Zebra Crossing

by Meg Vandermerwe

  ‘I WILL NOT MARRY CHIPO!’

  I walk down the pavement, my eyes on the ground. I don’t even care about the crowds of shoppers and office workers pushing past me. Some stare. Some always stare.

  It feels like the very air is a burden. Weight sounds like hate. Like fate. Miserable sounds like terrible. Only it is worse. Much, much worse. Worse always comes first.

  I reach the corner of Adderley and Darling. I stop and wait for the man to jump from red to green. Just then a hand offers me a piece of paper. I look up. The hand belongs to a young woman. A local. She’s not even looking at who she is handing her pieces of paper to. Her eyes are closed. She is listening to the music playing on her cellphone, singing aloud to herself. No doubt dreaming of one day being a famous music star. Ha ha. Sorry for her.

  Does she look like David’s woman? no, I must not call her that. There is still a chance. Ha. NO CHANCE, SOPE. Patience does not look like this girl. Fat, with pimples. Still, I feel a mixture of hatred and envy towards paper-slip girl. Two conflicting emotions, like cooking oil mixed with water. But I take the piece of paper she blindly offers. Bringing it close to my nose, I read:

  DOCTOR ONGANI

  CONSULTATION FEE R50.00

  STOP SUFFERING

  1) Get amagundwane for riches

  2) Recover stolen property (2 hrs)

  3) Court cases/divorce cases

  4) Do you need protection at home/work?

  5) Do you need to be promoted at work?

  6) Do you need clients?

  7) Do you need to increase your payslip?

  8) Do you need to reduce your vagina/increase your penis?

  I blush but continue.

  9) Get lost lover back (1 day) guaranteed

  10) Get right partner. Win loved one (7 days) guaranteed

  THE MIRACLE MEDICINES THAT CANNOT FAIL

  I think: yes, I am suffering. I think: this Doctor Ongani offers miracles. I need a miracle. I think: win loved one. Seven days. I think of David. I think about that woman growing on him like a weed that will soon swallow him and leave nothing for me. There is a telephone number on the piece of paper. I take out my cellphone and dial it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Doctor Ongani?’

  ‘Yes, speak up, I cannot hear you.’ In the background, a sound like someone sanding wood.

  ‘I have your advertisement… you say you can help with matters of the heart.’

  ‘Ah yes. Apologies. Renovations going on over here. What sort of matters?’

  ‘I… want someone to fall in love with me.’

  ‘I require something that belongs to him. Something from his body. A piece of hair or a fingernail will do. The fee will be a hundred and fifty ZARs.’

  ‘But your advertisement says fifty ZARs.’

  ‘That was a special price. A sale price. The sale ended yesterday. Would you like a consultation or not?’

  I think about this. This might be my only chance to get David before the other woman devours him. Devoured sounds like tired. I am tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of trying. But I am not ready to give up. I will beg Jean-Paul for the money. Tell him I am sick.

  ‘I want a consultation.’

  ‘Twenty St George’s Mall. Tenth floor. Room 1080. Tomorrow at ten.’

  When the others are out that evening, I go through David’s things. One by one I examine his shirts, his jerseys, his jackets. How is it that there is not a single hair? Then I open the tin that contains his comb, his razor, his deodorant. Thank God. A single tiny hair is caught in the teeth of the comb. Very carefully, I pick it off.

  The next morning I make an excuse to Jean-Paul. Terrible stomach cramps. I grip my stomach.

  ‘I need medicine. But the pharmacy says it costs one hundred and fifty.’

  Jean-Paul looks concerned. ‘Are they certain it is not your appendix? You must be careful of your appendix, you know. Are you nauseous?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, just cramps,’ I moan. ‘I am sure it is not my appendix.’

  Jean-Paul goes to the tin in his cupboard where he keeps his money. I know that it is a sign that he trusts me.

  ‘Here, go immediately.’

  Relieved that my story worked, but still clutching my stomach, I hurry out.

  I find Doctor Ongani’s building without trouble. It is tall and grey. A shabbier building than those around it. I ride the rattling lift to the tenth floor and ring the doorbell. A minute or two pass before I hear the chain being slid on the other side. The door opens a crack.

  ‘Yes?’ I recognise the voice, although I cannot yet see him.

  ‘Doctor Ongani?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We spoke on the phone. I have an appointment.’

  The door opens. My first impressions of the Doctor are that he is shorter than I expected. He has a beard and small blue eyes, like our President back home. Some say that those black Africans with the rare gift of blue eyes are destined for great things. He directs me inside.

  ‘Come in.’

  Doctor Ongani’s office is small and pretty bare except for a desk with two chairs, one of which has the seat padding bursting out. Still, the Doctor himself looks respectable, I tell myself. He is wearing a black suit. In the corner, a purple curtain conceals a back room. On the wall of his office there is a leopard skin, pinned up like a map.

  ‘Please, sit. So how can I be of assistance, Miss…?’

  ‘Chipo.’

  The Doctor smiles. Two of his top teeth are gold. ‘Miss Chipo. You mentioned something about love?’

  I sit while the Doctor listens to my problem.

  ‘Have you brought what I asked?’

  I open the envelope in which I have carefully kept the precious hair. I pass it to the Doctor. I watch as he examines it.

  ‘Good. Now I must consult the ancestors.’

  He closes his eyes and begins to murmur. It reminds me of the mutterings within the New Jerusalem Church back home. Every Sunday you could hear the uproar as members of the congregation, possessed by the Holy Spirit, babbled in tongues not their own. After a few moments, the Doctor stops.

  ‘The ancestors are sympathetic. I can help.’

  Fourteen

  But nothing happens. Day one. Day two. Three, four, five, six, seven, eight! I waited for David to look at me differently. Seven days guaranteed? Ha!

  ‘Return my hundred and fifty,’ I told the Doctor over the phone. I unleashed all my anguish about David onto him and accused him of trying to cheat me.

  Doctor Ongani remained calm. He sounded surprised. ‘You need to follow David. This other girl – she must have put a spell on him.’

  ‘A spell?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think you are the only one who uses witch doctors?’

  A spell! Suddenly it all made sense. David was not himself. He was bewitched. Bewitched sounds like switched. Back home, some people believed that if a person suddenly changed his behaviour, acted out of character, or if particularly bad luck befell the family, something supernatural was afoot. It might be a jealous aunt or uncle. It might even be the mischief of a ghost.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ were Mama’s words when I told her what Humility at school was saying. That someone had put a curse on her cousin and that was why she failed her O-levels.

  ‘Humility’s cousin failed her O-levels because that cousin of hers is as dumb as dirt. No one put a curse on anyone.’

  ‘But Humility says—’

  ‘I do not care what Humility says. She is telling stories.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Chipo. No more. Help me with these boiled eggs.’

  ‘Yes, Amai.’

  Mama never let me tell her the full story. Of how it was said that Humility’s cousin fell down in church and started foaming at the mouth. How she spoke such filthy words that it was clear that some or other demon had taken possession of her. And if it could happen to Humility’s cousin, then why not David?

  I know that Mama did believe
in ghosts. Once she told us about a friend whose family was haunted by troubles because they had not performed the kurova guva ritual. Even the Christians do it. After Mama died, Aunt Ruth made sure Mama got it. If you don’t, the spirit can’t go and rest with the ancestors and it becomes very restless, even angry.

  Restless, homeless ghosts are not the same as bewitchment, but Doctor Ongani’s story about David… I need to believe it. So I do as Doctor Ongani ordered. I follow David that very night. I do it for love.

  ‘I must deliver a suit to a security guard. He needs it tonight. I must go out.’ But George is hardly listening. WWE title contest. Mr Power versus the Maniac.

  I hide inside the doorway of the superette and wait for David to stop a minibus taxi and get in.

  ‘Quick,’ I ask a lady after he has gone. ‘Where is that taxi going?’

  ‘Green Point, Sea Point. That direction.’

  ‘I need to follow it.’

  The lady looks me up and down like I have trouble in my brain, but she says, ‘That one over there is going to the same place.’

  ‘Thank you, sisi.’

  I make it onto the other taxi just in time. Thankfully the driver speeds. And thanks to the traffic lights turning green in our favour, I find myself only a few cars behind David.

  He jumps out and goes into a small bar. So this is where he meets her. His Patience.

  ‘Please,’ I beg the large coloured man at the door, ‘my brother has just gone inside and his wife is giving birth.’

  He frowned. ‘We don’t want that sort of trouble here.’

  ‘Please. I will make no trouble. I promise.’

  ‘Yessus. OK, tell me your brother’s name and what he looks like and I will fetch him…’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Then I cannot help you. I am sorry. Please step back and let the others through.’

  I do as I am told. What now? Can I find a way to sneak in? I watch the queue move. There are only men in the line. Most are white. A few coloured. Even fewer who are black. What sort of bar is this? I look up and read the sign. Crew. A rainbow flag flutters beside it. I have heard South Africa described as the ‘rainbow nation’. Was this a bar only for South Africans? And if so, how has David gained entry?

  ‘Excuse me,’ I ask a thin white man at the back of the queue. He has blond hair and a kind, paternal face and I do not think he will mind me asking. ‘What sort of bar is this? Is it only for South Africans?’

  The man frowns. ‘Are you serious?’

  I nod.

  ‘It’s a gay bar, my darling.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Jesus, where are you from? A bar for homos… You know, moffies? We children of the homosexual persuasion…’

  ‘But David isn’t a homosexual.’

  ‘David? African? Tall? Nice eyes? From Zimbabwe?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Oh, my darling, your David is a full-blown sister. He was shy at first, kept to himself. But now he comes here with his friend. Another African. Can’t remember his name… Do you want me to tell him you are looking for him?’

  I stand frozen. David and this man know each other? David frequenting a bar for homosexuals? The man looks at me.

  I shake my head. ‘No, no, it’s OK.’

  I leave the man. My head is spinning. David… an ngochani? No. I shake my head. I can’t believe it.

  Moffie

  Buttock Beak

  Homo Homosexual

  Pédé

  Gay

  Festering Finger

  Ngochani

  ‘Twenty-eight rand for two avocados! Can you believe it?’ Jeremiah shakes his head. ‘And to think I ate them for free by the dozen when I was a boy visiting my cousins in the country.’

  George yawns. He is watching Isidingo. He leans forward and turns up the volume. But David nods.

  ‘Inflation.’

  He and Jeremiah are playing chess again. David has yet to win a game, but Jeremiah has teased that today might be David’s lucky day.

  ‘Well,’ Jeremiah continues, as he watches David’s hand hover over one piece, then another, ‘we are all Zimbabweans here. High food prices should come as no surprise. But I never expected it to be so expensive in South Africa.’

  ‘They say the Chinese have a hand in it.’ David makes his move and Jeremiah nods his approval. David looks so pleased. It’s just a crumb, David, I think bitterly to myself. David’s finger drums the plastic table. Jeremiah’s hand is just by it. Close enough to touch it. Does he want to touch it? Stroke his friend’s hand? Festering fingers. Isn’t that what the government called their sort back in ’98? Festering fingers. Ngochanes. Buttock Beaks. What would you two do if everyone knew you were that sort? And you, Choirboy? If the others knew? Peter and George would beat you until you couldn’t walk. No more chess for you two. No more anything at all, I think.

  David and Jeremiah continue to chatter. I hear them laugh. Once or twice I think I catch them looking at each other, secretly, smiling the way a man and wife should. From the place where I am folding the washing I can watch David, unobserved. I see it now. The way he looks at Jeremiah. It is hunger.

  When I was a child, a vagrant once came to the door asking for food. He was very thin and one of his legs was missing, so that he hobbled on a crutch. Mama was inside when he knocked and she gave him three avocados and half a loaf of bread.

  ‘Poor soul,’ Mama said when the bundle of rags had hobbled off. ‘Who knows when last he ate a proper meal?’

  I had hidden when the man came, but now I spied on him from the window. As soon as he was a respectable distance from our house he leaned against an electricity pole and, with incredible care, began to peel an avocado. First he bit into the top and, making sure that he had sucked all the sweet, creamy flesh from that piece, dropped it. Then, slowly, with caressing and gentle hands, he began to peel the rest. Before he discarded a piece of skin he made sure to suck the last bit of flesh from it. He even licked the stone.

  I felt guilty watching. But having not yet known hunger myself at that age, I could not stop. With each bite he took, he closed his eyes. Relish. His bites were big but he chewed slowly. Eyes closed. Almost a smile. Was he remembering happy times when avocados were plentiful? Or the person who, all those years before, gave them to him? Perhaps his own mother?

  When I look at David now, whenever he is with Jeremiah, I see that same expression. Every word, every moment Jeremiah offers up to him, David takes it, peels it slowly and devours it as though each word, each gesture, were meeting a hunger so deep, so private, that only Jeremiah has the medicine to satisfy it. And Jeremiah? His eyes sparkle when he looks at David. Their hands on the table. So close they are almost touching. Fingers. Festering fingers.

  I go to the toilet. I look at my face in the mirror. My sope face. Flushed. The face of a fool. To think. David and you. Meanwhile, all along… Fool. You have made a fool of yourself! A thorn is caught in my throat. You will not cry. That is what I tell myself, but my eyes are filling with water. I can feel the saliva gathering in my mouth and my throat growing tight. In spite of my promise to myself, tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

  Fifteen

  David is upset. He will not say why. But I know why. His Choirboy is gone. He will not play chess with David. Will not take his calls, his SMSes. Has quit his job at the restaurant and disappeared. Leaving no forwarding address and no means to get in touch.

  All day long David has lain on his mattress and refused to speak with anyone. This past hour, Peter has been trying to get David out of bed but the most he has managed, after some effort, is to get his brother to sit up. Peter wants to talk. About soccer. About a man who came into the bead shop wearing a suit and an expensive watch.

  ‘He bought a kilo of everything. Can you imagine? Even the Swarovski crystal beads, and those cost, what-what, hundreds each. I wanted to say to him, “Don’t waste your money on this rubbish, rich man. Give it to me instead…”

  ‘What is wrong
with you?’ Peter is getting impatient with his brother now. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Woman trouble?’ burps George.

  I cannot help but laugh. The three turn to look at me. I want to say, ‘I know. I know what is haunting him.’ But it is a secret. And I am responsible for it.

  I had gone back to see Doctor Ongani. Sat in his small dark office. Outside, some workers were putting up scaffolding, and clanged and banged while the Doctor and I talked.

  ‘Do you possess a cure for a man who loves another man but who you want to love you?’

  ‘There is a cure for everything. But first you must get rid of the other man. This Jeremiah. Is he a gay too?’

  I nodded. ‘He is very religious, but I think so.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Doctor Ongani with a smile, as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, ‘that’s easy, then.’

  He went to the little room where he kept his bottles and buckets of herbs and animal parts, their secrets concealed by the purple curtain.

  ‘The muti. Very powerful. Eighty rand.’

  I opened my purse. I did not have enough. I already owed the Doctor two hundred rand.

  ‘Do not worry. We will find a way for you to pay me.’

  I should have seen it then, what he had in store for me. But I was too desperate. Too blinded by jealousy. I took the small parcel wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘Oh, Chipo, include a letter.’

  That was what Doctor Ongani told me. ‘A letter from someone anonymous to the other man. A letter, say, from a member of his church warning him that you have discovered all about him and David. Tell him that if he doesn’t end it immediately, you will let the whole community know what sort of homosexual filth he has got up to. Deliver it, but don’t let the other man know it is you who has delivered it. Then place the muti under your David’s mattress. Once the man is gone, come back and I will help you win your David.’

  In the stairwell I had sniffed it. It smelt like the grey dust you find under a cupboard.

  David still refuses to speak.

  ‘You are so secretive about your girls. If I didn’t know you better, I would say that you only like to go with the married ones. Beat him! Call yourself Iron Man? Get him!’ George punches the air, then sits down, captivated by the wrestling. The crowd in the television set roars.