by JL Powers
The rest of the crowd is gathered at the place where my street forms a T intersection, right where the taxis sweep through and stop.
“What’s going on, Sisi?” I ask a young woman about my age.
“One taxi opened fire on another and killed two people,” she says.
“Who?” I’m already pushing my way forward. “Who is it?”
I’m scared—but at the same time, I feel sure I’d know if Little Man was dead, I’d know it. And sure enough, it turns out, I’m right. It isn’t Little Man’s khumbi—that’s the first thing I notice. Somebody has removed the bodies from the taxi and laid them out on the ground alongside the vehicle: a young woman and an elderly man.
I turn away, trying to hide the relief flooding my heart, the joy breaking out in a tiny smile that I can’t quite suppress. That it isn’t Little Man. At the same time, horror that this is happening.
“Hey! Makhosi!” somebody yells. “Hey! Hey, wena! Makhosi!”
A crowd forms around me quickly, preventing me from leaving. Gently, they push me towards the bodies. I don’t bother to resist. The dead can’t pay, at least not in money, but you can’t deny them their due. This is what I’m here for. Nobody else can do it.
I kneel beside the bodies, a hand on each, and close my eyes. The crowd falls silent, though I can hear their feet shuffling as they watch.
I breathe in deep. The sweat from their bodies and the slightly sour smell of death. The rust scent where the blood seeps out from bullet wounds. The dust from the streets surrounding us and—there it is, the slightest hint of rain in the air. We’ll have a thunderstorm tonight. The skies will wash away the blood, attempt to erase the horror from Imbali’s streets. But it won’t succeed. We are in for it. The wars are only just beginning.
The ancestors hover just behind us, waiting to welcome their two children home. I fumble in my pocket for the bottle of all-purpose muthi I carry with me, a mixture of ocean water, lavender, lemongrass and wild malva, something Mkhulu instructed me to make. In the months since Gogo died, I’ve discovered it does at least one thing: it calms Zi down instantly, no matter what’s happened.
I shake a few drops out onto my index finger, then use it to make the sign of the cross on their foreheads, their mouths, over their hearts. I may be a sangoma, but I’m still Catholic through and through. They need to be welcomed not only by their ancestors but also by the Lord of the Skies.
I open my eyes. Everybody’s moved back a few spaces, respectful, but they’re all watching. A young girl just three or four years old stands beside her gogo, sucking her thumb. Her gogo is somebody I recognize—Gladys Nene, the woman who ran away from my help when I realized her sons were involved in criminal activities. She’s flanked by two stocky young men. In all ways, they look like ordinary men of the township—but I know better. I know they are up to something criminal, even if I don’t know the details.
I watch them for a second. She turns slightly and our eyes catch.
She stares hard at me.
I stare back.
She nudges the men and they, too, turn to stare at me. I stare back for some few seconds until I turn away—not because I feel weak or frightened but because the people around us are beginning to notice. Let them think they have the victory. I know the truth.
“Siyabonga, Makhosi,” the people murmur as I stumble my way through the crowd. “Thank you, thank you.”
At the top of the hill, I see Ahmed and his wife, also watching. They nod respectfully towards me, but I see the doubt in their eyes. They don’t know what to think—about me, about my role in the community, about what I just did. I wish I could tell them I welcome their prayers to Allah and I believe the woman and the man who died would now too—even if they wouldn’t have before they passed along to the other side.
Walking away, I can’t help breathing a sigh of relief. Little Man is still safe. Thank you, Mkhulu, thank you, Gogo.
But then I’m struck by an even more terrible thought than the idea that Little Man could be dead. What if he was part of this? What if Bo and Little Man fired the shots that killed these two people?
The thought makes my face break out in a cold sweat. I grab a fence post to support myself.
First thought: No. Absolutely not! Little Man may be working for a taxi involved in this war but he’d never… He’d never! Right, Gogo?
Second thought: I don’t want to think about this anymore. Because what if I’m wrong? Please, Gogo, don’t let me be wrong.
I make my way toward our house, mechanically letting myself inside the gate and making sure Nhlanhla has food and water. Then I head back out for the long walk to pick up Zi.
I’m glad I have something to do, even if it’s just putting one foot in front of the other.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
UNDER WATER
The mother and young child, perhaps two or three years old, lean against my gate, waiting for me as I walk home from dropping Zi at school. I hurry to let them in the gate, shooing Nhlanhla towards the hut and away from them. They follow me inside the yard and I ask them to wait while I drop my bag in the house, then enter the hut to cleanse it with incense and impepho.
They enter and sit near the fire. Nhlanhla lies down patiently near the entrance, her eyes on me. I pat her head, still sweeping impepho through the air. Then at last, I sit. The mother holds her young child in her lap and keeps her eyes down, respectful. The child sits limply and does not move.
“How can I help you, Mama?” I ask. I respectfully avert my eyes from the powerful ancestor that sits just beside her, folding legs exactly the way she does, tilting her head in the same manner. She was an older sister, one that died when this woman was very young, but they had bonded in the way of sisters. And now the older one stays with the younger, to protect and love her.
If I were to die before Zi, that is exactly how I would be. Fierce and protective.
“My child will not eat, Makhosi,” she says.
“Have you taken her to the doctors?”
She nods. In that brief movement, I see how tired and worried she is.
“She looks healthy,” I say.
“The doctors say she is not thriving,” she says. The stark words steal my breath. “She has not grown since her last visit six months ago.”
The ancestor sitting beside her jerks her head suddenly. This bothers her badly. She feels every emotion her sister experiences and she is just as tired and worried as the one who still lives.
“Look at her. Her eyes are lifeless.” She turns the child around to look at me. The black eyes are like a deep, empty hole.
“I have sought help from other sangomas,” the mother says now. “Nothing has helped.”
“Did the child eat well before? When she was younger?”
“She ate so much, my husband called her Locust.” Even tired as she is, the woman smiles, remembering the nickname. “He joked that she would eat our entire house in days if we let her loose.”
“Did she stop eating suddenly, Mama? Or did it happen gradually?”
“No, Ma, I remember exactly when it happened.” Her words are eager and sudden. “We had a party and my husband’s ex-wife arrived uninvited. She was drunk and caused a big, big scene. Sho! I thought she was going to slap my husband from here into the next world.”
“Why was she so angry?”
“Because of the damages,” she said.
“What damages? For who?”
“Their daughter had a child before getting married and my husband has not gone to the boyfriend’s family seeking damages. The ex-wife is afraid their daughter will never marry now, or fetch a very low lobola because of the child, and that the boyfriend will never help care for the child.”
This is exactly the sort of situation that can sour relationships. Sometimes I have had enough thinking about witches. It is a sore subject. But I must ask.
“Do you think she is angry enough to harm your daughter? To put muthi in her path? To have her cursed?”
> “Ehhe. I think so, perhaps. It was only after that day, she refused to eat. And she has hardly eaten since. When she tries, she vomits.”
“Did you see evidence of muthi?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing, Makhosi.”
I sigh and watch her ancestor, the sister, the one so jealous of her. Jealous in a good way. She wants nothing more than to protect this woman and her daughter. She pleads with me to do something, to find something.
“What are your names?” I ask.
“I am Nobuhle Dube and my daughter is Liyana Ndlovu.”
Liyana. It is raining. A name to inspire hope for those whose work is the land, as in the old days, but perhaps a name of sorrow for city dwellers of today.
“How old is Liyana?”
“Four.”
Shame, it’s not possible. She looks half that age. Two, or even a little younger.
I stoke the fire and let the smoke rise up through the hole in the top. I spread out a bright cloth and throw the bones and items I’ve collected, to see what they will tell me. Gogo, Mkhulu, help. Help me see what is wrong with Liyana.
I let the amadlozi speak. I cannot lie, it is terrifying what they show me.
I said once that I do not believe in purging for purification. Eish, I would rather do the purging than what they tell me.
Nobuhle’s head is bowed as she waits. Liyana has started to droop against her, and she has trouble holding up her neck. I can see more clearly now what I failed to see before. She is wasting away.
“Mama,” I say. “MaNdlovu.”
She jerks to attention, looking my way.
“Mama,” I say. “The amadlozi have told me what to do.”
“Is it, Makhosi?”
“Yebo. Kodwa…it scares me.”
“Haibo. It scares you?”
“It scares me.”
She takes a deep breath. “Tell me.”
“They say to put her under the water. She must learn to breathe under water. And then she will be cleansed.”
Nobuhle scrambles to her feet, clutching her daughter close. I stand too, quick quick. Her ancestor jumps up, steadies the woman with her arm. She breathes in deep, her chest heaving.
Nobuhle’s dead sister rubs her arm gently. Though Nobuhle doesn’t feel the soft touch in her body, she senses it in her spirit. Slowly, the grey look of her skin returns to normal. Tears trickle down her cheeks. “What you are asking is too terrible, Makhosi,” she says.
“Ngiyaqonda.” I understand, I do. It is too much. It is terrible. I think back to my own experience learning this, the panic, the letting go, the push and pull, between the amadlozi and my breathing and the watery depths. It was so hard, how could I possibly ask another person to do it? But it is not me saying this, asking this.
“You have a powerful ancestor who mirrors you in every step,” I say. “I do not think she wants harm to come to your child. And…I do not want it either. Liyana will be safe. With everything that I can possibly promise, I will keep her safe. I will go under water with her. I will not leave her there.”
Her arms close protectively around Liyana. She closes her eyes, buries her nose in her child’s neck, smells her skin.
I wonder what it is like to love somebody that much? It is hard to imagine. Did Mama love us that much? If so, why didn’t she do what she needed to get medicine for her HIV so she could live? Fear is crippling. Gogo, may I never be so afraid that fear wins.
“Mama, can we?” I ask.
Nobuhle breathes out slow. Then, even slower, she hands Liyana over to me.
Her body is so frail, so light. It feels like I’m holding a small bundle of kindling sticks.
“Woza,” I say and Nobuhle follows me out of the hut and into the house. We go inside and to the bathroom, where I begin to fill the bathtub with warm water, letting it fill as deep as possible. Directing Nobuhle to sit on the toilet and holding Liyana with one hand, I take my skirt off with the other. Then I get in.
Mkhulu, are you sure about this? Because I am afraid.
I hold Liyana away from me and look at her dull eyes. Then at Nobuhle. She grips the edge of the toilet as if it is taking everything she has not to snatch her child away.
“No harm will come to her,” I promise again, hoping I am telling the truth.
And then I let go and slip under, taking the baby with me.
It is just bath water. Ordinary. It is not a lake, or a river, a reservoir or the ocean. It is clear, not murky, and so easy to emerge from the water again, which is only as deep as the tub. There is nothing dangerous here…no, I am the only danger, the fact that I am holding Liyana under.
What if I drown her? What if I misheard Mkhulu and she dies?
But still, we stay under the water. I hold Liyana still, though truly, she is not struggling. I hold for a count of ten. Twenty. Kunye. Kubili. Kutathu. Kune. Kuhlanu…
And then we come up. Nobuhle is crying, a long low wailing sound, and she does not watch, her head is turned to the wall. Her sister holds her and watches me. Nods briefly as if to say, Kulungile, it is all-right. Keep going. Futhi.
Liyana does not cry. She simply stares at me, unblinking, water dripping off her hair and running in rivulets down her tiny, elfin face. And she is still alive.
“Futhi,” I say, and we go under again.
This time, she opens her mouth under water and I think she might start gurgling or choking but she doesn’t, she breathes out.
This time, I count to twenty, thirty, forty. And then we come up.
Nobuhle is openly sobbing, hitting the wall with her hand, so hard I am afraid she will make a hole.
“Futhi,” I say, and Liyana and I go under again, for a count of thirty and then forty and then fifty. Then sixty. And still we wait.
Liyana’s eyes are open and she is watching me. Is it my imagination or does she feel slightly weightier?
I feel the sense of something giving, something going away, something slipping off Liyana and away, into the water. I breathe in and out—yes, under water, but that is the gift the ancestors gave me, and Liyana shudders, takes her own breath even under water, and everything is calm. And she is distinctly heavier, as though she has taken heft again. As though she is real, and here.
We emerge and I can see now that whatever had hold of her is gone. She shivers in the cold air.
“Mama,” I say. “Let us see if she will eat.”
Nobuhle snatches her from my arms and smothers her to her chest. Liyana flails and struggles away. She opens her mouth in a long, low wail. But thank you, God, when we take her to the kitchen and offer her some Marie biscuits and rooibos, she eats and slurps the sugary milky tea, eager. Nobuhle stares in amazement, first at her daughter and then at me.
“Eh!” she cries. “How did you do it?” Her eyes alight, eager. This is why I’m a healer, to help people like this.
“It was not me, Mama,” I say. “It was your sister, the one who died when you were so young. Do you remember her? She has never forgotten you. She is watching over Liyana and you. And she helped remove this thing that was keeping Liyana from growing. It will be all-right now. Everything will be all-right.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
INTRUDER
It’s late. Zi and I are watching television. The gate rattles and Nhlanhla starts barking fiercely. She knows Little Man’s footsteps, knows his scent.
So it’s not Little Man then.
I pull the curtain back. I don’t recognize the dark shape standing at the gate. It’s not my uncle, or any of the neighbors. I let the curtain fall in place. What should I do?
I sit back on the mattress and wait. Zi huddles beside me, looking up at me with her large dark eyes, as if to ask, “Why don’t you do something?”
Whoever it is keeps rattling the gate. I don’t dare open the door and call out to find out who it is. It’s true that neighbors know we live here alone, except for the weekends my uncle comes, but what if it’s not a neighbor? I’m certainly not going to let
a stranger know that two young girls are here alone late at night.
We sit in the dark. The rattling stops. I sink back into the mattress.
And then Nhlanhla begins to growl, low in the throat. The hair on the ridge of her back sticks straight up.
Zi grabs my arm. I sit bolt upright.
“Khosi,” she whimpers but I hush her with a harsh, “Shhhhhhhush.”
Footsteps crunch the gravel just outside the door. How in the world did somebody get inside the gate? I keep it locked at all times and, like many homes in Imbali, we have barbed wire running the length of the fence.
The sound of footsteps retreats, then returns, closer, closer, right up to the window.
What is he doing? Is he looking through the crack in the curtain? Is he checking the bars across the windows to see if he could somehow break in?
We crouch down against the wall so he can’t see our heads in the flickering light of the television. Of course, he must know we’re here. Why else is the television on? And lights in the kitchen?
Nhlanhla continues to growl, first at the front door, then she runs through the living room and into the kitchen and growls at the back door.
Why didn’t I accept the gun Little Man tried to give me? No, I said, no no no, the Lord in the Sky and the ancestors will protect us. No no no.
Stupid stupid stupid. I would give anything for that gun now. I would give anything for Little Man. Why didn’t I say yes, yes, yes, move in, move in now, as soon as Gogo died and he asked if we could live together?
We sit silently, gripping each other. Nhlanhla paces back and forth between kitchen and living room and then down the hallway towards the back bedroom. She lets out a series of sharp, staccato barks.
And then she’s silent.
So are the two of us, sitting perfectly still. Everything is still.
“Why isn’t she coming back to the living room?” Zi whispers.
I’m too frightened to answer. I know one thing, I’m not going to the back to check. I’ll stay right here all night long if I have to.
After some time, Nhlanhla pads back into the living room. She goes to her blanket in the corner. Circles once, twice, three times, then plops down with a long, deep sigh.