it’s just gossip?” he prods. “You don’t have premonitions?”
I bite my lip and decide it’s safer not to answer. I’ve never admitted it to anyone beyond my dad and grandfather; Wiki and Lebz figured it out on their own.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Rakwena says softly. “I think it’s an incredible gift. If you were telepathic, I’d advise you not to cling to the thoughts coming into your head so you don’t get overwhelmed. But since you’re not…” He sighs. “I guess there’s nothing more to talk about, right?”
Damn it. Now he’s playing me. The idea of being able to speak freely about this sort of thing, with someone my age who understands, is so appealing that I’m tempted to tell him my whole life story. But he’s still the scary guy with the scar and tattoo.
“How do you know so much about this stuff, anyway?” I snap, frustrated by my indecision. “Are you some kind of… ghost buster?”
He laughs. “You didn’t realise your gifts would begin to mature around this age?”
“My grandfather told me,” I reply without thinking.
He grins. “So you do have gifts.” His eyes are twinkling. I wish they wouldn’t. “Then you also probably know that telepathy is common in someone with your abilities – empathy, premonitions – someone very sensitive to the people around her.”
That’s news to me, but I know better than to open my mouth at this point.
“Well, I just thought you might like to talk to someone who doesn’t think you’re a freak.” He moves away from the wall. “Take care, Conyza.”
“Connie!”
He shrugs. “If you insist on rejecting the things that make you unique, that’s your problem, Connie.” He slinks away.
Ugh! What an idiot. What does he know? I’m so angry I want to run after him and slam my bag against that big head. Rejecting the things that make me unique? That’s easy for him to say! As much as I love my father, I have never completely forgiven him for naming me after a weed. And as for telepathy… All my life I’ve dealt with people who made me feel guilty for being different. Now Black Lizard, of all people, has succeeded in making me feel guilty for trying to be normal! I don’t care what he says; I don’t want to be telepathic. I have enough trouble dealing with my own thoughts.
My grandfather sits on a stool on the front veranda of his small house in Bontleng, puffing a cigarette in thoughtful silence. I’ve become impervious to the smoke by now. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, waiting for him to finish sorting through his thoughts.
He’s a very wise man. I don’t argue with him, I don’t talk back and I don’t speak to him with the same casual tone I use with Dad, because he’d soon put me in my place. He’s small and wiry, with a thick head of greying hair and a carefully trimmed beard. He looks like a university professor, which he was at one point. Nowadays he makes a living writing smarmy intellectual books about history and folklore.
Then there’s his other job. People come to him for advice on anything from nightmares to exorcisms. The local traditional doctors call him a charlatan because he doesn’t play by their rules. Their beliefs are steeped in culture and his are cosmopolitan and constantly changing. He’s equally at home discussing forest sprites and thokolosi, and that’s why he and I get along so well. We both straddle the line between two worlds.
I met him for the first time when he came for my mother’s funeral, but he wasn’t home for long. He’s spent years all over the world, studying the myths and legends of different cultures. The moment we met when he came home for good, we both knew we were in the presence of another not-quite-normal person. My father was baffled and, I think, a little jealous of our connection. He raised me alone for years, and all of a sudden this old man swept into our lives and took over. I used to wish they’d get over themselves and just try to get along, but it will never happen.
Ntatemogolo is wearing his usual black trousers and African-print shirt with brown suede loafers. He finishes the cigarette, drops it on the veranda and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe, then turns his steady gaze on me.
“You should have come to me,” he admonishes in Setswana.
“I’m sorry, Ntatemogolo,” I reply in English, and shrug helplessly. “But I thought it was just a headache until this morning.”
He grunts. “This boy who spoke to you; what is his name?”
“Lizard. I mean Rakwena. I don’t know his surname. He has this huge scar on his face.” I frown. “Why?” As you’ve probably guessed, I can’t read my grandfather’s thoughts. He’s way too advanced.
His jaw tenses. “A scar? And a lizard tattoo?”
“Yes.” I blink, baffled for a moment, and then blurt out, “You know him?”
“He is not an ordinary boy.” He gives me a stern look. “Stay away from him.”
“Why?” I catch myself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What do you mean he’s not an ordinary boy?” I lean forward eagerly. “Is he like us?”
“No!” he almost shouts. He recovers quickly, but it’s too late; the damage is done and I’m curious as anything now. “Not… not exactly,” he says in a calmer voice. “He is… very knowledgeable in these matters, that’s how he was able to tell you so much. But it’s better to be careful with people you don’t know, especially in our world.”
I nod obediently, but my mind is spinning. This is the first time I’ve been in contact with someone my age who really knows something about the supernatural, instead of the usual silly superstitions and fear-based gossip. It doesn’t surprise me that Lizard and Ntatemogolo have crossed paths, now that I know Lizard kind of sees dead people, too.
“Now.” Ntatemogolo smiles suddenly. “It’s time for you to take your gifts seriously, my girl. This telepathy – it is not a small thing. We must sharpen your skill, so you can use it the way it was meant to be used.”
My eyes widen. This is the last thing I want to hear. I’ve spent all day just trying to preserve my sanity! I know things about my peers, teachers and strangers in the street that I really didn’t want to know. Worst of all, Lebz is still not talking to me. The idea of this going on indefinitely is unacceptable.
“Please, Ntatemogolo – I don’t want to use it,” I confess. “I want to make it go away!”
He glares at me, and I shut my mouth and lower my gaze. “You will accept your gifts, Conyza, and you will learn to use them.”
“Yes, Ntatemogolo.” This would be a great time for my grandfather to tap into his smarmy intellectual side and pretend he’s not the local version of Van Helsing. “But…”
“I’m going to Serowe tomorrow, but I’ll be back next week,” he interrupts smoothly. “We can start then. In the meantime, I want you to listen to the thoughts that come to you, their intensity, their flavour. Find out how close you must be to the person to read them. Also…” He pauses. “I want you to see whether there are people you can’t read.”
“Like you?”
He
