Inside he found a washing rag, a pair of underpants, some books, a toothbrush and an envelope with a letter inside. The envelope was postmarked 11 November and was from Johannesburg Hospital. Opening it, Sipho could not believe his eyes when he read the word Positive in the Status section.
FOUR BLOCKS AWAY
My left eye was twitching nonstop. I’d been taught that this was a good sign. It meant that I was going to see something big. That is what my mother always used to say to me whenever my left eye went into spasm. Just like when the palm of my left hand was itchy. That was supposed to mean that I was going to come into a huge sum of money. Unless I scratched it – in which case my fortune would disappear.
Looking back, I have to say that my itchy palm never led to me receiving any money, but my twitchy eye often preceded pornographic horrors. I used to share a bedroom with my cousin Spice in Chi, Soweto, and on several occasions after my eye had been giving me trouble I woke up in the middle of the night to witness him naked on top of a woman he had snuck into our shared bedroom from the nearest shebeen.
So this is why, at the mature age of thirty-three, I still believed that my twitchy eye meant that I was going to see something big. However, I never figured on it happening while I was so far away from home. In the Hilton Hotel in Washington D.C., to be exact.
That Saturday the twitch was almost unbearable and my mind was filled with the things I might see. Part of me was hoping to bump into the various big shot South Africans who I’d heard had flown in to congratulate the newly elected president, Barack Obama.
I’d been in the US for about six months on a cultural exchange programme, teaching gumboot dancing to kids at the various schools around Iowa City. So, the fact that our visit to D.C., which was only for three days, had coincided with the inauguration of the first African-American president was extraordinary and wonderful.
Everyone from the programme was in D.C., including my two friends: Kuri, from Mutare in Zimbabwe, who taught mbira, and Bakala, from Bamako in Mali, who taught tabale. Kuri was in his mid-twenties, very thin and very tall. He looked like he didn’t eat enough, which confirmed the idea that most people had about Zimbos around that time: that Mugabe was starving them to death. Bakala was older, in his early fifties, and almost always wore traditional dress. The three of us had stayed in the same house in Lynn Street back in Iowa City. Despite our different ages and backgrounds we had developed a close friendship and used to go shopping together at Coralville Mall.
We were all in D.C. to thank our generous sponsor, the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, for the unique opportunity they had provided us with, but that Saturday morning was our own time and we had decided to use it to explore D.C. At about nine we met in the lobby of the Hilton. Outside, the grey sky hung so low I felt I could reach out and touch it. It looked like it was going to rain.
My eye was still giving me trouble, so I decided to tell Kuri what my mother had always said when it started to twitch. Immediately, he suggested that we should give the White House a miss. “That twitching of yours means trouble, man,” he teased. “The Ku Klux Klan is probably planning to bomb the new president!”
Just after three o’clock that afternoon Kuri, Bakala and I arrived back at the hotel. We were tired of walking around and had given up before seeing the Korean and Vietnam War memorials. We had, however, managed to see the White House, or as my high school history teacher used to call it: “The house where God resides.”
The three of us were scheduled to give a talk and a performance at Howard University at five o’clock. My topic was The gumboot dance and the South African migrant labour system.
My eye was still twitching and I could not properly set my mind to the talk at the university. After scanning USA Today and the Washington Post in the lobby, I decided to go to my room, which I shared with Bakala, and lie down and close my eyes, in the hope that this would help.
At five o’clock we found ourselves in one of Howard University’s lecture theatres. It was there that my mother’s wisdom was confirmed. Beautiful, large eyes. Auburn hair, shading to brown in colour, that hung down to her shoulders like mielie tassels. She had spotted me from the crowd and was waving wildly. Her name was Siri.
I had met Siri in George’s Bar in Iowa City on the night the election results had been announced. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and was drowning her sorrows. The following day she invited me to the cottage she was renting on the banks of the Iowa River. She cooked us pasta while telling me how the river had burst its banks back in June – her cottage had been flooded and it still smelt of damp.
Siri was from Philadelphia, studying towards a degree in literature at the University of Iowa. From the day of the dinner up until I left for D.C. we spent a great deal of time together. We were overtly physically affectionate towards one another – I would take her forearm and kiss it and in return she would hold my hand when we were sitting together – but each time I wanted to be more romantic her answer was always the same: “I have had enough of men. Please, give me some time.” Those were her exact words.
Every few days after that night in George’s Bar, I would find myself at Siri’s place. We would sit by the Iowa River as the sun went down, smoke Egyptian tobacco mixed with weed from her hubbly bubbly and talk about the euphoria around Obama. We code-named smoking weed “reading poetry”, and after each “poetry session” I would piggyback Siri for a short distance. We both loved it and would laugh all the way to her cottage, where I would leave her by the door.
Now Siri was standing in front of me in a lecture theatre in D.C. What did she want? I asked myself as I felt the palms of both my hands growing moist.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said as I hugged her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You look absolutely gorgeous. Beyond words.”
“Hi, handsome,” she replied.
“What a pleasant surprise. How are you here? Are you stalking me?”
“Yes, I am. I called one of the girls who is responsible for your itinerary and asked her where you were. She told me that you had a talk here.” She paused. “So here I am.”
“That is so lovely.” I struggled to keep my gaze steady. “Thanks for coming.”
“I drove all the way from Philly to see you.”
“How far is that?”
“About four hours.”
“Wow! You drove that far to see me? To what do I owe this honour?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she slapped me lightly on the shoulder and went to sit down in the front row of the lecture theatre.
Time and again, throughout the talk, my eyes drifted towards her.
After the talk, Siri clapped loudly, as if I had uttered the most profound words that she had ever heard.
When we were all done, Siri suggested that we go to ChurchKey in McPherson Square. “They normally have a happy hour at seven,” she said.
“Sure thing.”
Kuri and Bakala joined us and we all climbed into Siri’s brown Ford sedan and headed off to 14th NW and Rhode Island.
ChurchKey was across the street from the Ghana Café. Siri parked along 14th NW and led us into the joint and to a booth with long yellow vintage couches. Three black ladies and two guys were in the booth
