This Thing Called the Future

by J. L. Powers

  I let myself out of the gate and we walk down the dirt road. He holds my elbow with his bony hand. “When are you coming back to school?” he asks.

  “Next week.”

  “Thank God,” he jokes. “All these girls keep bothering me, and I keep telling them, ‘Khosi Zulu’s coming back to school. She’s my girl and if you don’t leave me alone, you better watch out ‘cuz she’s one tough girl.’”

  The way he says “tough girl,” it feels like he’s caressing me, his voice low and intimate. It’s confusing. There was our fight, and now here he is, and things are back to normal, except everything’s changed. Everything. Everything except my feelings for him.

  “I miss school,” I say. “What are you studying in biology?”

  “The life cycle of the malaria parasite,” he says. “Boring.”

  “It sounds interesting to me. And important. Do you know how many Africans die of malaria each year?”

  He laughs. “Yes, they told us. Almost a million!”

  “Malaria is not as bad as AIDS,” I say, “but they say it kills more people than AIDS in the long run.”

  “You really do like science, don’t you?”

  “I’d like to go to college and study biology,” I admit, “but my family doesn’t have the money.”

  “Sis man,” he says, “haven’t you heard of scholarships?”

  Scholarships. No, I hadn’t thought of that. All I’d been thinking about was the money Mama stole, the money I still need to give back.

  “Do you really think I could win a scholarship?” I ask.

  “They have a lot of scholarships for black students these days,” he says. “And you’re the smartest girl I know.”

  The way he says that makes me feel shy. “Thanks.”

  He elbows me. “Come on, let me see where the sangoma cut you.”

  “Didn’t you say I was stupid for doing the purification?” I ask.

  “Ah wena,” he says. “I told my mother what you said and she told me I’m the stupid one. Maybe you can forget about it.”

  I tilt my head until he can see the slits where Inkosikazi Nene cut me behind the ears with her knife. They are already slender long scars, barely visible.

  He touches them. I shiver.

  “That’s nothing like the bruises I have from that man’s beating,” I say.

  “I know.” His fingers move to the bruises on my face. They’re healing but still visible. His touch is light. Loving, maybe.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I say.

  He shrugs, hand dropping to his lap. “All I did was carry you home.”

  “Maybe you saved my life.”

  He grins. “Then you owe me.”

  I go along with the game. “What exactly do I owe you, Little Man?”

  “A kiss?”

  My breath comes out in a sudden whoosh. “I’d like that,” I whisper, “but not here. All the houses have eyes.”

  We both look around us at the innocent looking matchboxes on all sides. He touches my hand. “You’re right. But I’ll hold you to it.”

  “I better go inside before Gogo gets suspicious,” I say. “Before she starts complaining that I’m out here with a boy.”

  “What are you talking about? Your gogo loves me now.”

  I laugh. “You’re right, she does. If I hadn’t come out to say hi to you, she would have come out herself. But how did you know?”

  “She came to my house while you were still sick. She said your whole family is in my debt.” He grins. “I think we can be friends now and she won’t care.”

  After I go inside, I open the door to peek out, to see if Little Man is still out there. He sees me watching him and this foolish grin breaks out all over his face. He waves at me, then takes off, running down the road.

  I watch him until he completely disappears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  DREAMS ARE OUR EYES

  “Sibongile Nene was here this morning,” Gogo says a few days later, twisting a cloth around her old hands as she speaks, nervous or excited or both. “She says your sickness was ukuthwasa. She said she believes you will be a particularly powerful sangoma, if you would like to become one. She would like to train you.”

  My head jerks upright.

  Ever since I knew Mama was sick, was sick for real, was sick beyond healing—I knew this was coming.

  Or perhaps I knew when I saw Mama and all the ancestors behind her on the other side of the river, perhaps then I knew that this was coming.

  Certainly, ever since the ancestors came to stand behind me until the witch slithered away, I knew that I had received the call.

  And when I walk outside and up the hill and see that witch who attacked me—reduced to mumbling in her yard, gazing at the trees and the skies but looking like she never sees anything at all—every time, I know what I’m supposed to do.

  “She said to tell you, ‘Dreams are our eyes,’” Gogo says. “She said you would understand.”

  What I want to say is difficult. “I want to do it,” I say, the words slow to come. “But Mama wanted me to be a nurse. And I promised I would try.” I do want to be a sangoma. But that’s such a different world than the world of nursing.

  “Why not?” Gogo responds, quickly. She looks disappointed for a second, then says, “You can do anything you want.” She rubs her eyes, tired suddenly. “I don’t know how we’ll afford it,” she adds. “But we will manage something. Phumzi, your uncles…”

  “I’ll study hard and get a scholarship,” I say, thinking of what Little Man told me. “Besides, becoming a sangoma is expensive, too.”

  “For you, Sibongile said she would do the training for love.” Gogo lifted her hands, palms up, to show me they’re empty. “We would need to make a feast at the end—that’s all.”

  I start to speak, but instead begin to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Gogo asks.

  “It is just that I—I miss Mama so much.” I’m overwhelmed by the sudden emotion of it. The vision I had of her in the water, beautiful and whole again, with God and with our ancestors, is beginning to fade. Over time, will it disappear?

  I remember the way I jumped in the river to get to the other side, to join the ancestors, to join Mama—even though I didn’t know how to swim, I wanted to be there. How tempting it would have been to stay there forever, with Mama and Babamkhulu.

  But I’m here, not there. And I have a lot of difficult decisions to make.

  “Oh, Khosi, your mama has become one of the ancestors,” Gogo says. “You can still turn to her for help.”

  But I keep wondering about that. Can you become an ancestor if you’ve done something really wicked here on earth?

  I hope Gogo isn’t looking out the window when I let myself into the Dudus’ yard. I don’t want her to ask questions later. This errand is private. But I’m sure Mama, up in heaven, is glad to see me doing it.

  I knock on the door and enter when I hear, “Ngena.”

  Inkosikazi Dudu is alone, sitting on her sofa in a dining room that looks almost exactly like ours except we have a newer sofa and a bigger TV. She starts to rise when I enter, then she sits back down as if she’s given up, the air escaping from her mouth in a low hiss.

  Tears roll down her cheeks and she hides her face in her hands.

  “Nkosikazi, what’s the matter?” I run to her side and stroke her hand, gentle. Now that I know she was justified in her anger—even if she wasn’t justified in going to a witch and cursing us—I feel tender towards her. Anyway, all those problems caused by witchcraft are gone now. Even Gogo’s sore knees are better!

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” she says. “I’m an old woman and I don’t want this anger between us anymore. Can we just live in peace?”

  “I didn’t come to fight you,” I say. And because I’m holding back all the tears of these last few months, I hiccup.

  Then I open my bag so she can see all the rands inside, not all of the money in my bank account but wha
t they would allow me to take out in one withdrawal. I thrust it at her, not wanting to see it again, just wanting to get it off my hands and go home.

  “It’s yours,” I say. “It’s all yours.”

  “What? Where did you get it?” she wails, and in her voice, I can hear all the suffering she did these months since her husband died.

  Oh, Mama. Why did you do it?

  “It was in a secret bank account,” I admit, hoping she’ll stop asking questions so I can leave and we can get back to our normal interactions as neighbors, just saying hello, being kind, nothing between us.

  She goes as silent and still as Mama did when she first accused Mama of stealing her money.

  “I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I didn’t know until just a few days before my mother died.”

  She looks up and our eyes meet and I know she understands.

  “Shhh,” she says. “We won’t speak badly of someone who’s gone to the ancestors.”

  “Gogo doesn’t know,” I say. “Nobody knows except for me. Please?” I know I don’t have the right to ask her to keep it between us but I hope she will.

  “Shh, shhhshhshhh,” she says again, and I understand that she won’t say a word. This secret is between us.

  I begin to weep. All those pent up tears. I weep and weep, kneeling beside her, until she puts her hand on the back of my head.

  “Ngiyabonga,” I thank her.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she says, bowing her head. “I’m ashamed of all my anger.”

  “I’m not worried about it, Gogo,” I say.

  “I’m worried about it,” she insists. “I’ve sinned against your family. It’s terrible, what I’ve done.”

  I don’t want her to speak these words out loud. It’s better if we leave the knowledge of what she did in my dreams. I wipe my eyes with my blouse. “Anger leads us all to do things we regret.”

  “No, but I went out of my way to harm—”

  “I understand,” I say, silencing her before she confesses to witchcraft out loud, which would mean I must do something about it. “I was angry with you, too. Please forgive me.”

  She still hasn’t taken the bag with her money in it, so I shove it at her again. “Take it, please,” I say. “It’s yours. And there’s more coming. I just have to bring it.”

  Finally, she closes her hand around it and lifts it into her lap, gazing at the stacks of money inside.

  We’re still, a quiet that is more than two humans not speaking. The voices that have been filling my head for weeks now are at rest. At peace. They aren’t gone, they’re just calm. I can feel their approval in the peaceful silence.

  I already know that when I need them, they’ll be back.

  Can I live my life now? I ask and hear my answer in the silence. Because living my life isn’t about leaving all of this behind. It means embracing this, all of it. The voices. The call to be a sangoma. Mama’s dream for me to be a nurse. Inkosikazi Dudu’s hand resting on mine. All of it, everything.

  Seeing that money disappear from my hands into Inkosikazi Dudu’s makes me certain that I want to be a healer in both worlds, the world of science and the world of the ancestors.

  Maybe I can do both, I think. Maybe I can be a nurse and a sangoma. Maybe mixing traditional healing with medicine will really help people in a new way. It’ll be hard, but I know I can do it. Why not? Who’s going to tell me I can’t do it in today’s South Africa?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  FEAR

  Thandi’s bruises are healed but she still hasn’t gone to the clinic. At first, the excuse was Mama’s funeral and this was something I could agree with. But then the days slipped by and, finally, I confront her about it.

  “Really, you should go,” I say. “Have you spoken with Honest?”

  “I haven’t seen him since that day,” she mumbles.

  She agrees to go if I accompany her. But, she says, we must go to a clinic far away, where nobody will know.

  “Anyway, I can’t do these mobile clinics,” she says, “where they come and you test and by the time you leave, everybody knows if you have this thing or not.”

  “Have you told your family that you’re pregnant?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “They’ll find out soon enough.”

  At school, Thandi’s pregnancy is the topic of conversation for everybody. Katie Green tells me her father would kill her if he found out she was pregnant.

  “Really?” I ask. “Thandi’s young, but I don’t think her family will be angry.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “At least, she’s able to have children,” Little Man jumps in to explain. “That’s the most important thing.”

  “I don’t know if I even want children,” Katie says.

  I’ve never heard of such a thing before. How could you not want children? Having children is the most important milestone in life. “You need to meet my little sister,” I say. “Then you’ll want children.”

  She laughs. “You should meet my little sister. Then you’ll change your mind!”

  It feels good to laugh at her joke. But somehow, it hurts at the same time.

  As we go inside the school, Little Man holds me back.

  “It was lonely here while you were gone,” he says.

  “I missed this place too,” I say.

  “That’s not what I meant.” He looks at me full on, eyes meeting eyes. “I missed you.”

  I reach out my hand, suddenly bold, taking his and squeezing it.

  He grins at me and I feel better. About everything.

  Katie pokes her head out of the door where she just disappeared. She sees us holding hands. “Hey, are you two lovebirds coming or what?” she calls, mischievous.

  Little Man grins at me, jubilant. Because of the “lovebirds”?

  “After you,” he says, opening the door and bowing slightly as he ushers me inside, just like a British gentleman.

  A few days later, Thandi tells me she isn’t going to go to the clinic to take the test after all. Why? Honest has come back to her!

  “What about his wife?” I ask.

  “He’ll leave her,” Thandi says.

  “When?”

  “He says he will and I believe him.” She sounds annoyed that I don’t believe him.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to figure out a way to convince her to go to the clinic. Making her mad won’t help. “Why don’t we go anyway? It’s better to know.”

  But Thandi covers her ears with her hands as if the nurse is right there, waiting to tell her whether she has HIV. “You can go for yourself some day, Khosi,” she tells me.

  “If you have this thing,” I say, “it’ll kill you. Unless you take medicine.”

  “Then let it kill me,” she says. “Honest came back to me, and that’s what matters.”

  “It’s too late to stop the pregnancy,” I point out. “But it’s not too late to—.”

  “I don’t want to know.” Thandi pushes at the air like she’s pushing me away. “If I get really sick, then I’ll go to the clinic. But even then, I’m not certain what good the knowledge would give me.”

  “There’s medicine for it,” I protest. “You don’t have to give in to this thing.”

  “So many people we know have it,” Thandi says. “What good does testing do for us? If I have it, I’ll still die, whether I know it or not. If what they say is true, it is probably the thing that will kill me, the thing that will kill us all. You just as much as anybody, Khosi.”

  I’m like God in my firmness. “It won’t kill me,” I say.

  “How can you be so sure?” Her question is almost a taunt.

  But I don’t need to answer Thandi. I know it’s true.

  I’m too young to know whether Little Man is always going to be in my life. But I do know one thing. Little Man is a good friend. He’s not going to pressure me, not the way Thandi’s sugar daddies do. He’s too kind. And like me, I’m certain that he wants to be safe, to hold the future secure.

>   I’ve decided: I’m going to stay pure, even if it’s old-fashioned.

  So I already know I’ll avoid HIV.

  And someday, when I’m done with my studies, I’ll get a good job. I’ll be a good nurse in South Africa. Maybe I’ll move to England, like Mama wanted. But whatever I do and wherever I go, I’ll take Zi with me.

  To protect her too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THIS THING CALLED THE FUTURE

  I’m finally ready to tell the sangoma my decision. Little Man, Zi, and I walk to Inkosikazi Nene’s house after school.

  “Don’t you two get into trouble while I’m inside,” I tell them.

  “Yes, Mama,” Little Man says in a high voice, like he’s a little kid. He and Zi laugh, then give each other high-fives.

  I’m glad they get along so well. Gogo also loves Little Man. She says he is her grandson as surely as I am her granddaughter. Even Uncle Richard and Auntie Phumzi have accepted him.

  There’s a long line of people in front of the sangoma’s hut. So many people waiting to see her, just like they wait at the medical clinic.

  I slip around the side of the house to find the apprentice. She’s squatting on the ground in front of a big black pot on a big fire, scattering herbs into the thick liquid. Her black skin is pasted over with thick white paint, just little bits of black peeking through, like the opposite of stars in the night sky.

  “Sawubona,” she greets me.

  “Yebo,” I reply.

  “Ninjani?”

  “Sikhona,” I say.

  She starts to stir the thick porridge in the pot. It smells like burning rubber and meat and some herbs.

  “Are you here to tell Inkosikazi Nene that you’re going to train to become a sangoma?” she asks.

  I nod. “What’s it like, the training?”

  “Sho!” she exclaims. “You must not expect to sleep. You must know that you will be working very hard.”

  She puts down the thick stick she’s using to stir the muthi. “Wait here,” she says. She disappears for a minute or two and then comes back and motions for me to enter the hut.

  The room is smoky. Inkosikazi Nene looks really tired, her eyelids thick smudges as she reaches out to squeeze my arm in greeting. “Nomkhosi Zulu,” she says. “Have you come to say you will be a sangoma? That you will come train with me?”