approach it with my mind instead of my gift.
He hands it to me. “Slowly, Connie. Don’t cheat.”
My first instinct is to unfold it and search for the words that must be on it, because that’s what you do with paper – you write on it, you read it. I have to stop myself, take a breath, and change the way I look at it. It’s not a letter or a page from a book. It’s an object like all the others, like a cup or a piece of cloth. In the semi-dark room the white of the paper looks dull grey. I’m trying to look with my other eyes, but my head keeps getting in the way, telling me there’s nothing to see because the paper is blank.
I drop the paper so my frustration won’t taint it.
“It’s OK,” my grandfather says gently. “Try again.”
I close my eyes as I hold out my hand, so the words on the page won’t distract me. The page is small, just a little larger than my palm. For a moment I feel the usual resistance, but I push it aside and focus on the texture of the paper against my fingers. And then I sense it – anxiety. It starts as a small, nagging twitch in my stomach and then blossoms, spreading through my torso, making my heart race and my muscles knot up. I drop the paper and open my eyes, gasping.
“Well?”
“He’s worried about something.” I reach up to rub my shoulder, which suddenly feels like I’ve been lifting cement blocks. “Very worried. Panicked, tense. He’s been worried for a long time, too – it’s making him sick. His body is…” I pause to find the right words. “Fighting itself.” Now my gift takes a step back and my intellect takes over. “Is he dying?”
Ntatemogolo laughs. “You’ve never done that before,” he says in delight, leaning forward to pick up the small page. “You made a deduction based on what you felt. Usually you just feel and leave the thinking out of it. What made you switch?”
I shrug, still tense. “It just happened. It seemed…I don’t know…necessary. Am I right, though? He has some kind of terminal illness?”
“He does. And yes, he is a very anxious man – he always has been.” He beams at me. “You’re getting very good at picking up gender signals, too.”
I return the smile, feeling rather proud of myself.
He looks at his watch. “That’s enough for today. You did very well, my girl. You finally broke through your paper barrier.”
He’s right – I made progress. I’m pleased, but my sense of achievement is ruined by a nagging concern. “Thank you, Ntatemogolo.” I hesitate before speaking again. “Will you please do something for me?”
“Of course. Unless it has to do with your father.”
Eish. I wish he’d leave the mind-reading to me. I get to my feet with a sigh while he empties the bag in preparation for purification. “Never mind. I’ll see you next week.”
His phone buzzes. I jump at the sound; usually he leaves it in the living room when we’re practising so it doesn’t disturb us. He glances at the message and inhales sharply.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“No – just the opposite.” His teeth are tinged green by the light of the phone. “It might be the news I was hoping for.” He gets up, suddenly in a frightful hurry. “Connie, I have to go out of town for some time.”
“Right now?” I follow him out of the consultation room and linger in the doorway as he rushes into his bedroom.
“Yes.” His voice is muffled. “Something very urgent has come up. I must see to it immediately.”
I shrug. I’m used to his frequent trips. If he’s not called away to help solve a magical mystery, he’s off doing research or investigating some unexplained occurrence. “OK. How long will you be gone?”
“I am not sure.” He emerges from the room clutching a duffel bag. “You’ll be fine?”
I nod. His eyes are shining. It really must be good news. I’m curious now, but I don’t dare ask. There’s a lot he shares with me, but most of the work he does for clients is confidential.
“Good girl. Keep practising, and close the gate properly on your way out. Oh, and one more thing. Remember that birthday gift I gave you?”
I frown. “The chest?”
“The beaded ankle bracelet. The very old one.”
I nod.
“This might be a good time to start wearing it.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means but he shoos me away, eager to prepare for his trip. I leave him to his packing. In the corridor I reach into my pocket for my phone. It’s almost six-thirty. Dad’s probably not home, but Rakwena’s supposed to come over after work and I don’t want to make him wait.
I hurry through the living room, knocking against the small table on my way to the door and upsetting the book lying on it. The book slides half off the table and I lean over to push it back into place. The second I touch it I feel a tingle. Not just any tingle, either. I stare at the book, then pick it up and hold it in both hands. A dull surge of anxiety moves through me, then fades. The tingle is gone but I know I felt it, and I’d know it anywhere. Rakwena was here recently, and it wasn’t a social call.
I take a closer look at the book. It’s an old, red leather-bound volume called A Meeting of Minds. I put it back and consider confronting my grandfather, but I know if he intended to tell me Rakwena was here he would have done it already. I head outside, closing the front door and the gate behind me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had the feeling that Rakwena and Ntatemogolo are keeping something from me. From the start it was clear that Ntatemogolo knew Rakwena and didn’t trust him. I let it go. Ntatemogolo knows most of the gifted in town, as many of them come to him for help with their powers. I assumed Rakwena must have done the same, but now I’m not so sure.
Something was bothering Rakwena and he came to my grandfather for help. Is he planning to clue me in, or is this another mystery I’m supposed to ignore?
***
Rakwena and I lounge on the sofa with my Setswana books, while he tries to help me with my appalling sentence construction. I can’t concentrate. I’m trying not to be pushy and nosy but I can’t help it. I’ve given him ample opportunity to confide in me, and he hasn’t.
“Rakwena.”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you go to see my grandfather?”
His gaze remains fixed on the page. “Did he tell you I went to see him?”
“He doesn’t tell me anything, and neither do you.” I lean over to snatch the book from under his nose. “Talk to me. I know you’re worried about something. What is it?”
He leans back in the sofa with a puzzled frown. “I touched something. That’s how you know.” The frown lines smooth out and he looks at me. “The book.”
I look into his eyes, but as usual he’s
