by Ian Martin
“Want some coffee?” Horry asked. “I’m going to have another cappuccino. And something to eat – the cheesecake looks good today.”
Reluctantly, Matt declined the cheesecake. His weight problem was forever forcing its way into his consciousness and exacerbating the chronic anxiety from which he now suffered. He attributed this obesity tendency partly to the bulking-up he had undergone in his rugby days. Maybe the steroids had messed up his metabolism, or something. And of course his psychiatric medication didn’t help. He really should get the shrink to add an appetite suppressant to the cocktail.
“Yes,” said Horry, returning to the subject of religion. “I shouldn’t be reading Dawkins. I should be reading computer science – you know that in my Utopia humans will allow themselves to be governed by a super computer? But computer science can be a bit dry. I get far more fired up by religion, because it’s one of the major factors contributing to our inability to sensibly organize and regulate ourselves.”
“You really do seem obsessed with the topic,” said Matt. “You must have been subjected to a lot of religious indoctrination at school. Are Jews as fanatical as Christians and Muslims?”
“Fuck yes,” said Horry. “Some of them. The Orthodox ones are real fundamentalist freaks trapped in the past and believing in all sorts of archaic junk that should have been thrown out 2000 years ago. And then, tied to Judaism is this Zionism crap. The Promised Land, for fuck’s sake! Look where that idea’s got us.”
“You mean the state of Israel?” asked Matt. He had enjoyed History at school and was thinking of taking it at Rhodes. “But after all the persecution Jews have suffered you can’t blame them for wanting their own homeland.”
“Ah, kak man.” Horry didn’t agree. “Look, what makes a Jew a Jew? You can’t tell me it’s genetic – that’s the Nazi way of thinking. No, it’s the fucking stupid religion that makes a Jew a Jew. The same with Christians, Muslims, and Hindus. God, or the belief in a God, or in any supernatural power, has failed the world. For there to be any hope for the future the eradication of religion should be tackled on a global scale, the way one would fight AIDS, or avian flu, or malaria. No man, if the Jews had all become atheists there’d have been no need for a Promised Land. All over the world they could have been assimilated by intermarrying with other atheists and the problem would have gone away.” To show how sincere he was about his anti-religion policy he added another statement. “I personally have no desire to be labelled Jewish or anything else, so I’m looking out for a nice black chick. She must be intelligent, broad-minded, well educated and an atheist. And she must not only have turned her back on Christianity but also all that ancestor bullshit.”
“I bet you don’t talk like this in the synagogue,” said Matt.
“Jesus no; they’d crucify me.” Horry laughed. “But hey, I haven’t been inside a synagogue in five years. The last time I went was just too nauseating: this sado-paedophilic rabbi hacking away at some screaming little kid’s foreskin.”
Matt was amused and chuckled with pleasure. Horry always had something entertaining to say about the latest idea passing through his head. Even if it was an outrageous load of shit.
The middle-aged couple at the nearest table didn’t look amused at all. They must have overheard some of the antitheistic pronouncements and were now scowling angrily, thereby accentuating the ugly lines that time and natural disposition had conspired to draw on their faces.
They gulped down their coffee and gathered their parcels together. As they were leaving the woman glared at Horry and said, her voice loud with indignation, “Young man, you have no right to speak so offensively about religion. Have you no respect for anything? My husband is going to complain to the Manager.”
But the Manager wasn’t available. At the door they glanced back and Horry was able to wave goodbye.
“Stupid old fossils,” he said. “‘Have I no respect for anything?’ Well, certainly not for the likes of them. And you, Matt? Have you any respect for your parents’ generation? Behaved beautifully last night, didn’t they?”
The cheerful light that had been shining in Matt’s eyes was quickly doused. His shoulders sagged, the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyelid began to twitch. Dejection was back in residence.
“Appalling, wasn’t it?” he said. The fingers of his right hand were fiddling with the tablecloth. “The way they carry on… Jesus… I can’t think of anything, any quality, nothing… there’s nothing to admire.” He looked up and said flatly, “I loathe them.”
Horry gave him the thumbs-up sign.
“It could be,” he said, “that a whole lot of historical factors have come together to produce the most ineffectual, bungling, short-sighted, unimaginative, avaricious, obdurate and reckless crop of humans of all time. And as the situation steadily deteriorates they behave with increasingly vile desperation.”
“It’s a hopeless mess,” said Matt, and his voice trembled and nearly broke. Horry gave him a pitying look. And to think that this used to be the iron man who tackled to kill.
“Yes, it’s an almighty motherfucking mess,” he confirmed. “But not entirely hopeless, Matt.” Damn it, why doesn’t the guy pop one of his pills? “We must confront the problems and then use our grotesquely enlarged cerebral organs to devise a way out of this shit-stinking quagmire we find ourselves in.”
“But you yourself have said our parents have destroyed our future.”
“Yes, I know,” said Horry. “The bastards have failed us on every count and at every level. But if there was a world revolution and we changed the way we look at politics, economics and population levels there might be a way forward.” He could see that Matt didn’t share his guarded optimism. He decided to lighten up the conversation. “Hey, you’ve heard of Stephen Hawking?”
“Uh… Is that the guy who talks like a robot?”
“That’s him,” said Horry. “Voice simulator. Well, he’s just come out with a statement about space travel. He says it’s a matter of extreme urgency to find somewhere that could support human life. And this is because he believes disaster on Earth is imminent: the main dangers being global warming, nuclear conflagration and biological warfare. Can you believe it? This is one of the most respected scientists in the world today!”
“Typical,” said Matt. “Sounds like fucking voortrekker mentality: forever looking for somewhere to trek to once you’ve fucked up the last place you trekked to. Instead of fixing the problems where you are.”
“Yes,” said Horry, “it shows a miserable failure of imagination and lack of courage. It’s about as idiotic an idea as trying for immortality with cryogenics. You know, having your dead body placed in a deep freeze sarcophagus in the hope that one day scientists will be able to bring you back to life. Hey, what’s the problem? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
The look on Matt’s face was almost laughable, it was so ghastly. His mouth had fallen open, his bulging eyes stared to hell and gone, and all colour was drained from his pasty complexion. For a long moment he sat rigid like Lot’s wife after she’d been punished for her trifling transgression. Then his hands began to vibrate with a coarse tremor.
“It’s just that…” he stammered hoarsely. “J… J… Jesus… It’s… it’s just that talking about… about frozen corpses reminded me of my recurring dream. It’s a nightmare that’s been haunting me for weeks now.”
“Man, this is bad,” said Horry. “So this is why you’ve been looking like shit of late. You know what a dangerous sign insomnia is to a guy in your condition? And visions?”
“No, no visions,” said Matt. “It’s just the same dream every time. You know when my father was killed by the hijackers and I had to identify the body?” Horry nodded. “Well, it’s the same scene in the mortuary. This cop opens the fridge door and pulls the gurney halfway out. He turns back the plastic sheet to reveal my father’s shot-up face. I look at him and realise he’s looking back at me. And then his lips begin to move. He’s tryi
ng to tell me something.”
“Yes?” said Horry, leaning forward, eager for more. “What does he say?”
“That’s it,” said Matt miserably. “It’s at that point that I wake up every time.”
“That’s it? Oh for fuck sake!” Horry sat back, visibly disappointed, even annoyed. For a few moments he remained silent, scowling at his friend, or his friend’s predicament. Then he spoke again.
“You’d better see that psychiatrist of yours.”
“More drugs?” said Matt, bitterly. “All she does is write prescriptions. Maybe I should rather see a psychologist. Somebody who can analyse the dream.”
“Huh!” Horry was contemptuous. “They’re just as fucking useless as psychiatrists. My mother’s got one. She sits in a chair and he lies on the couch and tells her about his son, who’s a white-collar criminal, and his wife, who’s an unsympathetic bitch, and talks about his bleeding ulcer and his strangulated haemorrhoids. No, keep away from those useless fucking bastards. Just as bad as psychiatrists. They’re all a bunch of lazy, unprincipled, incompetent bloodsuckers.”
They sat for a while looking at their empty coffee cups. Both cups had a high tide rim of brown scum on the inside and disgusting lip marks on the outside.
Suddenly Horry sat up straight, as if he’d been yanked upright by some invisible rope tied to his neck. His eyes burst into flaming enthusiasm as inspiration exploded somewhere in the cerebral background. He snapped his fingers to show he’d just had a eureka moment.
“Tshabalala!” he shouted, causing everyone in the coffee shop to turn their heads. “Dr Godknows Tshabalala: that’s who you must see. The best sangoma in Cape Town.”
7
“Sangoma?” Matt looked startled. “You mean a traditional healer? What the racist pigs used to call a witch doctor?”
“Yah man,” said Horry. “But this dude’s a 21st century sangoma. This is a healer of mind and body, a man of cultural depth, wide learning, global savvy, and uncanny insight.”
“Well, shit man, I don’t know.” Matt was sceptical. “If you think he might be able to help me… Maybe he can interpret my dream. I mean, does he throw bones; and would I have to drink lion piss and eat the gall bladder of a baboon that was mated with a hyena? That kind of thing?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Horry was scandalised. “Don’t be an idiot. This is a sophisticated sangoma, a modern man of the world.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Godknows Tshabalala,” said Horry. “His rooms are out at Crossroads. He actually works from home.”
“Oh.” Mat looked and sounded unimpressed; far from convinced. “How did you get to hear about him?”
“His younger brother is my Political Science lecturer. Fucksakes introduced me to him about six months ago.”
“Who?” Matt couldn’t believe his ears.
“Yah, I know.” Horry laughed. “Cool, hey? Godknows and Fucksakes Tshabalala. Now these are real names. The darkies have got imagination and humour. Not like us. David!” He said it with disdain. “They went and named me David. Every second Jew boy on the planet’s called David. And you: Matthew. How many million Matthews, Marks, Lukes and Johns are there in Christendom? But we’re getting sidetracked. Dr Godknows Tshabalala offers conventional Western psychology, or traditional African methods of divination and appeasement of the ancestors. Or a blend of the two. It’s up to you to choose how you want your psychosomatic disorder treated. He’ll only throw the bones if that’s what you think is necessary.”
Matt was nervous about driving into Crossroads. Horry had drawn him a map and given very precise directions, and assured him it was perfectly safe in the hours of daylight. Nevertheless, he had taken a fully loaded firearm with him, just in case. He didn’t want to end up like his father.
It wasn’t far from the highway, but it felt like the hinterland of darkest Africa. The potholed track led into a jungle of shacks and took a turn. He was immediately engulfed by walls of wood, iron, cardboard and plastic. Most of the hovels were closed up, the residents away at work or school, or off foraging for firewood, or scavenging for bits of rubbish that might be of some use, or out and about breaking into houses and stealing washing from clotheslines, or off to town to do a little shoplifting and begging. He saw a woman, some small children in rags, an old man. A skinny dog barked a warning: if he stopped it would piss on at least one of his wheels. Some chickens; a goat. Everywhere the smell of human excrement.
Up ahead was a palatial shack, or collection of shacks, painted bright turquoise. He stopped behind what he took to be a client’s vehicle: a brand new R700,000 Touareg. Pigmobile. Two little boys were having fun slowly approaching the vehicle until, when about a metre or so away, it began to emit clicking noises and a metallic voice said “Back off! Back off!” They would shriek with glee and scamper away, only to repeat the game yet again.
Dr Tshabalala met him at the front door. He was a slim, bespectacled man in his forties. He wore neatly pressed trousers and a Madiba shirt. His shoes shone and around his left wrist was an expensive-looking watch. They exchanged greetings and shook hands and Matt was led into the doctor’s office.
It was a surprisingly spacious room panelled with tongue and groove planking painted the softest of pinks. The plasterboard ceiling was a little low but what could you expect in a shack? Doctor Tshabalala sat in his executive chair behind the desk and the patient seated himself in a comfortable wingback armchair.
For a few minutes they chatted about the weather and formed an initial impression of one another.
There was a filing cabinet and a large bookcase. Framed certificates on the wall; even some artwork. In the far corner was another door. Matt became aware of a woman’s voice, monotonous and saying something repetitious.
“I understand,” Dr Tshabalala said, “from what you told me on the phone, you’re being treated for bipolar disorder. Your medication has allowed you to function normally for the last two years, but now you are suffering from insomnia.”
“Yes doctor,” said Matt. “For a few weeks now I’ve been having this dream. It’s always the same.”
And he gave a detailed description of the mortuary scene. The 21st century sangoma listened attentively and made some notes in a case file.
“I’m worried about my condition,” said Matt. “My state of mind isn’t good. What do you think is the significance of this nightmare of mine?”
He immediately realised that he had overstepped the mark. This was a serious breach of protocol: you never, never, never ask a psychiatrist or psychologist a direct question. Even general practitioners resent being put on the spot. But to his surprise Dr T didn’t seem offended at all.
“It’s quite clear,” he said, in his pleasantly polite fashion, “that there’s a conflict that needs to be resolved. There is something that you do not wish to acknowledge, but you know you must. The dream serves as a subconscious manifestation of what it is you must confront. You see, your father is trying to tell you something that you already suspect but do not have the courage to bring to the surface and examine in the full light of day.”
“Oh?” said Matt. “And what could it be that he wants to tell me?”
Just then there was a knocking at the door in the corner.
“Enter!” called Tshabalala.
The door opened and a frightening apparition stood there. It was a black savage scantily clad in the regalia of a witch doctor. He wore a skirt made of grass, tails of monkeys and strips of animal hide. At one hip were some inflated pig bladders. Anklets, bracelets and a necklace of assorted teeth. His face and torso were daubed with ochre and white clay. As a headdress he sported the skin and tail of a juvenile baboon, the skull perched atop like a crown. Oh yes, and even a bone through the cannibal’s big Negroid nose, for Christ’s sake!
The barbarous creature uttered words in the English language.
“What now, doctor?”
“Please excuse me, Matt,” said Tshabalala,
getting to his feet. “I must just give my intern some instructions and ensure that the ritual cleansing is being performed in accordance with standard operating procedure.”
Matt was left on his own. The door was ajar and he could hear the woman’s voice more clearly now. What was she saying? It sounded like ‘No more shoes’. No more shoes? Unable to contain his curiosity he jumped up and tiptoed across the room. Peeping through the two-inch gap he was rewarded with an outlandish spectacle.
The room was in semidarkness, lit by candles and a paraffin lamp. It was the interior of a shack: the walls and ceiling were lined with flattened-out cardboard boxes. On rough shelving and scattered about the room was a clutter of African bric-a-brac: earthen pots, wooden carvings, spears and a shield, big glass jars with the internal organs of animals, even humans, a calabash or two, all sorts of bones, a big pestle and mortar, a panga and a chopping block, carved drum and drumsticks, several knobkieries, animal hides – that kind of thing. And dangling from the ceiling were bunches of dried herbs, strangely shaped bulbs and roots, several skulls of monkeys and baboons and a buck. Also the skull of a cow complete with horns.
In the middle of the room were two 20L plastic drums set about a foot apart. Standing in these drums was the patient, a white woman in her forties. She was stark naked except for a blindfold. In each hand she held what looked like a large wooden phallus. They must’ve been hollow with beads inside, for each time she shook them they rattled.
She was slowly trudging, bent forward, legs apart, shaking the wooden phalluses, repeating as she went, over and over, “No more shoes, no more shoes, no more shoes.” Each time she lifted one foot it made a sucking, sloshing sound, while the other foot descended with a splash and a squelch. The buckets must have been full of some thick, sticky substance; something vile like goat’s blood mixed with pig shit – a nauseating stench reached his nostrils.
He nipped back to his chair, just in time. The doctor stood in the doorway talking to his apprentice.