Читать книгу The Ones with Purpose - Nozizwe Cynthia Jele - Страница 7

An unexpected calm descends upon our house as we gather in the family room. Although nobody says it, we are all thinking it: Fikile is finally resting. The children, in their animal print and Afro-rocking princess inspired pyjamas, watch the morning’s programmes on a national television channel on low volume, and dip buttered bread into sweet milky tea. Lesihle has taken to policing Bafana and Mvula, she tells them to keep their voices low, that there is death in the family. Mvula wants to know who has died, and why, and if that person has gone to heaven like her friend from school. She was devastated when that happened. Although she knew that heaven was a good place, where children sang “Jesus Loves Me” songs all day, she worried that soon it would be her turn to go and she was not ready yet. She refused to leave the house for days, afraid a big, bad car would knock her down just as it did her friend.

“Don’t be stupid, Mvula,” Lesihle hisses. “The hearse came to take my mother’s body away.”

“What is a hearse?”

“A car that takes dead people away.”

“To where, heaven?”

“No, to the mortuary until their relatives collect their bodies to bury. The hearse came just now to take my mother.”

“Mama Fikile?”

“Yes. Gosh, you’re slow.”

“What happens if the people do not have families to bury them?”

“Everyone has a family to bury them,” Lesihle answers.

“Well, what if one person does not?”

Lesihle stares at her cousin with a mixture of annoyance and contemplation. After a couple of minutes, she responds with an air of victory, “The government will bury that person. Now stop asking me questions and keep quiet.”

Bafana looks pensively at his sister as if processing her words, leans over to Mvula, and speaks in a muted tone, only meant for his cousin’s ears. “My mother is dead. We will never see her again.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Mvula says, turning to her tea, swallowing the rest of the mushy mix that has collected at the bottom of the cup.

In the kitchen, Ma randomly calls out names of people that still need to be notified – distant relatives whose names I don’t recognise, friends, the church members, parents of the children who attended Fikile’s crèche, the entire section of our location, Ma’s friends. She is worried she has left out important names, but I tell her people will find out on their own, they always do. Ma’s face is laced with premature wrinkles and there are dark circles under her eyes, the havoc of alcohol abuse blatantly showing each time she is under strain.

“I should have called Reverend Madida to deliver a prayer soon after Fikile returned from the hospital,” she laments.

“You didn’t know she would die.”

“I know, my child. It’s just that Reverend Madida was fond of your sister. The whole congregation – they were all so fond of her. They will be devastated.”

We agree with Ma to bury Fikile on Saturday, early before the sun is high. I debate whether to wait for Thiza or go to the funeral home to sort out the details of Fikile’s funeral on my own. I am wary of causing an even deeper rift between us, but we also can’t wait for him forever, we need to confirm Fikile’s funeral date and time or forget a Saturday morning burial. As it is, we will be lucky to be on the waiting list. The burial business is big in New Hope.

After the cancer returned, Fikile had insisted on being buried within three days of her death. She said she wanted the ordeal over and done with, no prolonged fervour of mourning. Ma would not hear of it.

“You want people to think we’re trying to get rid of you? You want people to think we’re embarrassed by your death?” Ma protested.

“I don’t care about people, Ma. Whoever needs to see me off will make an effort to come,” Fikile asserted. “You keep me frozen for a long time, I will cause an uproar. I swear, Ma, chairs will fly. The earth will move, crack in all places, thunderbolts like you’ve never seen in your life before.”

“Fikile, stop it, we hear you,” I said, suppressing a laugh.

“You think this is a joke?” Ma passed a solid look from Fikile to me. “You think death is funny?”

“No, Ma, death is not funny, Fikile is telling us what she wants, surely we must honour her wishes?” I said. “She doesn’t want her body to rot at the mortuary. Do you trust their refrigerators? Do you think they work properly?”

“Yes, Ma, let me speak now,” Fikile said. “I haven’t had much of a say in many things in this life, allow me at least to plan my funeral. Better yet, why not get cremated? You know, white people are so clever, they don’t spend money on absurd things like coffins, things that rot anyway.”

“I don’t appreciate the way you two are talking, it’s hurtful. Fikile, take back everything you’ve said.” Ma was on the verge of crying; the corner of her mouth began to quiver. She pushed her reading glasses up and turned her gaze away from us. I had not seen her shake like that since the time she was admitted at a government detoxification facility.

“Ma, you know I’m dying. Look at me.” Fikile’s tone was serious. She gestured with her hands at her wasted body. “This is not a body of someone full of health, I’m sick. My body is at war with itself and there is no medication to help me. No cure. There is no point for us to teeter around this issue anymore. We’re all adults here and we must be practical and talk about what will happen after I’m dead – the funeral, my children.” Fikile was always firm with Ma, the only person who could be.

“Fikile, please. You’re taking this too far,” I interjected.

“Am I? Is the cancer not in my lungs and liver and God knows where else in my body? Is it not? Look, we may not have another chance to talk. I know Thiza took out life policies for me and is paying good money for them; he will be filthy rich after I die. Anele, I want you to tell him you know about the money. I want you to tell him that my children should not go hungry or not get a good education because of his greed. Promise me.”

Ma eyed her briefly, hurt and defeated, exhaled sharply and started to make her way out of the room.

“Mama, don’t go. Fine, I take back the cremation and the three days, but anything more than a week I will not tolerate. And I’m serious about the policies.”

I nodded, though Fikile knew very well she was asking the impossible, Thiza parting with money? It would never happen. I was aware of the policies Fikile was referring to, life insurance and funeral covers Thiza had taken to cover her – forty thousand here, one hundred and fifty thousand there. It all added up to something significant. Shortly after Fikile completed her chemo and radiation treatments the first time, she had shown me the documents.

“Look here, funeral covers, life covers, all kinds, and I’m in all of them. Bastard is planning to cash up when I die.”

“You’re being dramatic. You are sick, yes, but you will not die. What I want to know is, where does he get the money to pay for this? How much money is he making from renting his shops, surely it can’t be that much?”

“My darling husband pays for everything with his dick, don’t you know that?”

“The same one that got you into trouble in the first place.”

“Same dick, what can I say. It’s like Thiza is saying hurry up and die so I can live.”

Within a few months the conversation was different, Fikile was dying and we couldn’t pretend otherwise. I remembered that moment in Doctor Seme’s office when she said it wasn’t looking good, not good at all. Fikile had lost nearly half of her body weight, Bafana struggled the most with the changes in his mom. Once Fikile had spent a few weeks at the hospital after she came down with an infection. When Bafana saw her, he cried and called her “ghost”. Lesihle held his hand and said, “It’s not a ghost, it’s Mama.”

* * *

As the eldest child, Fikile was always responsible for the logistics of our family events. Together with my aunts, she schemed for days concocting mouth-watering menus, organising stretch tents and Tiffany chairs and tables, picking out the right type of animal to sacrifice. My job was limited to contributing a few frozen chicken packs, ten kilograms of rice and flour, and cooking oil, showing up on the eve of the event to assist with peeling vegetables, and offering my car for general use if I was feeling charitable – but with a list of terms and conditions.

But Fikile is gone now.

Thiza’s phone is still off. I leave a message this time: it’s urgent, call me. I decide to arrange my sister’s funeral without my brother-in-law’s input.

From the house I drive to the funeral home, a lone, single-­storey lime building lying proud in the middle of a corner stand, massive and impressive. The main gate, a wrought iron structure with a decorative sculpture of an elephant, trunk broken in the middle, stands wide and open for business. Hearses, big and small, white like purity with golden crosses embossed on their bonnets, are parked in a neat line under the shaded parking. By the weekend the cars will stream out of the funeral home to various destinations across the location to collect the dead and deliver them to the township’s two cemeteries. A large white-letter sign with the inscription Vilakazi Funeral Undertakers: We Are With You At The Time Of Need sits perched high up on the outside wall of the entrance.

I park my car in the visitors’ parking and pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat forming on my brow. Fikile’s funeral policy is tucked inside my handbag.

We took the burial plans at the same time, years before Fikile’s diagnosis. It was the year of new beginnings for us. I had graduated a year before with a Bachelor of Accounting Sciences in Financial Management from UNISA, and had a new government job as an accountant. It was a junior position with low pay, but it came with paid leave, pension and medical aid, things I had not had access to before. Fikile was armed with a national diploma in Early Childhood Development and a dream to start her own crèche. We were both high with knowledge and promise of financial independence.

The air is cool and dry inside the funeral parlour. My mind wanders to the sound of the refrigerators humming at the back stuffed with dead bodies: I see Fikile’s body, cold but not yet stiff with ice, wrapped in the faded floral sheet it came in.

“Can I help you?” It is the voice of a young woman seated at the desk closest to the door. She is wearing a black T-shirt with the parlour’s logo of a white flying dove above her left breast. She has a warm, trained smile. I move towards her.

“I’m Anele Mabuza. My sister’s body was brought here this morning.” From my handbag I take out the crumpled manila envelope with Fikile’s funeral cover and hand it over to her.

The young woman introduces herself as Nina. She only has a few questions for me – time of Fikile’s passing, cause of death. She is respectful throughout, does not pry for details about Fikile’s death and spares me compassionate talk.

“Excuse me.” She stands and walks over to one of the steel cabinets lining the wall, and pulls out a small folder. “Every­thing is in order,” Nina says after paging through Fikile’s file. “Here, this is what you will be getting from the Essential Funeral Plan.” She shows me a picture of the coffin my sister will be buried in, a solid wood casket, with simple gold trimmings and plain white silk interior, what Fikile had chosen for herself. The package includes a small blue-and-white tent, a set of twenty-five plastic chairs, forty bottles of water, a hundred printed funeral programmes, and grocery money to help on the day. She asks me if we would like to brand the water bottles with Fikile’s photo or name or something. I tell her no.

“Would you like to see the actual coffin?”

“No, it’s not necessary.”

“Who will come to dress your sister?”

“What?”

“Dress your sister on Friday,” she repeats. “Someone must come and wash and dress your sister before taking her home.”

I have not thought of this. “My aunts,” I say. “My aunts will.”

“Please tell them to arrive early, otherwise it gets busy in the afternoon.”

I know what she means. Scores of bereaved families will descend on the funeral home to fetch their departed in pre­paration for the next day’s burial. Rows of cars with their hazards on, driving slowly, with dignity, inconsolable families inside, heads down, following the hearses. This time, we will be part of the procession.

I thank the young lady and leave.

* * *

I can tell by the booming voice coming from the house that Auntie Betty has arrived. I can’t contain my relief and fleetingly forget the heaviness of the two grocery bags in my hands. My aunt will know what to do.

Ma and Auntie Betty have removed the mattress on which Fikile died and placed it in the garage, and pushed the furniture in the lounge against the walls such that there is space to accommodate additional chairs. I’m not surprised that at their age, with a handful of children and grandchildren, and a dead husband in between, they have the strength to manoeuvre large pieces of furniture with only tiny beads of sweat showing on their foreheads. I recall as a child how Auntie Betty, assisted by Ma, slaughtered a Boer goat to prepare for a family ceremony marking the end of Ma’s mourning period. The sun was going down and the men were at the back of the house feasting on traditional beer and biltong someone had brought along. Auntie Betty became agitated. She and Ma cornered the animal, held its feet together and with a single, precise movement, Auntie Betty slit its throat. The goat jerked once, and died with a whimper. I was sent to fetch a bowl, which Ma placed under the goat’s bleeding neck. I secretly dipped my finger in the blood and was surprised by its warmth. Auntie Ntombi in her freshly manicured nails, and long black pants and pink silk shirt stood by the kitchen door the entire time, watching and wincing and making funny noises and teasing them about how farm life would always be part of them. Ma and Auntie Betty ignored her. They proceeded to skin the goat, hanging the skin to dry, cutting off the head, carefully separating the bile, and cleaning the offal and organs and the carcass. By the time someone at the back shouted, “Imbuzi,” Ma and Auntie Betty were preparing the fire to boil the tripe.

“What did you get, a casket?” Ma asks, her voice full of expectations. “I was telling your aunt about the coffin in which my friend Ma Mlambo’s child was buried, like a castle. I’m convinced the young man is going straight to heaven and he never even set foot in church.”

I drop the groceries on the floor and pull out the picture of Fikile’s coffin from my bag.

“It is fine,” she says with a hint of disappointment. Not quite the palace of a casket she was expecting. She passes the brochure to Auntie Betty who says it’s perfect. I smile at my aunt. Ma’s outrageous demands for finer things in life were a wonder to us. She has not worked for more than twenty years, and has gone through life living on hand-outs and people’s mercies. Yet this did not alter the perception of what she thinks she deserves, her family deserves.

“I suspect our mother was a queen in her previous life,” Fikile once joked.

* * *

Mbuso, the prodigal son, is calling. I walk out of the room before Ma or Auntie Betty’s prying eyes can turn my way, before they know it’s him on the line. It’s too soon to mention his name and evoke emotions, open unhealed wounds. I can imagine how coming home after such a long time must be nerve-racking for Mbuso, like a Khumbul’­Ekhaya episode.

“In today’s episode of Khumbul’Ekhaya, we bring you Mbuso Mabuza, who is returning home after many years of absence.” Camera zooms to a nervous-looking but determined Mbuso, in a crisp pink shirt and khaki cargo pants, trendy brown loafers. Ma runs out of the house into Mbuso’s hesitant arms. “Why, my child, why have you forsaken us?” She wails. Mbuso glances at the camera, aware of the attention, attempts a response, but when none manifests in his mouth, tightens his arms around his mother. The end.

Except for the time Mbuso came to see Fikile at the hospital during her mastectomy and a few follow-up calls afterwards, Mbuso exists in photographs: Mbuso in a khaki shirt and shorts at a school outing at a game reserve; on his tenth birthday, blowing out a candle on his homemade chocolate cake; in torn jeans and a white T-shirt, shoes visibly bigger than his feet – Thiza’s old shoes – flashing a peace sign. Occasionally Mvula asks about the young boy in a grey tracksuit, holding a tattered backpack and staring mischievously at the camera. Mbuso exists in things around the house: the old boombox that he played until Ma screamed at him to turn it off, rusting medals, the fossil BMX bike with its loose chain in the garage that Ma refuses to throw away. But mostly my brother exists in our memories.

“Bhuti, where are you?” From the kitchen window I notice Lesihle sitting on the boulders near the outdoor washing sink. Fikile’s rocks.

It is behind these rocks that Fikile, later joined by me, snuck ice-cold ciders, or sometimes, when there wasn’t enough money for ciders, cheap, boxed, dry white wine. The alcohol burnt our mouths and eyes, leaving us with wobbly knees, speaking slurred words to imaginary friends, nursing splitting headaches and hangovers that lasted for days, and occasionally burning dinners so that young Mbuso had to go to bed fed only on bread and tea. But Ma was too drunk to notice. Some years later, when it was Mbuso’s turn to experiment with alcohol, he did not go behind the boulders; he brought home ingudu and gulped it in front of Ma. He was fifteen, and had started bunking school. Ma went inside her bedroom and cried.

“What is her problem? Is she upset because I won’t share my beer with her? Has she ever given you a sip of hers?” Mbuso laughed. I scolded him and took the bottle from him. Mbuso continued to laugh, an evil laugh so mean and raw it left my skin tingling with fear. Later that evening I found him passed out on his bedroom floor, next to him a half-smoked joint. Panicked, I called Fikile; we were losing our younger brother.

“I’ll be there soon,” Mbuso says now on the other end of the line.

“Good. Mbuso?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re coming.”

“How is Ma?”

“Okay under the circumstances. Fikile’s illness completely sobered her up, Fikile’s illness has sobered all of us. Well, except maybe for your brother-in-law. He hasn’t shown his face, I don’t know if he’s battling with the loss or if he is being a prick, hard to say with Thiza.”

“I won’t be long now, let’s deal with Thiza when I get there.”

“Ma will be happy to see you. She still cries for you, after all these years. There are days when she wakes up only wanting to talk about you.”

There is silence as if the line has gone dead.

“Mbuso?”

“I’m here.”

I realise my mistake. “We will see you when you get here. Drive safely.” I hang up before my brother changes his mind, turns around and returns to his beautiful family and white double-storey house in a gated community, a life far from his past. Only when I get off the phone I realise my second mistake: I have not asked Mbuso if he is bringing his wife. I wonder now if they have children, nephews and nieces, little Mabuzas. Mbuso has kept his private life away from us.

I sneak into Fikile’s room to collect clean linen to prepare the outside room for Mbuso and his wife and maybe children. Fikile’s house in the other section of the township is the place of formal bereavement from where the funeral proceedings will be conducted. But there will be too many of us to fit in Fikile’s house. I open the thick lock of the outside room and let myself inside. Dust and stale air wafts off, triggering a coughing spree. I move quickly to open the only window and unhook the curtains and take them down, red with dust. I can’t recall when last someone cleaned this room; Fikile’s condition single-handedly managed to reorder our lives, draw up new agendas for us. I remove the beige sheet and the denim duvet cover Mbuso bought with his first pay cheque as a student tutor during his first year at university. I run the feather duster over the giant wall pos­t­ers of 2Pac with his signature bandana and charm, framed school certificates, a few trophies from the debate club, from before Mbuso withdrew his membership in grade ten to the horror of his English class teacher. By that time, getting a word out of Mbuso was like squeezing water out of a cactus.

I sweep and mop the floor and when I’m satisfied with my efforts, I lie down on the freshly made bed, shut my eyes, and feel for a moment the burden of grief lift off and drift away.

* * *

I am awakened by Thiza’s call. It takes a moment to establish my surroundings, to register the numbness in my heart.

“Thiza, where are you? Did you get my message about Fikile?”

“Yes, I did.” Thiza’s voice is muffled, as if coming from a hole a thousand kilometres below ground. “I’m trying to make sense of everything that has happened. I need time.”

“Time for what? You do realise that people here are waiting for you? Your children are asking for you. Ma is getting restless, wanting us to call you every five minutes.” I lower my voice, and speak with obligatory calm, “I understand you’re dealing with the loss your way, but I’m asking you to be thoughtful towards others.”

I hang up not knowing what Thiza needs time for. His wife is dead and he should be here planning her burial. I collect the dirty linen and join the women in the lounge. Auntie Maria has returned, now fully dressed, from next door.

“Where is the children’s father?” Auntie Maria asks as soon as I walk in. “Your aunt tells me he is yet to come pay his respects to his wife.”

“He is on his way,” I respond.

Ma sighs, says, “Thanks be to God.”

Auntie Betty clicks her tongue, folds her arm.

Auntie Maria’s face is heavy with curiosity. “Oh? So it could be true?”

We are silent for a moment.

“What?” Ma asks.

“Everyone is talking about it.”

“What, Maria?” Ma asks again with suppressed irritation.

“That Thiza has moved in with the widow of Cele’s eldest son, his name is not coming to me now, the one who worked at Home Affairs. He died in that horrible car accident by the bridge some years back. A good young man. You know the widow, Margaret. Nolwazi, that’s her name.”

Ma shakes her head.

“A tragic and sad time in our community. It didn’t end well at all for the poor child; her husband’s family made her life miserable. They said she killed him for insurance. Me, I didn’t believe them. They took everything he left for her and their children. Everything. Anele, you must know them?” Auntie Maria turns to me for affirmation.

“I do.”

“But God is great. That child refused to let her spirit be broken, she went after them like fire. I hear she hired a good lawyer, a woman, who helped her get the two cars, house and all the furniture back. Oh, she is comfortable now. Very comfortable. I hear Thiza can be seen driving at high speed in one of her cars.”

“You know people always have something to say, Maria,” Auntie Betty says.

“People are talking, Betty.” Auntie Maria leans back onto the sofa, arms tightly folded across her chest as if suddenly distancing herself from the rumour, then adds: “Are they lying though? I don’t know. But I do know that the children’s father is not here, and is not home either because Sizwe went looking for him. Don’t hear me wrong, I’m not saying anything; I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

“Ewu, Maria.” It is not often that Auntie Betty runs out of words.

I focus my gaze on Ma who remains stoic as if Maria’s unloading of the township gossip is not for her benefit. I struggle to read how much she is absorbing, how much grazes her ears like wind. She does not utter a word, her eyes are closed, she appears to be drifting in and out of grey sleep. Sizwe and I know the rumour, in fact everyone but Ma knows about Thiza and his other wife, Nolwazi.