did not show up for my last day of work. That was very rude of me. My contract was due to expire at the end of the year. I did not want to go back to Trilce Health anyway, so I resigned. I felt wasted there. Every day was like detention, just waiting for the day to come to an end. It’s funny, afterwards, even though I was not working, I felt my time was better spent. I could do the things that I really wanted. I started writing a story. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than writing. I deleted the story five chapters in. I allowed Tongai to read it once and immediately regretted it.”
“But I told you it was good,” Tongai says in a gentle tone.
“Why did you regret showing it to Tongai?” the doctor asks.
“He was not being sincere. He reacted like we were at a hip-hop gig, shouting ‘Blaka blaka’. I had decided a long time ago not to share my work with Tongai and Nhlakanipho. With young people there’s a lot of competition. It’s hard getting an honest response from them. Guys easily feel threatened.”
The doctor’s hand does not stop moving; he writes down everything I say. The nurse looks at me with sadness. In the hospital we passed what looked like a waiting room. The people there looked like they were in mourning.
“What was this story about?” Nhlakanipho asks.
“The theme was success. I looked at the world around me and how people measured success. To me it felt empty, the dry notion of getting a job and almost worshipping money. I was also fascinated by Mfundo: how someone could make a living out of crime; once money was in his hand it did not matter how it got there. But I deleted all of it. I thought, who am I to be telling people how to live their lives? Maybe I was trying to make a name for myself.”
Nhlakanipho nods slowly.
“I hate this about Nhlakanipho, the condescension. Look at how he nodded when I said maybe I was trying to make a name for myself. He has a sharp nose for other people’s weaknesses. Nhlakanipho once told me that the real poets do not get published, that the ones who perform have been told that they are good.”
I am running out of breath. My heart is beating fast. I think that tonight I have to die. But life is precious, I have to fight. I used to think very little of people who feared death. But life has to be cherished. I cannot give up.
“That lady you invited to the flat was a sangoma,” I say to Tongai.
“Normal life coach . . . normal life coach,” Tongai grunts with a slight grin on his face and with his right hand laid over his left.
“Barefoot with dreads,” I remark. “From the very first time Tongai asked me not to be around the flat, I became suspicious. I had this feeling that he was going to invite a faith healer who would sprinkle water all round the flat.”
“Do you think you have any special powers?” the doctor asks me.
“No, no, I refuse that. God is God,” I reply in consternation.
“One Saturday Tongai walked into the flat with a whole fried chicken,” I continue. “He offered me some but I refused. I feared that the fat would clog my creativity. He seemed disappointed and said, ‘Why don’t you want my chicken?’ I did not want to seem disrespectful so I cut two pieces for myself. When I was done eating I asked if he wasn’t going to eat. He said he was not hungry. The following day the chicken was not in the house any more. I started seeing strange things at Tagore’s . . . That’s when this started, when I ate the chicken . . .”
No one else speaks. Tongai does not say a word. There isn’t anything else that I can say.
The nurse says: “No, another one.”
It seems I am preventing the doctor from attending to other patients. The doctor also seems restless. He wants me to make up my mind. If I sleep here, I do not believe I will wake up. The hospital air is freezing.
After a few moments of reflection, the doctor says: “I strongly suggest that he stays over.”
I fear being hospitalised. This will surely lead to Valkenberg. But I certainly need help. I cannot sleep on my own at the flat. I grope for my Bible, read the verses I turn to. The others all stare at me coldly. The doctor grows impatient. “Look, you have to decide,” he says. I understand, he is needed elsewhere. The nurse sighs; another patient has been admitted. I close my eyes, say a quiet prayer: “Lord, I cannot go on fighting.”
* * *
In the morning I lift up my head from a white pillow. My nose is dry from the morning draught. My arms dangle in blue hospital robes. I am alive. A drip is connected through my hand. I should quickly get out of here. I rip off the drip with my teeth. As my feet touch the cold floor, five security guards surround me. I try pushing them off. But there’s no point in fighting them. I can’t. They lift me onto the bed. I watch them bind my arms in a straitjacket and attach me to the steel of the bed.
* * *
I scream when I wake up. A security guard runs towards me.
“What’s the problem?”
“Could you please untie me? I want to go to the toilet.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Number two.”
He just stands there. I wet my robe, and leave a salty smell.
* * *
“Ahhhhhh!!!” I yell when I wake up. The same security guard comes to me again.
“What’s the matter?”
“I need to use the toilet.”
He just keeps quiet. I wet myself again.
Moments later, I wake to them untying me. I try not to get too excited. My mother is standing beside me. “He is going to be fine now . . .” the matron says, injecting something into my arm. Drops of water dribble off the tip of the needle. I do not feel anything.
I move my left arm around. The straitjacket has left a sweaty, swollen mark. I walk around the floor to make sense of everything. When I see the doctor who attended to me the previous night, I ask him, “How’s my case looking?”
“You spent all your money on drugs and you lost your job. That’s what precipitated this condition. If you take drugs again, you will end up on the streets,” he says.
I smile and nod. It is chilly in here. I do not have anything on my feet. I walk back to my bed.
“Your nails are too long,” my mother says. “Do you mind if I cut them?”
“No, you can.”
My mother clips my toenails as I lie on my side.
“Mr Zolo, please follow me,” a security guard interrupts.
The security guard takes me past a white security door to the psychiatric ward. One patient has his arms stretched out, spinning around.
“You are going to meet people worse than you. Please try not to panic,” my mother whispers. She is prohibited from going beyond this point. The patient is directed to his cell by a male nurse. There is a TV playing
