This Thing Called the Future (20 page)

We take plastic tubs and go outside.

“You need to drink all of it,” she says.

It tastes like toilet water and rotten meat. I start heaving as soon as the first few drops hit my lips.

“Force it down, Khosi,” Gogo urges.

Gagging at the thought of the taste, I plug my nose and drink the entire glass in one swallow. Then I puke into the blue bucket, all the liquid coming back up with the same taste as it went down but mixed with breakfast.

“There are five days of this?” I mutter.

“Yes,” the
sangoma
says. “Five days of black
muthi
to purge you from evil, followed by five days of red
muthi
, to get rid of the last bits of evil clinging to you. Then you'll take white
muthi
, to replace the evil with good.”

“Two weeks? It's going to kill me!” I joke.

Gogo and Inkosikazi Nene just look at me.

“Sorry,” I say.

Gogo is so weak after she purges herself that I help her to the door and inside
i-dining
, where she sits on the sofa by the television. Inkosikazi Nene follows us and I offer her another chair. The two of them sit, talking quietly, while I go into the kitchen to boil some water and bring them tea.

As for me, I feel a sense of power and energy, like we're going to beat this thing, this curse, even that we might find some luck to carry us through these sad days.

 

After Gogo and Inkosikazi Nene have had their tea, I walk Inkosikazi Nene home. Zi zooms out the door to join us on the walk. “Why don't you run ahead and make dogs bark at us?” I suggest. So Zi runs ahead, weaving back and forth across the dirt road, creating a big noise at all the houses we pass, dogs barking and children yelling.

“When I received my call to be a healer, I think I had as many years as you now have,” Inkosikazi Nene says as soon as I close the gate behind us, “although we did not celebrate birthdays the way you young folk do now.” She laughs. “I do not even know how old I am, can you believe it?”

I study her face, the way her jaw juts out, the way wrinkled skin sags around her eyes and mouth. It's a beautiful face, so old and kind. “Gogo doesn't know her birthday either,” I say. “That's why we celebrate in October, because she likes the Spring.”

“That sounds like your grandmother.”

“So…you became a
sangoma
when you were my age?” I ask, keeping my eye on the road ahead, on Zi.

“I cannot say for sure, but I think I was older than you are now when I went through
ukuthwasa
,” she says, naming the illness that a woman experiences before she becomes a
sangoma
. “I became very sick, so ill, Khosi, that language left me! People thought I was mad!”

“What did you do?”

“I left my home and started wandering in the hills. I did not know where I was going or when I would come home, I only knew I had to go. I
spent all those months hearing the voices of the ancestors and gathering herbs. Eh, one day, I wandered too close to the Thukela river and a serpent sucked me deep beneath the waters. It was no ordinary serpent, Khosi. It was one of my ancestors, coming to me in the form of a snake. I was underwater for many many months. Eh-he, I have no idea how long. Sho! it was lonely! But when I finally emerged, I knew how to honor those who went before us, the old ones who protect us from beyond the grave.”

“Why do you have to go through
ukuthwasa
before you can become a
sangoma
?” I ask.

“Because you must understand sickness before you can help others through it,” she says. “You must return from the place of death in order to heal.”

Zi reaches the turning point and looks back to see how far behind we are. She waits until we catch up with her, then she runs ahead again. I wish I could bottle her energy and sell it as
muthi
. I wish I could give some of it to Mama.

“Thank you for telling me your story,” I say.

“You will have your own story, Khosi.”

“What do you mean?”

She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “The calling on you is strong,” she says. “I think you're meant to be a healer.”

“Mama would never give her blessing.” I feel like I'm confessing something. The truth is, I want to be a
sangoma
. I want to help people in the old ways. Even if Mama doesn't like it.

“If the spirits call you, you'll know it,” she says. Then she adds a warning. “But if they call you, you must follow them, otherwise, you can die.”

My limbs begin to tremble, faint at first, then stronger until Inkosikazi Nene notices that I'm shaking.

She examines me while I struggle to control myself. Then she asks something unexpected. “What do you plan to do to your next-door neighbor?”

The question surprises me. “Nothing.”

“You don't plan to take revenge for her curse? You don't want to hurt her back?”

This feels like a test. I hope I pass.

“Gogo and I are seeking protection from the ancestors,” I say. “I'll let them deal with our neighbor.”

She nods. “Good,” she says. “And if you found out that your mother had really done this thing, stolen money, what would you do?”

“But Mama would never do that,” I protest.

“I'm sure you're right,” she says. “But that's not what I asked.”

Ever since I saw the lightning bird's wings flapping away across the cement near our back door, I've been preparing for this moment. What
would
I do if it turned out Mama was a thief?

Inkosikazi Nene tilts her head to watch me, like a lizard sunning itself on a rock, its dark eager eyes seeing my every move before I see them myself.

“I don't know, Gogo,” I say. “I think I would get her to return it. We don't need that kind of money.”

Her wrinkled jowls relax into a smile. “There's something very good in you,
mntwana wam'
,” she says. “I see it. You'll see it, too. You'll have to make some difficult choices to walk into your calling. But I'm sure you'll do what's right and good.”

We've reached the Nenes' house. Zi's waiting for us beside the gate. I look at Thandi's window, wondering if she's already left for school. My normal life seems so far away right now.

“What were you talking about?” Zi asks as we head back down the dirt road.

I take her hand and think about everything swirling around in my head. “She just wanted to know how Mama's doing, that's all,” I say.

Zi's face screws up with a wish she's afraid to speak. “Mama's going to get better, isn't she?” she asks.

Her hand in mine is so small and trusting. What is she going to do without Mama? What am
I
going to do? Suddenly, the only thing I want is to call Baba, ask him to come to Imbali, ask him to take care of us. But Baba's sick, too. He just hasn't faced it yet.

“Everything will be all-right, Zi, I promise.” I clutch her hand. I'll take care of her, of course. I'll take care of everybody.

Mama gets upset when she sees I'm not going to school. “Not only is this foolishness,” she says, “but you're missing school, too.”

But she's too weak to complain much. Her lips are cracked and dry, even though I rub them with balm that the
sangoma
gives us. She lies half-in and half-out of bed all day, too feeble to get up but not wanting to admit it.

Because of the purification rituals, we're not supposed to talk to our neighbors, or hang around our friends like normal. But on Thursday, we need milk and bread, so Gogo sends me to the tuck shop.

I hurry, not looking to the right or the left, afraid to meet someone and ruin my purity. That's why I don't see Little Man until he grabs me around the waist and pulls me off the road.

“Little Man!” I gasp.

“Hey,
wena
Khosi!” He grins.

His fingers linger on my hip for some few seconds before he withdraws his hand.

I'm that glad to see him, I smile back and let it all shine through my eyes, all the feelings I have for him.

And his eyes are shining with the same gladness.

“Where have you been, Khosi?” he asks, reaching out his hand to touch mine. “I look for you every day in school. You've been gone all week. Are you sick?”

He moves his hand from my fingers to my forehead, like he's my mother, checking for a fever.

“My mother is really ill,” I say in a low voice, looking around to see if anyone can hear me.

“I'm sorry,” he says, suddenly sober. “Is she going to get better?”

We've been a house of lies ever since Mama got sick. But I can't lie to Little Man. “I don't know,” I say.

We start walking back to my house, shuffling through the dust. I notice how dirty his feet are in his flip-flops but they don't bother me. Is this what love does to you? It's mad to think some guy's dirty feet are the most beautiful thing you've ever seen but that is exactly what I'm thinking.

“Is that why you haven't been in school?” he asks. “Are you taking care of your mother?”

Should I trust him?
I ask myself. Then I think,
Of course. It's Little Man.
So I ignore all the
sangoma's
warnings about keeping this thing secret.

“We're doing a purification with the
sangoma
,” I say.

“Who, your
gogo
and your mama?”

“Me, too,” I say.

“You're taking
muthi
every day? Purging? Praying?”

“Every day.”

“Do you really think it'll work?”

“It has to!”

He shakes his dreads, like he's disappointed in me. “You're the smartest girl I know. Why did you let your family suck you into this superstition?”

I choke back sudden tears. Did I make a mistake telling him?

“You sound like Mama!” I say.

“Why don't you just take her to a doctor?” he asks. “They can really help her!”

“Doctors don't know
everything!”
Now I feel defensive. I glance at his feet, which were so beautiful some few minutes ago. Now they just look dirty.

“Well, they know more about disease than some stupid old
sangoma
.”

“Whatever happened to ‘it can't hurt and it might help,'” I say, reminding him of our conversation a couple months ago.

“I meant in addition to doctors,” he says. “I only meant if doctors had
failed
.”

“Well, this
is
in addition to doctors!” I'm suddenly angry. “Doctors can't help her anymore. And this isn't about my mother's sickness, anyway. This is about things
doctors
don't know anything
about
.”

“Hey, Khosi,” he says, shocked and starting to back away, “I'm sorry!”

But it's too late. I don't want to hear all his blah-blahs of apologies. I don't know where all the love I felt for him went or what what what but it is
gone
.

What does he know? What would he say if he knew that I keep hearing voices in my head? Would he say I was crazy? Would he tell me I must be imagining things? Would he tell me
I'm
just like those stupid old
sangomas?

“Don't tell me we're not helping her when you don't know
anything
about it.” My voice rises to a shout, almost a scream. Just before I take off running, I find myself yelling, “And don't come running after me with stupid explanations or excuses. Just leave me
alone!”

I'm glad my house is close. I reach it, panting, and look back. I already regret that I told him to leave me alone. I'm hoping he's followed.

But the street behind me is empty.

A week passes. I stay in the house, afraid to go outside and meet anyone again. Now that my anger is gone, I just feel hurt. Sometimes I look out the window, hoping that Little Man will be outside, lingering, but either he never comes or I never look out the window at the right time.

I even break the ban on socializing and call Thandi.

“How's it?” I ask, hoping she'll bring up the topic herself so I can tell her about the fight and ask her to find out if Little Man is really angry with me. Maybe he's said something about it at school. If he has, Thandi will be the first to tell me.

But Thandi's preoccupied. “I haven't seen Honest in a week,” she says, bursting into tears. “Do you think it's over with him?”

“How would I know?” I ask. “Did you fight?”

“Nooooo,” she says, so slowly I know she's lying.

I don't really want to talk about her fight with Honest. It's a whole different level than my fight with Little Man. So I make up an excuse. Another lie. “Oh, my
gogo
is calling me,” I say, and hang up.

Gogo and I go to the backyard every morning with our mixture of nasty-tasting
muthi
. The red
muthi
tastes even worse than the black.

Shivering in the cold, we down the pot of liquid and purge in the big blue buckets that I leave outside. Then Gogo limps back inside while I wash the buckets.

Mama gets sicker. Sometimes she just lies in bed and doesn't move
all day. Her lips look like a butcher came and cut them all up with a long knife. The sores on her back weep until her sheets are soaked. Sometimes they dry to her skin and then I have to peel them off, listening as she quietly sobs.