Ways of Dying

by Zakes Mda

  ‘With the rest, Noria, perhaps we should sell them as Nefolovhodwe suggested, and take the money to Madimbhaza’s dumping ground.’

  ‘Or we could let them stay here with us, and bring happiness and laughter to the children. We could build a big shack around them, and the children could come and laugh whenever they felt like it.’

  At twelve midnight exactly, bells from all the churches in the city begin to ring. Hooters are blaring in all the streets. The settlement people burst into a cacophony: beating pots and pans and other utensils together, while shouting ‘Happe-e-e-e New Year!’ The din is reminiscent of an off-tune steel band. At every street corner, tyres are burning.

  Two hours after midnight, we are still shouting ‘Happe-e-ee!’ We revel staggeringly past Noria’s shack. All is still. There is no movement. No light can be seen through the cracks of the door. The children have gone back to their homes. We look at the mountain of boxes that dwarfs the shack. We do not touch. We just look and marvel. Our children have told us about the monsters that make people happy. Maybe it is the drink, but it seems that we can see them through the boxes, shimmering like fool’s gold. Not even the most habitual thieves among us lift a finger towards the boxes.

  Somehow the shack seems to glow in the light of the moon, as if the plastic colours are fluorescent. Crickets and other insects of the night are attracted by the glow. They contribute their chirps to the general din of the settlement. Tyres are still burning. Tyres can burn for a very long time. The smell of burning rubber fills the air. But this time it is not mingled with the sickly stench of roasting human flesh. Just pure wholesome rubber.