and not being able to. I understand this. It is absorbing too much self-righteousness and not being able to release. I have been bitter for most of my life, looking for wrong in the world. In communist texts I was looking to condemn the world. I was born at five o’clock on the twenty-second of the sixth month. This season shaped my character. Perhaps it’s true that people born in a certain season exhibit similar tendencies, and each season calls for its own action.
The numbers of my birth hinge on moderation. The sixth month is the middle of the year, the twenty-second day is even, and the number five is balanced – half of the perfect number ten. Perhaps this is the reason for my long-standing indecision. Even when it came to God, I doubted for a long time. What if I have suffered the sort of death Alice Walker speaks of? I go to the bathroom to pass water. I disappear into privacy. No one is meant to see me here. I die and come out again.
My phone beeps twice. It is a message from Paul inviting me to men’s ministry at seven. I am now ready to attend. I text back to Paul: “I’m coming.”
This is too presumptuous. Jesus could come before the meeting. Ndlela is also going to call me at seven. Is there any significance to that hour? Will I be judged? The number seven is perfect. God took seven days to create the world.
“Paul, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel nervous. Where are you?” I say on the phone.
“I’m at work,” Paul says.
“Where do you work?” I ask, hoping to go to his workplace.
“I work from home.”
“Can you please come to my place?”
“Well, I have a job. I can’t come right now.”
“Please, Paul, do come.”
“No, you want me to do what you want. I’ll see you at seven,” Paul says with finality.
The ANC wants a media tribunal. Maybe they are right. Behind the self-regulation of the media are people with agendas of their own. But I do not buy into this willing-buyer willing-seller slogan. The ANC has its own agenda, that of power trying to be God. People want to be God these days.
I am heating up, my head is dizzy. I walk out of the clutter of the flat into the corridor. On the ground floor a man sweeps leaves into a black refuse bag. I need someone to talk to. I hurry down the black steps to the man. He is wearing blue overalls and a green skullcap.
“Have you heard about the strike?” I ask.
“Yes, they are going to bring the country to a standstill. These strikers are going to stop everything,” he says, looking at the black bag.
“No, they cannot do that. Only God has that much power,” I say, running out of breath.
“They can if everyone strikes – the teachers, the nurses, the police, everyone.”
This worries me. This man speaks with so much certainty. The children need to go to school. People need doctors.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“I stay in Khayelitsha; originally I’m from the Transkei.”
He says his name is Siviwe. It’s an ancestral name meaning “we have been heard”.
“I stay here on the first floor,” I say.
“Do you live on your own? All the flats here are bachelors, right?”
“No, ours is a two-bedroom flat. I stay with a friend. He’s at work right now.”
“Oh, as far as I know all the flats are bachelors. This is a very old building,” Siviwe says.
* * *
I rummage through Tongai’s room. There are clothes in his wardrobe. I could not have imagined him staying with me. There are indications of Tongai: a basket with laundry in the corner, books and pieces of paper lying on the floor. Siviwe must be mistaken. Tongai has a South African ID though he’s Zimbabwean. His is different from mine. The back cover of mine is at the front of his. It says he was born on the first of October. In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash only realised much later that his best friend was not real. “You never grow,” he said.
I do not want the TV on. I sit in silence in the lounge. I do not know the name of the church I went to yesterday. It is a Portuguese church, that’s all I’m certain of. When I told my mother last night that I have finally accepted Jesus Christ, she asked which church I went to. I said I did not know. This cast doubt on me. That I went into the church and didn’t ask the name.
* * *
A purple cloth wipes the kitchen window. It is Siviwe. We should be humble when people are clearing our perception. I get up and go to him.
“You see, this is a two-bedroom flat,” I say, holding the front door open.
“My friend stays in that room.” I point at Tongai’s room.
Siviwe enters and peers inside the flat.
“No, that room must have been constructed,” Siviwe says.
Now he is the serpent. Though I have shown him the room he still has something to say. Siviwe is short. His small face grimaces as he speaks. He has come to deceive. I leave him and return to my room. Through chicanery each one of us can become the serpent. This revelation comes to me while lying in bed. I sense a snake’s tongue licking. I want to spit. My spittle would be that of a cobra – venomous. The first step to deception is lying; once you lie you become like the snake. I do not ever want to mislead people. Those blessed with the word can easily galvanise people, invigorate them with rhetoric. They become the snake when doing this. From the water in my eyes, I feel the snake. Maybe it’s under my bed.
I receive a call from my mother. I step out of the bedroom and into the lounge while speaking to her. She says they are happy I have accepted Jesus.
“You seemed worried last night,” Mother says.
“You didn’t seem happy when I told you the news, asking me which church I had gone to.”
“No, we were tired. For the past weekend at church we had restoration. We were sleeping very late. How are you now?” she asks.
“I’m not well. I have this intense anxiety.”
She gives me some Scripture references. I write these on a piece of paper. They are all from Psalms. I read them sitting at a table in the lounge. I plunge from one verse to the next. When the circle is complete I start again. The Scriptures catch each other. I go around, again and again. The fear does not leave me. My throat is dry from the nerves.
* * *
Elio can tell me the name of the church in Parow. He took me there. Over the phone we agree to meet in Mowbray. After meeting with Elio I might as well go to Paul’s place for men’s ministry. I take my Bible along for clarity. The spectacle of walking in the streets carrying a Bible does not bother me. I leave the flat wearing a grey jersey and black denim jeans. I’m back walking the same route I did earlier in the day. They want to stop the world with this strike. Halting everything even for a minute will bring forth judgement. We believers have a lot to pray
