by JL Powers
The words fall out of his mouth with enthusiasm. He can’t stop talking. I watch his mouth move and move and finally smile at him to stop the torrent.
“You see, it is not me you must thank,” I say. “It is yourself who solved this problem. You were so stressed, it is no wonder you could not find a job or your wife fall pregnant. And you chose to forgive your brother for his jealousy, and that is something only you could do.”
“No, no.” He puts up a hand to stop me. “No, Makhosi. You discovered the source of the problem, and you pointed the way. Thank you, indeed, thank you.”
The encounter leaves me with a warm glow, something I haven’t felt much of lately, except when I’m with Sifiso.
Speaking of Sifiso…we haven’t spoken since he visited the other day and I miss him. I miss his smile. I miss his voice.
I pull out my phone and dial his number. Of course I have saved him as a contact but I’ve memorized his number anyway. It feels… important.
“Khosi!” The delight in his voice when he answers the phone makes the bottom of my stomach drop away. I stop, dead still, in the middle of the sidewalk and just let the people walk around me on either side, staring at me as they pass. “Good morning!”
“I’m glad to hear your voice,” I say. I start to walk again, crossing the street and heading towards the beautiful red brick city hall. I duck under a jacaranda tree to finish the conversation, realizing suddenly that I don’t want anything to distract me from it, even walking or avoiding people.
“Oh, hearing your voice has made my entire day a good one,” he says. “And it did not start out well, so that is saying something.”
I admit, I have been so preoccupied with my own worries, I have thought little of Sifiso’s. That is something to change. “It is still morning,” I say. “What has happened?”
“We were called out to a home invasion early this morning,” he says. “I will spare you the most gruesome details but it was not a pretty scene. They had hacked off the face of one of the victims. You know, I understand this thing of desperation that drives some men and women to steal, but I do not understand this thing of such terrible anger that leads to—oh, such vicious attacks on others. It seems like such personal anger, even though the victims and attackers were strangers.”
“That sounds like a terrible way to start your day,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I think about this act of anger, to take a person’s face. It seems a way to steal your victim’s identity, their personhood, their very humanity. That would be a slow-burning simmering anger that erupted in a sudden volcano of violence.
“I would much rather start my day seeing your beautiful face,” he says. “Can you send me a picture? I would like to keep one on my phone.”
“Oh, my phone doesn’t have a camera,” I say. “It is just one of these cheap phones. I can text and call, that is all.”
He laughs. “Well, I will fix that.”
I worry for some few seconds. I do not want Sifiso to think he has to give me things, or buy my love, the way so many men and women think.
“Why are you silent, thando?” Sifiso asks. “It would be my pleasure to get you a better phone, but I do not want you to think you would owe me anything. Do you understand?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t the force words out. Tears drip down my cheeks. I don’t want Sifiso to know his words have made me cry.
“Khosi? Are you there?” he asks.
I nod, as if he can see me.
“If it makes you uncomfortable,” he says, “I will simply snap a photo next time I see you, and we will save the gift of a phone until later, when you are ready. But I would like to give you good things. Is that all-right, someday? Can we work towards that?”
“Yes,” I whisper at last. Whispering is the only thing I trust my voice to do.
After we hang up, I stay in my place under the tree for some few minutes. Across the way is the statue of Gandhi, reminding us all of the legacy of justice in this city. I wonder what Gandhi would make of Pietermaritzburg now, more than a hundred years after he visited, after he spent a night in the train station realizing he needed to stand up for himself? I wonder what he would make of Pietermaritzburg today, of all the crime, of all the poverty, of a home invasion that ends with somebody’s face hacked off? I have heard it said “no justice, no peace.” We haven’t yet seen justice in our land, and so we haven’t yet seen peace.
The phone call with Sifiso has left me shaken in more ways than one.
I realize he is making me think even more about this world we live in. And he is making me think about what I expect and want in a relationship. This thing with Sifiso, it is more than just chills and my stomach dropping and liking the way he makes me feel. I am really beginning to care about him, care for him. I don’t know where that leaves me. I don’t know what I should think, or what I should do now. I suppose I will just keep putting one foot in front of the other and letting them lead, letting them go where they will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOT SO SECRET SECRET
MaDudu calls to us from her side of the fence when we get home from school some few days later. Zi goes inside and lets Nhlanhla out while I head over to have a short chat. We talk through the metal openings, Nhlanhla settling in to the dust, lying at my feet. She presses against my legs, a small warm brown comfort.
“I chased away two men who were rattling and rattling your gate while you were gone,” she greeted me. “Sho! Nhlanhla was barking like a mad dog inside.”
“Who were they? What did they want?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen them before. I asked what they needed and why they were here and when they told me to mind my own business, I told them to go away or I would call the police.”
I glance at my gate, glad Sifiso brought me a new lock. “What do you think I should do?”
“You should call your uncle and tell him to come home,” she advises. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Oh no, Ma, you know my uncle thinks I used witchcraft against Gogo.”
“Does he?” she says. “Shame.” And for a moment, she looks like she feels shame for herself all over again, remembering the time from before Mama died when she employed the witch against us. Wow, how things have changed. “Or can you move in with your baba?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Where is Little Man? Couldn’t he come stay here for some few days?”
It’s unexpected but as soon as she asks that one thing, tears start rolling down my cheeks, and once they start, they don’t stop.
MaDudu reaches a bony hand through the gap in our fences and grabs my hand. “Mtanami, I did not mean to cause you sorrow,” she says.
“Cha, I know,” I wail. “Little Man is mad at me and you know, he works for a khumbi…”
“No!” She sounds shocked. “Is he caught up in this thing, the taxi war?”
I can’t speak. I just nod, tears soaking my cheeks.
“But he will end up dead or in prison,” she exclaims.
I bow my head, wiping the tears away, trying to get ahold of myself. I’ve never been this emotional, I’ve always been able to control it, what is happening to me?
“That is what I’m afraid of,” I whisper at last.
“He must stop,” she says. “You must tell him. He must stop being so selfish, he must think about you, about you and this thing.” She puts her hand to her mouth, realizing she said too much.
“What what what?” I ask. “You know about this thing?”
“Mtanami, I had six of my own, do you think I do not recognize the signs?” She laughs, a bit of the cackle in her laughter, then gestures towards my stomach. “I don’t need to be a sangoma to divine this thing of falling pregnant.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I haven’t told anyone. But if you know…”
“No, no,” she says. “It is early yet and I am around you more than most people. Do not worry about the others. But tell me, do you know when you fell preg
nant?”
“Just after Gogo passed…” I say. “It is maybe fifteen or sixteen weeks now.” Fresh tears start to fall. “What am I going to do?”
The look on her face is kind but perplexed at the same time. “You’ll do what all we Zulu women do,” she says. “You’ll bear this burden and you’ll love your child more than life itself.”
“Of course,” I say. “I meant, what should I do right now? Who should I tell? What am I going to do?”
“The first person you need to tell is Little Man,” she advises. “Perhaps it is just what he needs to stop this thing of foolishness. Taxi wars! What is he thinking? And then the two of you can make a plan. I will help with whatever you decide.”
I look at my feet, ashamed to find myself in this predicament. “What do you think Mama and Gogo would do, if they were still here?”
MaDudu touches my arm. “They would prepare the house for a baby,” she says. “What else do you think they would do?”
Her touch makes me want to put my head on her shoulder. But I don’t. I can’t.
“Before she died, Gogo made me promise I wouldn’t do this very thing I’ve done. Be with Little Man, get serious, fall pregnant. She wanted me to finish school and wait a few years to get married and have children. And here I am, not even in school, not married, and now this baby—and she’s only been gone four months. Do you think she’s very angry with me?”
“Khosi.” MaDudu bows her face and I see just how old she has become. Why must the people we love grow old quick quick? “Do I need to remind you that you are a sangoma? If you think she’s angry with you, or if you want to know what she thinks you should do, why don’t you go into your hut and ask? She will tell you.”
That seems simple enough but it isn’t something I feel capable of doing just yet. I talk to you all the time, Gogo, but you and I, we avoid this topic. How I broke both the promises I made to you. Perhaps that I am a disappointment. Shame, I’m afraid of what you’ll say. I cannot.
Instead, Zi and I eat—toasted bread with Rama and jam that I find in the back of the cupboard—and then take a nap. I’m exhausted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MY GIRL
I wake to the sound of thunder and rain thudding on the roof. My head aches, my mouth tastes strange. The thought of eating bread with Rama and jam ever again makes me sick to my stomach. Zi’s still asleep so I go into the kitchen and drink two full glasses of water, terribly thirsty.
I’ve missed a call from Sifiso. I know I should try to call Little Man. It’s been—so long. I’ve thought about calling every day since our fight. I think about it for some few minutes and then I call Sifiso. I’m not going to question my motives right now. I just do it.
“Heyyyy,” he answers on the first ring. “How’s my girl?”
Am I his girl? It’s true, it already feels like I am.
“Are you working?”
“No, I have the afternoon off,” he says. “I’m visiting my mother. Can I come by and see you? I have a shift starting at six.”
I glance at the clock. It’s four. “I’d like that,” I say, feeling shy.
“I’ll be there now now.”
Now that it’s set he’s coming, I’m full of nervous energy. I brush my teeth to get rid of the metallic taste—a taste that I’m beginning to realize might be “pregnant mouth”—and start to clean the already-clean kitchen.
And now I should call Little Man. I sigh, dreading that call but needing to make it too—needing to connect or disconnect, one or the other. What if he answers the phone? What if he never answers? I text instead. How are you, Little Man?
It seems all awkward and formal, but I don’t know what else to write. Everything is all wrong and not because of Sifiso. Because of Little Man getting mad at me and storming away and not ever coming back. Because of my being pregnant. Because of the taxi wars.
So I add, quickly, Are you still mad at me? A little more natural. But also a stupid question. Of course he’s still mad at me. That’s why he hasn’t shown up for four weeks. And then, because of MaDudu, I text, We need to talk. Can you come by tomorrow?
My stomach hurts just thinking about talking to him. I mean, what do I say to him?—I fell pregnant, I met someone else, please quit your job because I’m afraid you’re going to end up in jail or dead and I’m not sure which is worse, are we finished? I need to say goodbye, Little Man. I need an end to ‘us.’ I still love you, Little Man. Or maybe, Hey, no matter what happens with us, this baby is going to show up in some few months. We have to talk about what that means.
He still hasn’t answered when the gate rattles, Nhlanhla bursts into happy little barks, and I look outside to see Sifiso. Water mists down from the sky. His face breaks into the most goofy grin when I open the door and head out to greet him.
As soon as I open the gate, his arms circle my waist and his lips are whispering in my ear, “I’m so glad to see you, I missed you.”
My heart is beating hard and my breath is uneven and I hug him back. He’s strong, lean, muscles in all the right places. It feels good to put my arms all the way around him, to feel his arms around me. I put my hand on his head, his hair wet from the lightly falling rain.
He squeezes me gently. I squeeze back.
“Come inside,” I say, afraid he might kiss me right out here in front of God and everybody.
He catches my hand and holds it as we cross the yard. I look at MaDudu’s house and see the curtain in her kitchen window move the tiniest bit.
The secret’s out. I’m going to have to deal with this now.
And it’s true, as soon as we step inside the house, he swings me around and holds me again, kissing my hair. His lips nibble my ear and then my neck and my whole body relaxes into him.
I stay very still, not wanting to move, not wanting this moment to end. Wanting to be here, forever.
Until I hear a small voice. “Khosi?”
I whirl out of his arms.
Zi stands in the hallway. She’s scowling at us.
“Sifiso just stopped by to say hi,” I say, hoping to prevent the deluge kodwa… it’s too late for that.
“I miss Little Man,” she announces. “Where is Little Man?”
My heart drops a million kilometers.
“Who’s Little Man?” Sifiso says.
Nobody answers. Zi looks at me accusingly.
“Is he a friend? An old boyfriend?” He has a million questions in his eyes but he doesn’t seem angry. Not yet.
I was his girl for all of a few days, or hours, maybe. Tears prick my eyelids. “We should talk about it. But not in front of Zi.”
“I see,” he says. He’s still smiling but suddenly it seems a little forced.
“I’m hungry,” Zi says. “Starving. What’s for dinner, Khosi?”
“Let’s go to Spur,” Sifiso whispers. “The restaurant with the gigantic Indian chief logo? Have you eaten there?”
I nod. I’ve never eaten there but I know the restaurant he’s talking about. There is one right around the corner in Edendale Mall.
“They have a play area for kids. Zi can play there and you and I can talk while she’s busy. I’ll drop you off back home before going to work.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods so we head out the gate, leaving Nhlanhla outside.
We order chicken and chips and cool drinks. Zi runs off to play in the children’s area. Left alone with Sifiso, I don’t know where to look. I contort the napkin into a horrendous shape until he reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. When I look up, his mouth is twisted—partly a smile, partly a frown, and it hurts just looking at it.
“You are too young to be married,” he says, “so unless that is what you are about to tell me…”
“No,” I say, a relieved laugh escaping my lips. “I’m not married.”
“Thank God,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.
“Are you married?”
“I thought I alrea
dy told you that,” he says. “No, I have never been married. I am free. Well, I was a week ago… Now my heart belongs to you.”
I smile at the table. At the same time, hurting inside, the secrets inside forming a strong, hard knot.
He reaches across the table, lifts my chin until I’m looking at him. He leans over and kisses me. Gently.
I look at him. Sifiso.
“Who is Little Man?” he asks.
“He was my best friend,” I say, honestly. “And my boyfriend until some few weeks ago. We had a fight and he walked out on us. I haven’t heard from him since and I—. So I don’t know anymore. I think it’s over. He’s—he works for a taxi driver—”
He withdraws his hands from mine and holds one up to stop me. “Oh,” he says, his voice flat. He looks away, towards the play room where Zi is playing. “That is not good,” he says.
“I know,” I say in a small voice. But I don’t know if he means it’s not good that I have a maybe-boyfriend or that he works for a taxi.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. There’s a funny thing about silence. The longer you sit in it, the louder it grows. A cacophony of voices is cackling in my head, all the ancestors yelling at me, so loud I practically can’t hear them. They’re shouting something…something…a word I can’t quite catch…
“I fell pregnant,” I whisper.
He reaches across the table and grips my hand, his grip firm but still gentle. The look on his face is intent, sincere. “Do you think that matters to me?”
I look into his eyes—a lighter brown than expected, with almost a green tint to them—and I relax into their kindness.
“I love babies,” he says.
“I didn’t know,” I admit.
“I would, especially, love your baby,” he says.
We are silent.