This Thing Called the Future (11 page)

Mama sits in the kitchen singing while I chop vegetables for Saturday's supper. All afternoon I've been cooking, trying to tempt her appetite, but she pushes each dish away with one word: “
Ngisuthi
.” How can she be full when she eats nothing?

Zi leans against her, hand in her mouth, while Mama picks out the knots in her hair and sings. “
Siyahamb' ekukhanyen' kwenkhos
'. We are walking in the light of God.”

During Mama's absence, Zi's hair tangled up in thick knots. I fill a basin with warm water so that Mama can wash Zi's hair while I cook. Zi lies on the floor as Mama pours water over her hair into the basin. She washes it three times while I chop vegetables.

“Zi, are you trying to grow dreads like those tough guys that hang out in front of Mama Thambo's
shebeen
? Are you trying to be a
tsotsi
?” Mama jokes, her eyes shining at us. Zi giggles. “You're such a sweet, pretty girl. You don't need to be a gangster.”

“It isn't just
tsotsis
that wear dreadlocks,” I say, thinking of Little Man. “There are some nice young men with dreads.”

“Does this nice young man with dreads have a name, hey, Khosi?” Mama asks.

“Mama! No! Don't be silly!” The last thing I want is for them to find out about Little Man. That's just the thing to get me in trouble when I haven't even done anything wrong.

“Sho! Look at this.” Mama holds up a big chunk of Zi's hair, dripping with soap and water.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Her hair is so brittle, it just broke off in my hand,” Mama says.

Zi struggles to sit up. “I'm going to look like Uncle Richard,” she says, seeing her hair dripping in Mama's hand. We all laugh even more. Uncle Richard is completely bald.

“You need to take better care of her hair while I'm gone, Khosi,” Mama chides me, cutting one of the knots off with scissors. “And she needs to wear a scarf at night.”

“I know, Mama,” I say, like I always do. But we both know Zi won't let us touch her hair when Mama's gone. She won't wear a scarf to bed. She won't even listen to Gogo when Gogo tries to get her to behave.

I slice up a big pumpkin into a large pan, fill it with water, and put it on the stove to boil. I chop tomatoes and pepper, take rice off the stove, and dish everything up with chicken and gravy, placing one plate in front of Gogo and another in front of Mama. “See, Mama? All your favorites so when you go back to work, you'll go with a nice full stomach and good memories of home.”

“Shame, all this nice food,” she says. “I wish I could stay here always, where my daughter takes such good care of me, instead of going back to Greytown where I must work so hard. I wish I had a better appetite.”

That sounds like an invitation, so after I set a plate in front of Zi, I boil some water and steep the herbs in it, as the
sangoma
directed. I strain the herbs out, pour the tea into a mug, and set it near Mama's plate.

“What what what?” she asks. “What is this, Khosi?”

“It's supposed to help you eat, Mama.” I glance from her to Gogo. I've always been taught to be obedient to both of them, but what do I do when they disagree? Who do I obey first—Mama or Gogo? “It's just herbs. It's nothing to worry about. Completely natural!”

“Did you send her to the
sangoma
?” Mama asks and sighs when Gogo nods.

“Drink it,” I say. “Please, Mama.”

“Please, Elizabeth,” Gogo urges.

Mama watches my face carefully. “Well, I don't suppose it'll do any harm. Perhaps it might do some good. Herbal remedies have some value.”

She gulps it down, just as if it tastes bad. But I've already tasted it and it tastes delicious, just like peppermint and lemons.

Mama hands the mug back. “I'll drink this,” she tells Gogo. “But I don't want you sending Khosi to the
sangoma
again. I don't want her head filled with nonsense.”

Gogo starts whispering to me, so that Mama won't hear. “Your mama is a very wonderful woman but she doesn't know everything,” she says. “Eyes do not see all. The
sangoma
can see things that we cannot see.”

“Stop whispering,” Mama snaps. “I know exactly what you're trying to do but I want Khosi and Zi to be modern Zulu women. I don't want them dependent on superstition—or on men.”

Gogo's mouth is one long thin line, like she's sewn it shut from the inside. But she doesn't say anything else.

I'm glad Mama doesn't go to church that Sunday. Because she's lost so much weight, I just know those old ladies would gossip about her, judging, as if they know anything about Mama! That is what I see every Sunday. I don't know if it is jealousy or a mean spirit or what what what, but it troubles me.

That Sunday, the poor woman they pick on is Zolani Ngcuka.

Zolani is only a few years older than me but she already has a husband and a baby. She's a beautiful woman and wears the church uniform; she sways in the aisles and claps when we sing, dancing like she wishes she was in a Zionist congregation.

But this Sunday, when she enters, the people shake their heads. Actually, there is a collective gasp as she limps into her pew.

She hasn't been to mass for weeks and weeks and weeks. And during that time, she's lost too much weight; her clothes fall off her like she's just a stick. Her cheeks look like she's sucked in her breath. There are little bloody bumps all over her scalp.

During the passing of the peace, people refuse to shake her hand or kiss her. They don't greet her, calling out, “
Sawubona
, Sisi!” No, they look away.

After mass, I hear those same ladies clucking like old chickens in the courtyard. Losing weight, it means one thing only in our minds—the disease of these days. And that's what they talk about, even if they don't
call it by its name. I understand why they don't say it out loud. Just saying the word—HIV—is like uttering a curse.

“I can tell you are a good girl,” one of them says to Thandi as we pass, grabbing her arm and squeezing. “Good girls are always fat.”

It's true, Thandi is shaped like a ball of butter. Her smile disappears deep in her fat cheeks, round like a baby's. But the problem with being fat is that men love it. And then it's hard to be a good girl.

“But why doesn't Zolani take the medicine?” I whisper to Thandi. Like those old ladies, we're standing in the courtyard gossiping. “They say if you take the medicine, you can get better. You gain the weight back. The sores go away. They say the disease isn't a death sentence anymore! Maybe you don't live forever, but you don't die right away either.”

I'm thinking of Mama. All the weight she's lost. Could
she
be HIV positive? It's not possible. Unless…unless Thandi's right, and Baba does have other girlfriends on the side. It could happen. It's very common for Zulu men to have more than one girlfriend. Just like in the old days, they married more than one wife if they could afford it.

I feel a sudden spurt of anger at Baba. Then I try to calm it. After all, I know nothing. There are other reasons Mama could have lost weight, hey? But I can't think of any.

Thandi shrugs. “That medicine doesn't work for everybody.”

“
Why not?
” The injustice stings me to the core. Zolani is so young and her baby is so young. Why would God let her die when other people live?

“Maybe a witch cursed her and she hasn't gone to see a
sangoma
to remove the curse,” Thandi explains. “Maybe it was too late by the time she started taking the medicine.”

“That's what happened to my uncle Jabulani,” I say. “He waited and waited and then he got full-blown AIDS. The medicine didn't help him then.”

Though the other ladies ignore Zolani after the service, Gogo doesn't. As we pass out of the yard to walk home, she grasps Zolani's hand, looks her in the eyes, and says, “God bless you, child. We're praying for you every day.” She says it in a loud voice, like she's scolding the other old ladies.

I take Zolani's thin hand in mine. Something in her skin feels pale and cold and hungry, like a child weeping out in the streets, begging people for something to eat. The sound of that same voice is
crying
in the lines of Zolani's palm as they meet mine.

I'm so surprised, I drop her hand.

Then I quickly grab it again, so she doesn't think I'm like those ladies who judge her. I bring my other hand up to grasp hers in both hands.

Rub her hands together to warm them
, whispers a voice in my ear.

I look around to see who spoke to me, but nobody's there—only Gogo with a question in her eyes.

I rub Zolani's hands together, gently, gradually becoming more vigorous. And for some few seconds, it really feels like I'm helping her. The sobbing I hear in her hands ceases.

Maybe that's all she really needed—to be touched. Sometimes, isn't touch healing?

Pray a blessing for her, that the power of God and the protection of the ancestors is with her,
whispers that voice. It sounds like a command.

“I'll be praying for you, Sisi,” I mumble.

Looking at her baby—tied to her back with a bright red, green, and yellow cloth—makes me feel sad for a reason I can't think about.

Death is not something that is natural, something that we should just accept, just like that, especially when someone is so young. You must do something about it. And if you know somebody is going to die, you must do something about it before they're gone.

“Thank you, Sisi,” she says. She grips my hand like…like she's holding on to something she needs. “Stay well, Sisi.”

I open my mouth to respond, “Go well, Sisi,” but nothing comes out. A thin, silvery shadow hovers just above her body when she turns her head.

I release her hand. What is that shadow? Is it her spirit, already leaving the body? It floats just above her as she walks away from us down the road to her house.

I look at Gogo, wondering if she can see Zolani's spirit leaving her body, but Gogo is examining her own hands. “Do you remember her wedding, Khosi?” she asks.

I remember. It was a beautiful wedding, the kind all girls dream about. She had a huge Catholic service, with a big mass and a reception afterward. She was dressed all in white, and their cake was just like the cakes you see in American movies—three tiers, with lots of white frosting. Her family is so Catholic, the groom didn't even
lobola
her! The women of Imbali had plenty to say about that, believe me. “They've forgotten that they're Zulu,” they said, and, “Is it even marriage if the groom doesn't pay her parents
something?
” But there were others who pointed out that at least she got married. “Sho! so many young people don't even bother getting married at all. Then who do the children belong to?”

“Since she's married, why do the women say she's not a good girl?” I ask Gogo even though I already know the answer. I just wish somebody would say it out loud. It seems like we have so many secrets in Imbali.

“She is so young, so young.” That's all Gogo will say. She purses her lips together as she regards the gossiping ladies in the courtyard. “Ehe! We must pray for her, Khosi. At church, we will pray to God and to the saints in communion with us. But at home, we must pray to the ancestors, because they're also in communion with us. Maybe they'll help her. Maybe they'll help all of us.”

“I hope so,” I say. “Gogo, why do you think so many people in South Africa are sick with this thing?”

“I don't know,” Gogo says. “But sometimes I wonder why we blacks are being punished when we have already suffered for so long.”

Inkosikazi Dudu is waiting for us when we return from church, clutching her metal gate.

The dim whispering I heard when I saw Zolani's spirit lift up and away from her body is back, voices scurrying around in my head the way chickens are darting around her feet.
Help us
, I plead, unsure who I'm pleading to. Everybody, I guess. God, Jesus, the ancestors.

Are the ancestors really speaking to me? Is it their voices I hear, whispering? They do not speak to just anyone. But I can't hear what they're saying over the noise she is making as we hurry past and inside our gate.

“You think going to church makes you good?” she taunts us. “You think going to church makes up for your thievery?”

I pat Zi's backside, ushering her inside, while Gogo turns around and faces our accuser, her voice pleading. “Sisi, what is this thing of anger between us?”

We stand in the doorway, halfway in, halfway out. The doorway is where the ancestors linger. It is a place of healing. Those whispers grow stronger, swirling around my head like a strong wind.

But just how the ancestors can mend Inkosikazi Dudu's anger, I don't know.
Please do something
, I beg.

“Ask your daughter Elizabeth what this thing of anger is,” Inkosikazi Dudu says, spitting on the ground.

“The tongue of an angry woman brings nothing but evil,” Gogo says.

But Inkosikazi Dudu starts screaming. “Give an old woman justice,” she screeches, at the top of her lungs. “Give an old woman her money!”

Dread clamps its strong hand around my stomach. I glance around and realize that neighbors have started to gather in little groups, watching the spectacle of two
gogos
shouting at each other. Two women pause in the middle of the road, openly staring. A little girl walks over to the fence and grabs it, poking her face up to the metal so she can see better.