GLOSSARY
CHAPTER ONE
THREE YEARS AGO
I don’t know how or when the amadlozi choose someone—if you are destined from birth or if, at some point when you are growing, they notice something, they point to it, they say, There, there, right there, that one—she is meant for us. She will be our voice to the people.
Chosen.
Chosen means you don’t choose. Somebody else chooses for you. In this case, all the people who come before you. Your ancestors. Your mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, all the greats backing up for all of time to the beginning of earth. They will not give up until you answer. And your answer must be “yes” or you will go crazy.
Mina, I was chosen three years ago. Mama was dying of the disease of these days. A neighbor sent a witch to curse us. A man was stalking me. And through all of that, they came. They spoke. Hamba, they said. Hamba.
They spoke the same word over and over until I obeyed, until I started walking—not in any particular direction, just wherever they said to go. Here, there—a circuitous journey that finally led me right back to my home here in Imbali, the place of flowers.
They led me to the mountains. I scaled boulders, slipped on icy slopes, froze fingers. They led me deep inside a bowl of sandstone rock that looked as though only the Lord of the Skies could live there in its cold, barren beauty. I soaked in its silence until they led me out again.
They led me into the forest. I sat at the foot of a tree, for days, waiting. I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. But then the trees spoke, not with human voices but something deeper that I felt through the earth and the trunk and the leaves. They told me which plants could heal bronchitis, which could give the sick an appetite, which could cure depression and loneliness. I gathered winter herbs, crushed and dried them, and stored them in bags that hung from the belt slung around my waist.
And then they led me to the river. The Thukela.
It was swollen with spring rains—the waters choppy, angry. I sat on the edge, knowing I could not cross. I do not know how to swim, and what about the crocodiles? This is what I told Mkhulu, the ancestor who first called me, the one who spoke to me more than any other. I imagined myself flailing around. Sucked under. Water filling my lungs. Choking me. Perhaps a crocodile grabbing me with its powerful teeth and making a meal of me.
Step into the water, Mkhulu said.
I sat very still in disbelief.
Go into the water, he said.
I will drown, I said.
You will not drown.
Tiny drops of water flicked up from the swirling rapids and rained down on me. A giant rapid swooshed directly toward me and drenched me. I retreated.
It was almost as if, the longer I sat there, the angrier the water grew. And then it was swelling and growing, overflowing its banks, little rivulets reaching me where I stood.
Go into the water, he said.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared that this might be the way I die. That after burying Mama, after leaving Gogo and Zi behind for this journey, that I might be saying goodbye forever. That my crazy, rabid ancestors were actually out to kill me.
A snorting, shuffling sound from behind. Hot breath on my ankles. A crocodile lumbering toward the water. Toward me. Dear God, hopefully it isn’t hungry, I prayed. I hoped it wouldn’t follow me into the water—because that was where I was going, even if I didn’t want to.
The water was ice cold. Bumps sprang up all over my skin. The crocodile let loose a long, low growl.
I was in as deep as my waist, hesitating. You didn’t have to send a crocodile to push me in, Mkhulu.
It opened its mouth, snapped its teeth.
Or maybe you did.
I wanted to believe I wasn’t afraid of death. After all, I had seen my Mama cross the river and join the amadlozi on the other side—the ancestors, so numerous they were like a herd of black and white striped amadube crossing the plains. They welcomed her with joyous cries. My very bones were certain of this truth: that death is just the next thing after this thing.
But still…
Mkhulu, I said, as the crocodile nudged me deeper into the watery depths. I’m not ready to die.
CHAPTER TWO
PROMISE
My grandmother Gogo’s voice is in my head even before Zi throws the first handful of dirt on her grave. Don’t forget your promise, Khosi. Don’t forget.
Dust chokes my throat as I turn away. A speck of dirt flies into my eye and I rub until it’s raw. Tears drip down my cheeks. Even the woman keening or the call and response of the others in the crowd, mourning the loss of my grandmother, can’t drown out her voice. The priest in his black robes stands in front of her grave, leading the people in prayer, and still, I hear her voice over the ancient words of the church, chanted by a hundred mourners.
You promised, Khosi. You promised. Don’t forget.
It’s true, before she died, I promised Gogo exactly two things. They seemed small at the time. If I’d known what it meant to make those promises, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I said yes. And now I can’t back out. The dead have access to me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They hound me with their commands. Do this. Do that. Go there. Fetch that. And Gogo’s dead now. So I have no escape. She will harass me until I do what I said I would do.
I take my sister Zi’s hand. She looks up at me, total trust reflected back in her eyes.
Zi’s nine. I’m only seventeen but I’m all she has left—Mama dead for three years and Gogo three days now. Baba has never been involved in our lives, even less so after Mama passed.
OK, Gogo. I’ll keep my promises. I’ll keep them, even if it kills me.
CHAPTER THREE
ACCUSATION
We make a procession from the cemetery to the house, walking up and down Imbali’s dirt roads. Winter is dry, the roads covered with a thick centimeter of reddish-brown earth. The morning haze has lifted, cold air gradually giving way to the heat of day.
Most of the neighborhood and all of my grandmother’s family are here, dressed in their funeral best. Mama’s sister’s family walks in front of us, Auntie Phumzile dressed in her Zionist church service finery—a white turban wound around her head, white blouse and green skirt, a maroon cape wrapped around her shoulders. My cousin Beauty, too, is dressed in an expensive new dress, and she walks with her head held high. She barely acknowledged me when she arrived. My mother’s brother is dressed in his finest suit and he carries Mkhulu’s walking
