the kitchen while the sky thins from blue to pink and then, finally, black, only the brightest of stars twinkling through Imbali’s lights. We sit there, silent, until Zi says, “Khosi?” Her voice as thin as the sky.
I startle and sit up a bit straighter. “Yes, Zi?”
“Kwenzenjani?”
“I’m all-right.” I hope by saying it, it will become true. “Let’s see what’s on TV.” Maybe the noise and the light will be enough to chase this thing of too-much-thinking and too-much-worrying away.
If I could ask the amadlozi…but just now, Mkhulu and Gogo and the others offer only a deafening chorus of pure silence. That doesn’t mean Little Man’s OK. Nor does it mean Little Man’s in danger. It means—well, exactly nothing. But I need to distract myself.
Someone rattles the gate. The fur on Nhlanhla’s back sticks straight up and she growls, low but sure. I keep a hand on her as I peek out the window.
A very tall, very thin man stands just behind the gate.
Fear, a knife, slashes straight down my torso, from my throat to my stomach.
Though I have never spoken with this man, I recognize him. Langa, the taxi-driver with a fleet of taxis who controls so many of Imbali’s taxi routes. During the bloody taxi-wars of my childhood, he was the man who rose to the top. Now he is the one going after Bo and Little Man’s taxi route.
He stands upright, his body an arrow pointed toward the sky, carried w
ith the kind of confidence you see only in men with real power. Though he’s young enough to be my older brother, and handsome enough to make many women love him, his body bears evidence of his violent life, scars like tiny cobwebs spun across his hands, face, arms.
His own personal tsotsis slouch next to him, two young men I’ve seen around, one with the swagger of a boy who has done too much, the other looking to his friend for confidence. Soon, he will have too much of his own.
I have to wonder if they are just his bodyguards or if these thugs have plans for me.
I’m suddenly so angry at Little Man, my teeth hurt. Did he just send death to knock on my gate?
Well, if there is one thing I know, it is that death is a coward.
“Makhosi,” Langa calls in a soft but persistent voice. “Makhosi.” Makhosi, the name of respect given to sangomas, is also a word of desire. He wants something from me, needs something. Is power always like this? Does he also feel the sting of too much expectation from those who surround him?
Our eyes meet and even from this distance, I suddenly know and understand him. Yes, he could have me killed by snapping his fingers. But this man of so much apparent power actually controls very little. He must always do and be what others expect—like me. Like all sangomas. We’re all trapped in our roles, in others’ expectations.
Suddenly, I am no longer afraid. He can do what he wants with my body—but he actually has no power over me. Power is an illusion.
“Zi, lock this door and keep Nhlanhla with you,” I say. “Watch through the window and call Little Man if anything scary happens, OK? Tell him Langa is here to visit me.”
She nods quietly and watches as I slip out the door.
“Khosi,” she hisses.
“What?” I stick my head back in the door.
“Please don’t die,” she says.
“I won’t die,” I say. But can anyone ever promise that? If death is a coward, after all, it means he’ll make his move when your back is turned. Still, I am not afraid.
I take a deep breath and go outside. Langa immediately falls silent and watches me approach.
“Sawubona, Makhosi,” he says.
“Sawubona,” I greet him. “Nina ninjani?”
“Sikhona.” He smiles and throws his arms wide to indicate his presence and that of the tsotsis beside him. Indeed, they are all here and they are all well. Then he jerks his head to the left and they step away, I suppose out of earshot.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I’ve heard that you offer strong protection,” he says.
Even coming from a violent liar like Langa, I’ll admit that I feel a strong burst of pride in my heart. I can’t help the smile that creeps over my face.
“Word gets around,” he says.
The nice fig is often full of worms, Khosi, Mkhulu whispers.
I stop smiling. “Why are you here?” I repeat.
“I need protection,” he says.
“You? Why?” I ask.
Are you going to let him persuade you to help him? Gogo asks. She sounds puzzled. Incredulous. Don’t do it, mtanami. Don’t listen to him.
Oh, Gogo, do you really think I would help this man?
“From the evil men out to hurt me, out to take my business,” he bursts out, fragile and childlike in his sudden fear and anger. “They’re trying to kill me and take away everything I’ve worked hard to build over the years. My whole business.”
“I’ve heard a different version of the story,” I say.
“What? Who’s telling lies?” He looks left and right as though his enemies are right beside him. He shivers and scratches his arms.
“You see, Langa,” I say, “you are not in a good place. You fear everything and everybody.”
“No, I only fear my enemies.” As he speaks, his face looms close to mine, his eyes clouded by tiny red veins. “But the problem is, enemies—they are everywhere.”
A thick vein stands out on his temple. His tension is so palpable, I can almost feel the headache myself. I can’t help but reach out to touch it, soothing it with my cold fingers.
He steps back, startled. “What did you just do?”
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Who is initiating these hostilities? Is it you or others?”
“I felt that,” he insists. “I felt the power leaving your fingers. What did you just do?”
He stares at me and I stare back.
“Who?” I persist. “You or Bo or someone else?”
“Bo,” he lies. “I just want to live in peace.” He steps back, out of reach, as if anticipating some powerful lightning bolt from my fingertips because of his failure to tell the truth.
I stare at him. “I wouldn’t have helped you anyway,” I say, “but at least you could respect me enough to tell me the truth. Now go away. I won’t ask the ancestors to protect you.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Forgive me. I wasn’t lying—I just wasn’t telling you everything.”
“Sin of omission…” I mutter.
“We are both doing things we shouldn’t do. It is out of my control.”
“It is within your power to stop this,” I say.
We eye each other. He’s a brutally powerful man but I can sense how fast his heart is beating. And as much power as he has, he thinks he has to make these choices to keep that power. Which makes him powerless. And afraid. And alone.
“I need your help,” he shouts suddenly. “I don’t want to die.”
“I’m staying away from your dirty taxi war,” I snap.
“You’re not staying away from this war,” he yells. “What about your boyfriend? Did you give him a protective charm?”
I draw in a sharp breath. “Are you threatening him? Because yes, he has the protection of my ancestors and if you even touch—. You don’t want to step down that path. Snakes and dogs and my amadlozi guard that way…”
“I won’t hurt him,” he says. “But I’m asking you for similar help. So that my enemies don’t harm me.”
“No,” I say. “You must stop doing what you’re doing.” I keep my voice low but definitive so he cannot mistake what I am saying. “That is the only way to achieve protection.”
“Makhosi,” he begs. “Please. I’m afraid.”
“You’re leading yourself into danger,” I say. “If you wish to leave fear behind, then stop the violence.”
“And just let the lice eat the hut I’ve built?”
“It’s business,” I say. “You don’t have to make it a criminal enterprise.”
“Please,” he begs again. “I need protection.”
I shake my head. “You won’t get protection, not from me, and not from any sangoma. You are digging your own grave, building your own prison cell.”
“Makhosi! No!”
I stare at him. He’s a gangster but even a gangster has respect for a sangoma. His eyes drop and he turns away, finally understanding that my “no” is final.
“Langa,” I say.
He stops but keeps his back to me.
“Your name means sun,” I remind him. “You should be true to your name. Why do you seek darkness and violence? You could stop this thing. It doesn’t have to continue. You can protect yourself by stopping the violence.”
His shoulders slump. “There is no stopping this thing,” he whispers. “It’s too late. I am a walking dead man.”
He gestures and a taxi roars down the road, rattling loud music, zooming to a stop just behind him. He and his tsotsis hop inside.
As they pull away, the younger of the tsotsis stares at me. He holds two fingers to his temple, like a gun, then points it at me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FIGHT
We sit in front of the TV for the next couple of hours, watching our favorite soapies. I don’t usually let Zi watch so much but I have to admit, I’m not paying attention. My knees shake. I drink a cup of tea to calm myself down and when Zi asks me what Langa wanted, I just say, “Nothing.�
�� She gazes at me with her dark eyes, not accusing exactly but informing me that she knows I’m keeping secrets from her.
Zi finally falls asleep in front of the TV and I have to shake her awake and walk her down the hallway to bed.
I get in beside her and let the darkness settle into night. I think about the tsotsi putting his fingers like a gun to his head. Did he mean he was going to come back and try to kill me? Or just that he wishes I was dead?
I wasn’t afraid when I said all those things to Langa…but now I am. The courage of the ancestors may be with you at one time but departs you later, when you’re just human, 17 years old, a girl, an older sister, waiting to hear from your boyfriend whose life is in danger.
My whole body is aching for Little Man to call now—anger gone, only a trace of fear from Langa’s visit left. All fear now concentrated on this man I love. Where is he? Why haven’t I heard from him?
In the middle of the night, I’m wakened by the sound of Nhlanhla barking. A jangling sound. Somebody’s rattling the gate. I fumble out to the hallway to turn on a light and peek out the front window to see who is there. I can’t make out the shadow but Nhlanhla’s bark is happy and she’s wagging her tail so I open the first door.
“Khosi?” It’s Little Man’s voice, the sound of it as dear to me as Zi’s.
A rush of gladness practically gives me a heart attack. “Little Man!” I rush to unlock the second door and then go to the gate to let him in. His face is hidden behind the bags he’s holding. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know, two or three in the morning. I brought you something.”
In the dark, he hands me a heavy bag and holds onto another one himself. “Groceries?”
“Ehhe,” he says.
“Oh, Little Man, thank you!”