The Down Days

by Ilze Hugo

  The world was so white that she couldn’t see the trail anymore. And she was so, so cold.

  She remembered reading stories in the newspaper as a kid about tourists climbing the mountain who’d strayed from the marked paths wearing the wrong gear only to fall off cliffs or get lost and die of hypothermia. “Stupid tourists, don’t they have any sense?” her dad would say while she munched on her cereal, playing with whatever toy she’d been taken with that month.

  Now she’d gone and done the same. Was she going to die here? Was she already dead? She pulled her coat tighter across her body, folded her arms across her chest, and trudged on.

  After what seemed like hours, she found a cave. She almost hadn’t noticed it because of the mist.

  There was firewood inside. Cooking utensils. A can of baked beans. A lighter. Someone had lived here once.

  She didn’t remember falling asleep. But she must have. Because she remembered the dream.

  The dream was a weird one. Even for her. She was lying on the floor of the cave, while two old men sat hunched over her dreaming body. Both had pipes clamped to their yellowed lips. One of the men was wearing a hat, and the other a purple coat, with horns growing out of his forehead.

  “Is she dead?” asked the first man, the one wearing the hat.

  “Depends on how you look at it, I guess, but no, not quite,” said the second, while filling up the bowl of his pipe and tamping it with his yellow fingers.

  “Decent ears,” said the first man. “You can tell a lot about a person from the shape of their ears, I always say.”

  “Yes. You’ve told me,” said the second man, and Piper thought she saw him rolling his eyes. He struck a match against one horn and waited for a few seconds for the sulphur to burn away before firing up the pipe.

  “Do you think she’s going to make it?” asked the first man, who was now packing his own pipe, his bony old fingers shaking from the effort.

  “They never do, do they, Van Hunks?” said the horned man, drawing in the nicotine with obvious pleasure.

  “There you go again,” said the one called Van Hunks, pinching some tobacco between his fingers. “Always focusing on the negative.”

  “Hmph!” said the second. “How many years have we been sitting up here now? Watching?”

  “A long time.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. Centuries.”

  “Yes. And nothing ever really changes, does it? It’s like reading the same book on repeat. Don’t you get tired of it?” He was blowing smoke rings now. The puffs of smoke making strange shadows on the wall of the cave. The shadows danced and writhed and morphed into images that played before Piper’s eyes like moving pictures—images of war and plague and smallpox and polio and AIDS and TB and malaria and the Spanish flu and scurvy. And other kinds of death, too. And horror and depravity. And armies of mythical beasts with fangs and claws and horns and batlike wings. And things. Many more things. Things she didn’t have the words for but recognized deep down at the very base of her being.

  “We could always do something,” said the first man. “Interfere. Try changing things for once.”

  “Hmmm . . .” said the second man. “Shut up and smoke.”

  The night wore on, breathing and pupating in its chrysalis, while the old men sat like the ancient sentries they were, watching over and over and over and always. Always sucking, sucking, sucking in the smoke from their pipes, always watching, always waiting, always almost breathing, while the shadows danced and Piper slept, slept, slept the sleep of the dead. Until the dark broke free from its chrysalis and split into dawn without ceremony. And just like yesterday and the day before that and the week before that and the month before that and the year before and the decade and the century . . . it was morning.

  MONDAY

  - 91 - THE DAILY TRUTH

  NO MORE PRICK FIXES

  By Lawyer Tshabalala

  We told them where to stick it. And they listened!

  Yesterday was a scorcher, with protests and burning postboxes across the city. Amidst all the chaos, everybody’s favorite hair cult, the Sisters of Godiva, was set on fire, with conflicting reports on whether the fire was set by protesters. Nearby residents and business owners say the smell of burning hair was still fouling the air late last night, seeing more than one bystander bent over in a fit of vomiting. By evening, things had quieted down across the city after the protesters and the government had reached an agreement.

  Amidst all the violence and unrest, the president is in talks to scrap the mandatory meds (with some theorizing that they were nothing more than a placebo to calm and control the anxious public to begin with).

  To tell you the truth, I still don’t know what to make of all this, my friends. Maybe it was ghosts all along? Maybe there’s truth to the reports from spiritual camps that Sick City is turning into some kind of limbo on earth? Wasn’t it Dante who said that purgatory is located on a mountain in the Southern Hemisphere? On it, next to it, it’s all semantics, isn’t it?

  Or maybe there was no grand conspiracy to begin with and we’ve been making ourselves crazy. Mass hysteria or whatnot . . . Could be we were all crazy to begin with, and sometimes when things get too much, the crazy just boils over a little bit. Who knows?

  Till the next. Love you long time. Over and out.

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  THE DAILY TRUTH

  A RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  By Megan Moosa

  Things are gonna get rof tonight at the Bree Street therapy bar when retired heavyweight champ Ebrahim Baadjies steps into the ring with Limbo City’s favorite Easter Bunny and Daily Truth reporter, Lawyer Tshabalala, for a skop and donner rumble in the Cape jungle.

  When the Truth caught up with Baadjies earlier this week at his house in Tamboerskloof, he hadn’t yet decided which suit he was going to zip up for the momentous occasion. “You know, there’s this laaitie from the therapy bar coming by later today with a selection of costumes. So, I’ll have a look and we’ll see from there. But I’ve always had a thing for the Joker, you know, from Batman. Otherwise, maybe I can be a corpse cockroach or a ghost or a fat-cat cop.”

  So, come, people. This is going to be a jol for the ages. Catch the match at 7:00 p.m. sharp. Just R30 for breathers and the dead pay half price.

  She was in the lobby of the Cosy Sleeps Hotel. One lone working girl was sitting on the velvet couch. Tomorrow checked in with Raul at the front desk. He was reading a big fat book about plants. “Hey, Tomorrow,” he said, closing the book. “Guess what? I got another tattoo. Wanna see it?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  Raul rolled up his sleeve.

  “Ooh. Nice. Who’s the girl?”

  “Not a girl. Another goddess. Persephone.”

  “Queen of the underworld.”

  “Impressive! You know your Greek goddesses?”

  “Only this one. It’s really cool, Raul. It looks like a painting.”

  “Right again. It is a painting. A painting by this famous dead brother, Frederic Leighton, called The Return of Persephone. I found it in the library.”

  “I thought the public library had closed down.”

  “Not that library. Another one. A secret library.” Raul gave a weird little wink.

  “Secret, huh?”

  “Yup. Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”

  “That would be awesome, Raul. I’d love that.”

  Raul grinned at Tomorrow. He rolled his sleeve back down and slid the keycard through the hole in the window. “Here you go,” he said.

  “Cheers, Raul. See you later.”

  “Sure. Later.”

  Tomorrow made her way up the stairs and through the gloomy corridor. Her gumboots squelched as she walked. When she got to the last red door on the left, she slid the keycard into the lock.

  The comedy club was packed tonight. She’d never seen it like this before. The air was so thick with smoke and sweat that she was struggling to breathe. On the
stage, the security guard from the museum market was talking to his hyena. The guy was telling the hyena jokes and the hyena would either laugh, lie down and put one paw over its eyes, or roll over and pretend to be dead. The audience was loving it—they were pissing themselves like they were about to keel over. Lock-you-up-and-throw-away-the-key kind of stuff.

  All that howling, open laughter made her uneasy, but she tried her best to shrug it off. Feeling like a right prude, she cricked her neck and waved at Konishiki, who gave her a nod, then turned back to the stage where the hyena was rolling over onto his back now, laughing maniacally.

  She fiddled with her mask for a sec, making sure it was properly secured, then chided herself for being so paranoid. She knew that things were different now, that masks didn’t really matter anymore, now that being dead wasn’t such a death sentence. But old habits die hard.

  Molding her hips through the snug nest of tables—trying to act cool and unfazed, but still careful not to touch anyone—she headed to the office at the back to drop off this week’s packet: a hard drive full of the latest international movies, music, TV shows, antivirus software, and newspapers, courtesy of her new employer, Mickey. It was a good job. A million times better than cleaning other people’s blood off walls, for one. With some bonus perks, too, like getting her own packet for free each week.

  So many things had happened in the last few months. They were living with Faith now, in this ginormous mansion by the sea. Tomorrow couldn’t believe that Elliot had been in Faith’s pocket all that time. Luckily the dead collector had figured it out, and with the help of that fat Afrikaans guy and a real woke sangoma, they’d managed to get Elliot out.

  After the night of the fire, when the dust and ash had cleared up and the city had come out of its haze to find that the truth couldn’t be explained away so easily and that the postbox meds had nothing to do with the spate of spirit sightings sweeping the streets, Faith had set to work decoding the book. (The one in the blue backpack that Sans had rescued from the fire.)

  For four months, the dead collector hardly slept, only ate when Tomorrow cooked for her. The book became her obsession—an obsession Tomorrow guessed had less to do with finding the cure than a last-ditch hope that her son, whom she still didn’t really want to talk about, wasn’t totally gone. That some part of him still existed somewhere. Hope. Tomorrow knew all about hope.

  Eventually, Faith had managed to decode every single page. But it didn’t give the answers any of them were expecting. There were other answers, though. Strange ones. Crazy ones. About how to live in this weird new world.

  It had been seven months since the fire, and the whole The Dead Are People, Too movement was gaining traction and the city was getting used to this weird state of liminal limbo where mouthbreathers and soulbreathers lived side by side and jostled for the same dreams, the same rights.

  The world was becoming crazier by the minute, or maybe saner, she wasn’t sure, but there was one thing she did know: she, Tomorrow Persephone Pretorius, was doing fine.

  GLOSSARY

  ag:

  Afrikaans equivalent of “oh,” as in “oh well” or “oh please.”

  aweh:

  informal greeting or term of acknowledgment.

  baie:

  Afrikaans for “a lot.”

  bandiete:

  bandits.

  bergie:

  homeless person.

  bleddie:

  alternative version of “bloody.”

  blerrie mal:

  Afrikaans slang for “bloody crazy.”

  bliksemse:

  slang expletive similar to “bloody.”

  boere:

  farmer in Afrikaans, but used here as a slang term for the South African Police Service.

  boerewors:

  a type of sausage that is a popular South African delicacy.

  boerie rolls:

  boerewors rolls, like a hot dog, but substituting the wiener or frankfurter with boerewors (see above).

  boet:

  brother.

  braai:

  South African wood fire barbeque.

  broe:

  slang for “brother.”

  broekie lace:

  intricate wrought ironwork resembling the lace trimmings on panties or “broekies” that adorns Victorian buildings.

  doek:

  headscarf.

  donner:

  slang insult. Often used in frustration. Similar to “fucker” or “asshole.” (From the Afrikaans word for thunder.)

  donnerse:

  slang expletive. Similar to “bloody” or “damned,” as in “the damned thing is broken.”

  dop:

  alcoholic drink.

  eish:

  exclamation for expressing a variety of emotions, including surprise, horror, excitement, resignation.

  ek sê:

  I say.

  Ek spelie met iemand anders se ma se trane nie:

  I don’t play with someone else’s mother’s tears.

  entjie:

  Cape slang for cigarette.

  fokken piemp:

  insult. Cape slang for “fucking informer.”

  fynbos:

  a unique type of local vegetation famous for its enormous diversity of species.

  Gadawan Kura:

  hyena handler (Hausa; rough translation).

  gemors:

  mess.

  guardjie:

  aka sliding door operator or sliding doorman. Responsible for opening and closing the door of a minibus taxi and collecting passengers’ fares.

  hayi wena:

  exclamation. Used as an expression of disappointment /anger / indignation / dismissal. Variations include “suka wena,” “hayi wena.”

  impepho:

  Sacred incense. Indigenous South African plant that is dried and then burnt as an offering to the ancestors.

  ja:

  Afrikaans for “yes.”

  jirre:

  exclamation.

  jissis:

  exclamation. Slang for “Jesus.”

  jol:

  party.

  jou:

  you.

  kasi:

  township / informal settlement (used in this context to refer to a style of music, kasi rap (a mashup of hip-hop and kwaito).

  koeksister:

  South African delicacy. Plaited, crunchy sticks of dough deep fried and dipped in syrup. (Not to be confused with koesister, which is similar to a donut, but with ground spices such as ginger, cinnamon, aniseed, cardamom, and tangerine peel added to the dough, before being fried, boiled in syrup, and rolled in dessicated coconut.)

  kwaai:

  From Afrikaans for bad-tempered (person), severe (storm), or vicious (dog). Used in this instance as slang for “cool.”

  laaitie:

  kid.

  laat my hake vlam vat:

  let my heels catch fire.

  lekker getrek:

  slang for being drunk.

  maita basa:

  thank you (Shona).

  maller as ’n haas:

  crazier than a rabbit (Afrikaans).

  meisiekind:

  girl/daughter.

  moer:

  impolite term used in this instance to mean “beat up.”

  mos:

  implies whatever has been said is self-evident. Closest English equivalent is the term “of course” or “(as) you know.”

  motjie:

  Cape slang for a wife or steady partner.

  muthi:

  aka muti. Traditional medicine.

  my laanie:

  slang term of address for a well-to-do person.

  naira:

  Nigerian currency.

  né:

  right?

  neef:

  cousin.

  nogal:

  rather. As in “It’s rather warm today.”

  okes:

  slang for “guys.”

  oom:

  uncle (Afrik
aans term of respect for a man who is older than you).

  oubaas:

  father.

  Parow Arrow:

  Derogatory nickname (similar to the term “white trash”) for an Afrikaans person from the Northern Suburbs of Cape Town. (Parow is the name of a Cape Town suburb.)

  rand:

  South African currency.

  rof:

  rough.

  ruiker:

  bouquet.

  sangoma:

  traditional healer.

  shambok:

  a long, stiff whip, originally made from animal hide.

  sho:

  exclamation.

  sisi:

  sister (respectful way of addressing a woman in Xhosa and Zulu).

  sjambokking:

  flogging of someone with a shambok.

  skollie:

  a hooligan or hoodlum.

  skop:

  kick.

  sommer:

  just because.

  sosatie:

  popular South African delicacy of marinated cubes of meat threaded on a skewer and cooked on an open fire (similar to a kebab).

  stukkie:

  a small piece. Cape slang for a woman, especially a girlfriend or sexual conquest. Similar to “piece of ass.”

  tackies:

  sneakers or trainers.

  tik:

  South African street name for crystal meth.

  tjappie:

  Cape slang for a tattoo (most commonly used when referring to prison tattoos, although used more generally here).

  tokoloshe:

  mythical (although still very real for some) mischievous evil spirit in South African (Xhosa/Zulu) culture. Said to be hairy, short in stature and extremely libidinous.

  tsotsis:

  informal term for gangsters/criminals.

  Usalele?:

  Are you still sleeping? (Xhosa)

  Utata uJacob:

  Xhosa for “Father Jacob,” a popular South African lullaby. (Aka Vader Jakob in Afrikaans, Frère Jacques in French, and Brother John in English.)

  verraaier:

  traitor.

  voet:

  foot.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Truth is often stranger than fiction, and many ideas in this novel were inspired by real events and people, including (but not limited to) the South African Occult Crimes Unit, the Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic, and the phenomenon of social panic around amakhosi possession. Many of the responses of Sick City inhabitants to the Laughter were also based on reactions to real epidemics throughout history. A variety of sources were unendingly helpful in writing this book, but the seed that laid the groundwork was Plague, Pox and Pandemics: A Jacana Pocket History of Epidemics in South Africa, by Howard Phillips (Jacana 2012).