Seventeen
I have often imagined the day I would say goodbye to George and start out on my own. I would leave a letter on the table, propped against the bag of mealie meal. In the letter I would thank him, of course, for taking care of me for so many years. I would try not to hold the insults and names against him. I would wish him well and promise to be in touch. What then? My first steps on my own. I would take my umbrella, my sunblock cream, my spectacles. Now I own the clothes from Jean-Paul too. The dresses with jackets that he made for me in the fabrics I had chosen myself at Fabric City. What else? What else belongs to me? I do not have a photo of Mama. She never liked to have her photograph taken. Would turn away from the camera.
‘What do you want a photograph for?’ she would ask. ‘Photographs cause your memory to go lax because you think, ah, now there’s a photograph to take memory’s place.’
By the time she was sick, it was too late for photos. I didn’t want to remember her like that. And now? Now I use my eyes like the shutter of a camera. The eyelids snap down. Remember this moment, Chipo. And this. It will be over soon, do not forget.
‘Do not forget me.’ Mama’s words towards the end.
Of course, some things you want to forget. Some photos we would rather burn. But the brain has its way of hanging on. Of not letting moments pass into oblivion. ‘Time heals all wounds.’ That is what Mama once said. But does it?
A banging on the door. Impatient fists on wood.
‘The Tanzanians,’ my brother hisses.
Doctor Ongani stands up to straighten his suit and smooth his tie. He picks up his walking stick and grips it tightly.
‘Let them in.’
David and Peter do not look pleased, but they say nothing. They wanted, I know, nothing to do with the Tanzanians, but my brother convinced them that this was our chance to make an important business connection.
We have something the Tanzanians want and they are willing to negotiate. Lucky it is not the other way round. Since Uruguay defeated South Africa we have sometimes up to ten customers a day asking us to improve their betting luck. And each day this number is growing.
‘Things have been going so well with your soccer fortune-telling and the gamblers that they are willing to speak with us as equals. Partners, not passengers. And there are benefits, Chipo, police protection…’ said Doctor Ongani.
‘She has no brain for business,’ my brother interrupted. ‘Just do what we tell you, OK, Tortoise?’
‘Is this her? Is she the one who influenced the match so that that bullshit Uruguay won three to zero?’
‘It was her, Julius,’ Doctor Ongani affirms, ‘combined with my skills.’ He indicates that the four men in jeans, silk shirts and sunglasses should sit down. They make themselves comfortable on the plastic chairs, leaving the others to stand. My brother fiddles with the pack of matches in his pocket, but keeps his face steady. He is excited, and I know that if he could he would be grinning from ear to ear. For the first time since arriving in South Africa, he has something that other people actually want. This is his big chance.
It is agreed. Fifteen per cent to Julius and the Tanzanians, and they will make sure that we are not robbed and that the police leave us alone. They will also spread the word among the illegal betters and gamblers. They know where the men and women who just can’t help themselves spend their time.
‘This could be a situation that works out for all of us. Believing that they have more luck on their side, gamblers will be inspired to take more daring risks. The gambler-shop men will benefit, Julius and his friends will benefit and you will benefit,’ Doctor Ongani says as he, David, Peter and George gather around the table waiting for me to finish making dinner.
Doctor Ongani smiles. As they were leaving, one Tanzanian, the man Ongani had referred to as Julius, turned to me and said: ‘Very lucky for those searching in the mines. Back home I could sell you by the kilo!’
Julius poked his finger into my arm. Then he tossed his head back and laughed.
Saturday 19 June. Last night Germany lost 0–1 to Serbia and all around there are rumours. Is this coincidence? Or the Curse of the Dark Continent? Or is some sort of other African magic afoot? This morning is surprisingly quiet. Many of the foreign fans are in shock about their team’s bad run of luck. Across the city, there is much grumbling among the Germans as they crack the tops of their boiled eggs and eat their cheese and ham. The French dip their croissants in silence in hotel and guesthouse breakfast rooms. A loss against Ghana! A draw with the Ivory Coast! A narrow victory over Cameroon! It is like a nightmare. What is going on in this accursed country? On this dark continent? They have never known anything like it before. There is talk of African black magic at work. Definitely voodoo. African witchcraft. They are sure of it.
The previous evening, the Long Street bars were quiet as the German fans walked home, their flags draped over their shoulders like cloaks of despair. The mood on the streets was in stark contrast to the mood in our flat. George and Doctor Ongani celebrated another success with fried chicken and bottles of Castle. They had encouraged everyone to support underdog Serbia, claiming I would help them to play like gods. More happy customers meant more profits for us.
In his room I can hear the whirr of Jean-Paul’s sewing machine. These days, without my help, he often works far into the night on his creations. I miss helping him with his deliveries. But now I am needed behind the curtain in Doctor Ongani’s room at all times.
‘Do you think Jean-Paul is all right?’
‘Who cares?’ my brother hisses. He is admiring the new pair of sunglasses and Adidas sneakers he bought with the previous night’s takings. He pulls a face, and then bursts out laughing.
I decide to go and see Jean-Paul. Ever since the thing with Doctor Ongani started, I hardly see him.
‘I thought you might like a slice of cake? It’s banana and mango. Very good,’ I say, standing in the doorway.
Jean-Paul stops what he is doing and looks up at me. His mouth is full of pins. His eyes narrow. Then he pushes a chair up and indicates that I am to sit down.
As I sit, Jean-Paul does not speak to me. He pretends to be working on a suit jacket, but all the time his eyes are on me. Eventually I feel so uncomfortable that I stand up and make an excuse about needing to assist George. Jean-Paul does not seem surprised. He nods and watches me walk to the door.
‘OK, here is the line-up. Group D, Ghana versus Australia. Best we can offer is a draw. Look at the match results to date… She is good but not a miracle worker. Yes, it’s two hundred ZARS. It’s the next round, so the prices have gone up.’
Behind the curtain, I slip into my own thoughts. Some of what I think about I would rather not. David is unable to work, I heard the Doctor. He is depressed and drinking too much. God, if I have any powers, help David get better. I didn’t mean for it to go this way, I tell myself. I just wanted, I just wanted… David. Yes. Think of something else. The doctor is busy with another client. The tenth in a row today. What will this one want from me?
From behind the curtain I can see the shape of Doctor Ongani in his dark suit. He is wearing his hat. The other man, the customer, is tall and thin. He hardly speaks, but when he does I know he is not a foreigner like us. He is a local.
I can see that he is holding a piece of paper.
‘Odds are five to one, my friend. So if you bet five hundred rand and win, you will still make two thousand three hundred rand profit. Not bad, hey?’
I need to go to the toilet. If Doctor Ongani does not give me a break soon… The man is silent. Sucks his teeth. Without another word, he leans forward. He is giving the money to Doctor Ongani.
‘The inkawu?’
‘Hmmm? Oh, yes. You can see her there. Through the curtain. She is silent, but in constant communication with the ancestors. Your money is as good as made.’
When the man has gone, Doctor Ongani opens his drawer and starts counting the day’s takings so far. I pull back the curtain.
> ‘I need to go to the toilet.’
The Doctor looks up from the bundle of blue hundred-rand notes for a moment.
‘OK, quickly. We have another appointment in five minutes.’
I watch as he takes a few of the notes and stuffs them into a black pouch that he puts into the inside pocket of his jacket. The rest he locks in the bottom drawer of the desk.
‘Do you know that now even tourists are coming to see Peter and I at the café? And others.’
‘Who?’ asks Doctor Ongani.
George lowers his voice. ‘People in government. I think they are members of Parliament. They are worried about Bafana Bafana. They play France on Tuesday. Four o’clock.’
‘Send them to me. But remember, make no promises.’
‘There is a psychic octopus in Germany. They say it can predict the results.’ George comes in holding a newspaper. He does this every morning before the first customer comes. I look at it with envy. I too want to know what is going on.
‘Ha, ridiculous,’ Doctor Ongani declares. ‘What will those Germans think of next?’
‘It has predicted the results perfectly so far. All I can say is that it is good for us that it is so far away.’
‘George? I would like to see the newspaper.’ But they do not hear me.
‘No African would ever go to an octopus for results! They can say what they like, those journalists, it is not…’
‘Yes, I know, it is not an albino.’
‘George…’
‘What is it, Chipo? Doctor Ongani and I are talking business here.’
‘The newspaper. Couldn’t you leave it here? I would so like to…’
‘I need it now. I need to keep abreast with the teams’ results. Maybe later I will bring it.’
But he never does.
‘How much longer?’
‘Chipo, how can you not trust me? You know your David is not well. He is not working. So the pressure is on to keep our home team fed.’
‘Until the final. Your promise…’
‘Yes, yes. Then I will go my way. And you can go yours. For me, I think London. I have always wanted to visit Buckingham Palace.’
I have no idea how much money we have made. I know we had customers. I saw their outlines and heard their voices through the curtain every day. So we are making money, yes. But I am worried. George is also spending. He arrived home one afternoon with a new iPod.
‘You will like this, David. It records all the music digitally and stores it inside. Up to two thousand songs.’
‘Only one problem, George. You need a laptop to put the music on it.’
‘Ah, and what is this I have here in the other bag?’
‘George, we are supposed to be saving to go home.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake… Don’t trouble me, Chipo. What businessman doesn’t have a laptop?’
What is the date? Whenever I try to ask George or Doctor Ongani, they just brush me off.
‘Who cares?’ they say. All I need to know is that it is Germany versus France or Netherlands versus Spain. That’s all that matters.
But I think the 11 July deadline is approaching because more and more of our immigrant cousins are coming asking for our help.
‘I am a student at university. The other students don’t know I am from Zimbabwe. They think I am Xhosa, because you see, I can speak like them. My father was a Xhosa. I am not eligible for a bursary because of my foreigner status. I am having trouble meeting my tuition fees. I don’t know what to do. And now these rumours for July.’
‘It is my dreams, Doctor. Every night. Same dreams. I cannot get the sounds of killing and dying out of my head. My wife does not understand. She was in the forest. She hid. She does not know what they made us do. I cannot tell her. But the dreams. I must stop the dreams. Do you think we are in danger? Can she protect me?’
‘Back home in Nigeria, those sorts of children, we call them witches. I myself never believed. But ever since my niece has come to stay, my son cannot breathe properly. The doctor says it is asthma. My niece is a quiet girl and my sister’s child. But my husband is certain. She has put a curse on our son and she says we will all die soon at the hands of the locals.’
‘Doctor, I don’t know what to do.’
‘We are at our wits’ end.’
‘I am losing weight.’
‘Cannot eat.’
‘There is blood in my piss.’
‘My boss says I must find other work.’
‘Three weeks’ notice.’
‘Can you…?’
‘Can she…?’
‘Can you and she help me, Doctor?’
These immigrants say they want some extra help. They want something to ensure their protection. George and Peter discuss this after one man from Tanzania leaves. I am sitting eating my supper under the window. George doesn’t even know how to cook the beans properly. They are still a bit tough.
‘We could give them, you know, like that man just asked, something physical.’
‘Hmm, something she has touched?’
‘Or something, you know, from her body.’
Both turn to look at me.
‘Hold still, Chipo. Stop being such a baby. It will grow back. No one even sees you these days, anyway. You are behind the curtain… For God’s sake, stop crying. I can’t cut properly.’
REAL ALBINO HAIR.
GET RID OF YOUR ENEMIES (150 ZARS AN ENVELOPE).
A dream. I am walking home. Walking back to Zimbabwe. The sky is blue, the sun not too intense. George is with me. The hills are green, thick and dense with forest. We are happy. There is a gentle slope and a path that leads through the vegetation. Birds are singing.
‘Just a little bit further, Chipo,’ he says. ‘Soon we will be there.’ I try to follow George, but suddenly the path becomes very steep and narrow. Sunlight is shining in my eyes and I have forgotten my umbrella. George pushes on ahead.
‘George!’ I cry out, ‘George!’
The path is too steep for me now and the soft greenery has been replaced by rocks and dry earth.
‘George, where are you? I cannot keep up!’
But George has already disappeared.
Ever since Doctor Ongani has come into our lives, I can see how George regards himself. He no longer thinks General’s ex-garden boy. Rather, he sees a man in a suit with two cellphones, a laptop and new Adidas sneakers. Other times he sees what, with his gold chains and baseball cap turned backwards? One of those American rap stars he so admires?
And David? David is a ghost of himself. I watch him from the window when he is out. I do not know if he is still working at the restaurant. Doctor Ongani said David lost his job. ‘Always at the bottle these days.’
I have seen David leave President’s Heights at ten in the morning, at three in the afternoon, sometimes as late as ten at night. I have heard him and Peter arguing down the corridor outside the flat. Glass smashing. Then fast footsteps, angry thudding ones, and slamming doors.
I do not need to cook any more, or go out and run errands. For my own safety it is thought better that I not leave this one room, not even to go back to the flat. I must sleep, eat and shit here, in the place where Doctor Ongani and I see his clients and he is now to take my place in the flat with David, George and Peter. In this, my new home, there is a desk with a chair, the curtained sections where I must stand with the muti when the Doctor is consulting and, in the corner, a bed and sink. I must stay here for my own safety, you see. Doctor Ongani says that now, even Julius and the Tanzanians consider me a most rare commodity and, given half a chance, given half a chance… What? I cannot remember what Doctor Ongani said. Or George. I watch their mouths move these days, but often I cannot attach a sense. When they lock me in from the outside at night, with only my memories and dreams for company, I am in the back of a truck going to a country I do not know. Leaving home. Home sounds like poem. Jeremiah used to like poetry.
‘You are a gift,’ Doctor Ongani often says. ‘W
e must take care of you.’
Chipo. Gift. But Chipo also sounds like chipko, the Shona word for ‘ghost’. Never forget, Chipo. Your name is… Every day that I am locked away, I feel myself fading, disappearing.
I miss. I miss the Mountain Dew Superette. The touch of sunlight, not first filtered by glass. The window in this room will not open. It has been nailed shut.
I close my eyes and try to remember David and me that day in the art gallery. Beauty in the eyes of the beholder. Beholder sounds like boulder. There is an invisible boulder keeping me here, I think to myself, as I wait for Peter or George to bring me my lunch. And Jean-Paul? What of him now? Why does he never come and visit? I miss the smell of coffee.
I breathe onto the window. My breath fogs the glass and I write. My name is Chipo. In Shona it means Gift. My name is. My name is. I blow over the glass again. This time I write:
I must ask for a pen and some paper.
‘There is an article in the newspaper. The local sangomas are predicting the final result…’
‘Let me see that.’
From behind the curtain, I watch Doctor Ongani’s outline as he reaches forward to take the Cape Times from George.
Doctor Ongani reads out loud: ‘Sangomas predict African team will not win World Cup trophy.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Which African teams are left? Ghana and—?’
‘Just Ghana…’
‘Well, it is also a matter of odds. One African team left in the running against seven others.’
‘So discourage bets on Ghana?’
‘Correct. I will do the same… Except, George…’
My brother stands and waits for his orders.
‘Except goals. We are willing to take payment for those wanting goals. Poor luck for the opponent teams. More power for the Ghana team, etc, etc. You and Peter know how it works by now. But no more wins. Understand?’
Zebra Crossing Page 14
