always been different, in many ways, but she and I are close in age and played together growing up. I would like to think she is an ally. “Uncle?”
The awkward moment stretches out like a pot of phuthu and amasi that must feed too many mouths.
“Let us just focus on the future,” Uncle says finally. He scratches his head, as though trying to distract us from what he is saying. “Let us leave this thing behind us.”
“What thing?” I ask. “This thing of Auntie accusing me of something I would never do? Do you really think I would hurt Gogo? Gogo, the only mother I had after my own mama died?”
“Nooooo,” Uncle says. “But you must listen to your auntie.”
It is nonsense, what he is saying. If I did not kill Gogo through witchcraft, but that is what she is saying, why must I listen to her? I can see I have lost my family through this.
“Take what you want.” I am angry now. It burbles up in my chest, the same anger I once felt towards Mama when I realized she stole money before she died. “I do not care about things. I have Gogo’s spirit with me, which is more than you will ever have. And I have the house, you cannot take that.”
Somehow those words take Auntie from one thing to another, and in seconds, she is screaming. “We’ll get the house back, you little witch,” she yells. “You don’t deserve it! You killed her!”
“Phumzile!” Uncle Lungile shouts. “Quiet! You can’t say these things, Mama is just now buried… Please, let this thing rest.”
“Auntie,” I say, pleading with her. I try to catch her eye but she refuses to look at me. “We are family. We are blood. Please, let us just let this thing go away.”
But she won’t stop. She’s in my face, shouting. “It will never go away!”
Suddenly, I’m no longer afraid. None of the others can see Mkhulu or Gogo in the corner, but I can. They are shaking their heads—at her behavior, yes, but also at me, warning me to let this go, not to retaliate. So it’s true, I’m not afraid. But my calm seems to convince her more than ever that I am guilty. I reach out to touch her forearm, to soothe her.
She jerks her arm away and raises her hand to slap me. “Hheyi, wena, you think we don’t know what you have done? Hah!”
My cheek tingles from her slap. But the hurt feels good. Not like this thing of Gogo’s death, a sting that will never go away.
“What is it you think I have done?” I say.
She spits in my face. “You killed her! You killed her!”
Uncle Lungile grabs her by the arm and hauls her outside. She’s still shouting, and all the neighbors are gathering to watch. “Haibo! Go away or we will give you something to talk about,” Auntie yells at them.
They move further up the hill but none of them stop watching. It is too good, this scene of family disarray. Even MaDudu stands and watches this thing of my aunt accusing me of witchcraft.
There are people who think it is powerful for others to believe you have a witch working for you, and I know there are those people who will seek my services if they believe that is what I do. But it is dangerous. It is not some game to play.
A long time ago, around the time Mama got sick with the disease of these days, MaDudu employed a witch to curse our family. She did it because she was angry. To our shame, my mama had stolen the insurance money after MaDudu’s husband died, something we did not discover until after Mama died and I found the money she had hidden in a secret bank account. It has sometimes made me wonder if Mama can even be an ancestor, the way my Gogo and Mkhulu are. Yes, I watched her join the rest of the amadlozi when she died, and I often see her in the crowd that follows me around, but she never speaks to me. I never ask her for help to heal. I wonder if she even can help? Do the things we did or failed to do on earth prevent us from being fully what we should be on the other side too? I wish I knew. It’s something I’m working out.
Auntie and Uncle stand a long time in the yard talking. Uncle holds her by the arm as if trying to prevent her from running away. She is talking so angrily, she doesn’t even notice that her turban has come askew.
Her husband arrives in a borrowed bakkie and Uncle Lungile comes inside and says, “Khosi, the house is yours but you must leave just now. She will not come inside if you are here but it is our tradition for her to take her mother’s things.”
So Zi and I stand in the back yard, near the washing bins where we wash our clothes, while Auntie and her husband haul away the sofa and the table and chairs. They pack away most of the kitchen items, but leave us some few plates and forks and a pot for cooking. They leave us the beds and mattresses, for which I am grateful. And the TV. Perhaps they leave the TV because it is old. Their TVs are all new and this one wouldn’t even fetch a good price if you tried to sell it in the streets.
And then they leave, all of them, they do not even come to the back to say goodbye or tell us they are done.
I wonder if they will be back for more or if we have seen the last of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCKY
When they are gone, Zi and I clean the mess. The women did dishes and packed up the remaining food—at least Zi and I have plenty to eat for the next week—but they left big piles of rubbish in the yard, which are already attracting flies. Zi and I pile the rubbish into several bins and cover them with a tarp. I can handle snakes or fleas or monkeys, even flies I can live with, but I hate rats.
“What do you suppose Gogo is doing right now on the other side?” Zi asks.
I shake my head. I don’t have to suppose. I already know. “She and the other amadlozi are sitting around gossiping about the funeral,” I say. “Gogo is laughing about how many people came for a free meal, people who never visited when she was alive.”
Zi shakes her head. “That isn’t funny,” she announces. “I’d be angry. What good is it to come pay your respects after somebody dies if you never visited when they were here with us?”
“The things that matter to us when we are alive are not so important when we are dead,” I say. “Gogo is glad they had a good meal. And she’s touched by how many of them brought money to give to us.”
Neighbors and friends, far and wide, gave what they could. 10 rand here, 50 rand there—it adds up. Most of it already disappeared to pay for the funeral expenses. What is left, Auntie and Uncle took a share of and left some few rands for me and Zi. They must feel they couldn’t leave us with nothing, and yes, they were her children so they deserved something, probably the lion’s share, which in fact they took. But it showed us, Zi and I are now on our own. We won’t see any help from them for school fees or any other such needs.
“But don’t you think Gogo is sad not to be here anymore?”
“She doesn’t even miss us,” I say. “She sees us anytime she wants. So if you ever want to talk to her, just say, ‘Sawubona, Gogo!’ Even if you can’t hear her, she’ll hear you!”
The look on Zi’s face is one of pure horror. “No thank you,” she says. “Does she really see everything?”
I
