Zebra Crossing

by Meg Vandermerwe

  I watch George nod, turn and go.

  ‘Chipo?’

  I pull back the curtain. ‘Yes, Doctor Ongani?’

  ‘It is time for you to eat.’

  Eighteen

  ‘I know you. You are Chipo’s tailor friend. From the Congo.’

  Jean-Paul? What is he doing here?

  ‘I am not from Congo. I am from Rwanda.’

  Rwanda?

  I sit behind the curtain. My head is swimming. Rwanda? Why has he never told me?

  But he tells Doctor Ongani. Tells him everything while I am forced to listen. I scribble down notes. I want a record. Because I find I am forgetting things. My name is…

  Here is some of what I managed to record:

  Genocide 1994.

  Village near the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

  Jean-Paul is a priest.

  But sinful. Sleeping with a woman who lived in a neighbouring village. A member of his congregation. (I don’t have time to get her name.)

  He and mistress Hutu.

  Wife a Tutsi (Marie).

  Daughter, short and stocky like him, resembled the Hutu people too. At least in the eyes of the militia.

  Militia sounds like fisher. What do they fish for? Human lives.

  Daughter spared when the militias came.

  The neighbours must have protected his daughter too, because if the militia had discovered that she was the offspring of a marriage between Tutsi and Hutu, nothing could have saved her.

  ‘And your wife?’ Doctor Ongani asks. ‘My wife?’ A long pause. ‘Chopped off her limbs, like sticks of sugar cane.’ Marie murdered.

  ‘Like a cockroach.’

  And here is where words fail my friend. I stop scribbling. In my head I see Doctor Ongani wait for Jean-Paul to go on. He looks up at the clock. Half an hour already. He will be able to charge him extra. Jean-Paul has slumped forward. I hear the bang bang bang of him hitting his head rhythmically on the table, as though trying to knock the memory from it.

  After a few seconds, he sits up. Sucks in air. Speaks again. My pen is ready.

  His daughter’s body was never found. He thinks. He knows. Swept over the border. With the tide of people fleeing.

  ‘Refugees?’ asks Doctor Ongani.

  Refugees rhymes with fleas, I think to myself, biting my lip behind the curtain. Fleas know when to flee. Why has my friend come to us? What is he hoping for? I am starting to feel sick.

  ‘No, no.’ Jean-Paul shakes his head. ‘Not the Tutsis. The Hutu militias fearing reprisals. I have prayed for fifteen years. I even spent some time in the camps of the DRC trying to find her.’

  Fifteen. So I was three when he began. What can I remember of when I was three? Nothing. Mama would have had the tavern. George would have been six. The sound of a box of documents being emptied out onto the table. Letters. I see letters in my mind. Hundreds and hundreds. All trying to locate the whereabouts of his daughter. He had written to them all, Jean-Paul says. The United Nations. The Red Cross. The Prime Minister of Britain. The President of France. Of Rwanda. The Pope at the Vatican. There were twenty-five letters addressed to the President of the United States. Bill Clinton, George Bush, even Obama. No one had helped. No one. Not even God. ‘I have tried. Have prayed and prayed. He wants nothing more to do with me.’

  So that’s why he has come to us. Because his hope is bankrupt.

  Nineteen

  Can I, Chipo, see everything? The secrets of this world and of the next? Doctor Ongani says I can. He says I do not even need my spectacles any more, which is fortunate because they are broken. Doctor Ongani has been promising for weeks to replace my spectacles, but I am still waiting.

  ‘You are special, Chipo. Gifted. You have special gifts.’

  Of course I know that this is not really true. That I am just the same as I was before. But with each passing day, with each new promise I make to help someone, with each new bundle of hundred-ZAR notes Doctor Ongani takes, with each new success for our clients, even though I know it is – must be – just coincidence, I find myself getting more and more confused.

  ‘You have special gifts, Chipo. Lucky for me that I was the one who found you.’

  Sometimes when I am very tired I think I can see all sorts of things. For example, the blood swimming through my veins, beneath this pink skin of mine. It is red like All Gold tomato sauce, but thin like the ink of my biro before it ran out. I have asked for another pen, but Doctor Ongani has yet to bring it. I scratch what I can on this pad. Blood vessels. I can see the blood vessels too. How they carry the oxygen just like Mrs Guchu said, so that the heart and lungs and other organs can do their business. And not only my blood. I think I can see my food, too. If I stand in front of the mirror when Doctor Ongani has gone out, I can see the water I am drinking, sip by sip, then gulp by gulp, so that it spills down my chin and onto my blouse. Down down. It rushes down my throat, shimmering like spirits. And the food I am given. That they bring me.

  No, I tell myself. You must not start to believe their lies. There is nothing magical about you. Nothing special. You cannot start to believe. If you do, then you will be lost. Lost for good, and there will be no way to find your way out once all of this is over. All these lies. All this deceit.

  But will it ever end? I ask myself. Will Doctor Ongani ever let me go? He promised. Just remember who you are. Remember, Mama. Remember before.

  But when I try to remember, all I can recall is Jean-Paul’s face when Doctor Ongani took all his money. His face. Happy. Hopeful. That is how I imagined it. The termites burrowing in his heart, still for a moment. Even his deformed foot looked like it might blossom again. And why not? If I can do one, then why not the other? If I can bring them back together, then why not resurrect the dead?

  Watch. This sope can turn water to wine. I drink another glass of water and wait for it to turn to wine in my mouth. Wine. Not beer. Not like the beer David now drinks when he should be at work. I sometimes believe I can see his thoughts. Right through this wall. I do not need to press my ear to the wall with a glass, loneliness driving me to do it, to hear something, anything of my old life. David. Beloved. My beloved. I am spared nothing. His thoughts creep under the door unrolling like secret messages, lovers’ notes. But they sting like wasps.

  He possesses an excellent memory, my David. It is his training as a lawyer. I knew it before. Now I can see it with my own eyes. Like that day. When George and Peter called Jean-Paul Buttock Beak. Something in David died at that moment. And other moments. I know it. A million other moments. Tiny heart attacks. I do not envy his good memory. Memory is my only company these days, but still there is much I would sooner forget.

  Attack rhymes with smack. George only smacked me once. Across the face when I said I wanted to stop. That was how my spectacles broke. George has big hopes for the money I make. There are rumours. Rumours of cars and taxi businesses, and a house with a satellite dish.

  Rumour sounds like tumour. That man who came last week. Tumour on his brain. Not a rumour. A fact. He was from Sudan. He brought the doctor’s X-ray. Can your sope help with the tumour? he asked Doctor Ongani. Can she trick the demons and eat it away? Doctor Ongani nodded. She can. She can. She can.

  Twenty

  The World Cup final. Has it happened? What date is it? I want to know, but I have no one to ask. The streets are less crowded. The vuvuzelas are quiet. I have managed to find some Sellotape to bind my broken glasses, although I fear they will always be bent. I have stopped asking Doctor Ongani when my new spectacles will come.

  ‘Spectacles are expensive, Chipo. And now that David has lost his job and George has quit, we have many people depending on us.’ Obligations sounds like, sounds like, sounds like.

  I watch the woman. It has been two weeks since last I saw her. I watch her walk with her dusters and flags. It gives me comfort to watch the same people. To observe their habits. Their lives are moving forwards while mine seems frozen, like those animals in their glass c
ages in the science museum.

  Sometimes I think I hear fighting beyond the wall. Sometimes there is banging on this door. Then voices talking, whispering. Then nothing. When that happens I leave the window, get into bed, pull the blanket over my head and try not to be afraid. Doctor Ongani says we may have to move soon. That all sorts of jealous parties are conspiring against him. But he will keep me safe. Safe. Does it sound like chase? They are chasing. Who? Tell me?

  ‘They who want what I have got, Chipo.’

  Doctor Ongani looks tired. He has forgotten my pen again. I breathe onto the glass. Today is:

  I know today is not Sunday. The street would be quieter. So which? I decide today is Wednesday. I am alive. I write my crossword again:

  And then one evening, when I least expect it, after Doctor Ongani has locked me into the room, David comes back to me. ‘Chipo?’

  ‘David? Is that you, David?’

  ‘Yes, Chipo, can you hear me? Come to the door.’

  I get up and press my ear to the wood.

  ‘Listen, I have to be quick. I want to tell you that I am going to get you out of here, tonight. I am sorry, Chipo. I never should have agreed to all of this. It’s gone too far, and now Doctor Ongani says, well, never mind what that bastard says. Listen, I have many things I need to tell you. Things I have not told anyone.’

  ‘Me too, David.’ My heart is beating hard and fast. It is so good to hear my friend again sounding like his old self. I realise how much I have missed him. ‘There are things I need to tell you too. Things I am very sorry about. David, I—’

  ‘We can talk about everything later, Chipo. Let’s first get you away from here. I have to go. But I will come back for you tonight, when they are asleep. Be ready for me.’

  ‘OK. Goodbye, David. Thank you.’

  I listen to David walking down the corridor, whistling as if nothing has happened. For a long time I stand next to the door until I can’t hear him any more. My heart continues to beat hard in my chest. I can’t quite believe it. Can all that has been broken really be fixed? Can all that has gone crooked be set straight? I want to cry at this unexpected act of mercy. Will I be saved? Will I be saved by my David?

  When darkness falls I lie on my bed, fully dressed. There are so many questions in my head that I hardly notice the hours pass. Is David really going to take me away? What has made him stop drinking? Isn’t he worried about Doctor Ongani’s blackmail? We will have to go. We can’t stay here. All the others will be furious. Where will we go? What will he do when I tell him the truth about him and Jeremiah? Will he abandon me? I will have to take that chance.

  At some point I drift off to sleep, only to be woken by blue lights bouncing against the walls and the howl of sirens on Long Street. A police raid. There hasn’t been one for a while. I push my nose to the window but can’t see where the commotion is. As I am trying to tilt my head to look down the street, I hear the thunder of boots running past my room. Voices. A banging next door. Orders being barked.

  ‘Open up! It’s the police!’

  The sound of a wooden door bursting on its hinges. I am sure I can hear George’s voice. Jean-Paul’s too, shouting in French. And then David.

  ‘Wait, I have nothing to do with them! Chiiipo!’

  The shouting goes on for a long time, until eventually there is the sound of bodies struggling past the door.

  ‘Chiiipo!’

  David. It is David. His voice growing fainter as he is dragged further and further down the corridor.

  And afterwards, silence. I lie awake the rest of the night, waiting for what, I do not know. I suppose I am waiting for David to come as he had promised, even though I know he won’t come now. He can’t. And in the morning it is the same. Silence. Stillness. No one comes to unlock my door. Not David. Not Doctor Ongani with my breakfast of mealie porridge. I am alone.

  Two days later. Late afternoon and I am getting very hungry. It is strange to look down on so many restaurants and have no food myself. I try not to panic, even though sometimes I feel worry wiggling like a thousand earthworms inside me. When we were planting seeds in our garden, Mama said worms are a good sign. A sign that the soil is healthy. Worm shit makes plants grow big. I close my eyes and imagine picking the worms out of my stomach and brain one by one. I tell myself, once Doctor Ongani left you alone for three whole days, Chipo. Of course, then Peter brought me food. That was before Doctor Ongani said I was only to take food given by him.

  ‘To some, you are more valuable dead than alive. They will stop at nothing. Even poison.’

  Even if they have been arrested, surely they will not forget about me? Surely they will tell someone about Chipo, locked alone in this room without food? Of course, then they will have to confess everything. Tell the police the whole truth. But I am sure they will not let me starve to save their own necks. David. David will never let me starve. He will tell the police. Tell them to come and fetch me. I try to comfort myself with these and other thoughts.

  My stomach rumbles. I have already gone through all the drawers in Doctor Ongani’s desk but found nothing but small brown envelopes. He puts the muti in those. There was a time he wrapped his muti in newspaper and with pages torn from magazines. I liked that because then I had something to read. I would sit on the floor and page through. I would remember the General’s wife.

  There were no Choice Assorted Biscuits for me. No houseboy to bring me mango juice, either. Once, when Doctor Ongani forgot to bring me supper, I found a box of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolates that a grateful customer must have brought. I had eaten those lying on the floor, letting each morsel melt on my tongue as the room grew dark. I did not bother to turn on the light. Outside, the bars and their electric signs cast their own colours onto me. Red. Green. Blue. And for a while I felt better. If I had known I might be deprived of food again, I would have saved some. The ones with nuts inside.

  I go and look at the boxes, jars and plastic buckets of muti. I do not like looking at the medicines, even when I had to sit behind the curtain when the patients and customers were there. But I am feeling very hungry. For a moment, I think there might be something to eat. I pick up a bunch of herbs and, after sniffing it, tear off some leaves. There are people who came to the Doctor to lose weight, others because they were growing thinner and thinner and couldn’t stop the flesh slipping from their bones. Maybe this will take away my appetite, I think, as I put a single shrivelled leaf in my mouth. It tastes so bitter that I start to salivate.

  Twenty-one

  A knocking on the door. Three knocks, so soft that I wonder, am I dreaming? I am light-headed from hunger. It has been four days since the police raid and still no one has come.

  ‘Hello?’

  Knock knock knock. It is David. He has come to fetch me.

  I crawl out of bed, creep to the door and sit down next to it.

  ‘David? Is it you?’

  No answer. Silence and then, again, knock knock knock.

  Without thinking, I reply, knock knock knock.

  A pause.

  Knock knock. Louder this time. Clear, distinct.

  I knock-knock back.

  ‘David, is that you? Please, could you get someone to open the door? I haven’t eaten for four days.’

  Another pause.

  One knock, so soft.

  ‘David? David?’ Nothing.

  Five and a half days. Still no sign of David. No Doctor Ongani, no George or Peter. I am so hungry that all I can do is lie on my bed all day, a blanket wrapped tightly around me like a mother’s arms. Last night I ate the last of the toothpaste. Toothpaste doesn’t take away hunger, but it tricks the mind into thinking that maybe it has eaten something. I do have water. That is fortunate. There is a sink in the corner of the room. Thirst is worse than hunger. But I can drink as much as I want. I have already tried drinking so as not to feel so hungry. It would be better if there was a stove that I could heat it on, I think to myself. I would need a pot too. Hot water fills the belly bett
er than cold.

  But I have no stove and no pot, and so I have to drink the water cold, directly from the tap. It only makes my stomach gurgle.

  It is fortunate that I am not thirsty, I tell myself, pulling the blanket tighter. I have heard it said that a person can last three weeks without food but only three or four days without water. David. Did David tell me that? He will not abandon me, I tell myself, closing my eyes. Try to sleep. You are so tired. Soon David will come. He will unlock the door, pick you up in his arms and you two will be free.

  The door opens and three men enter. I know their faces, have seen them before, but at first I cannot remember their names. But they know me. They step in and close the door behind them. One stands at the door to guard it. I think that they are expecting me to put up a fight. Fight, Chipo. Mama’s voice in my mind. I close my eyes. No. I think no, as Julius and his friend rush forward.

  Epilogue

  THE PRESENT

  The day is well on its way. I can see all the activity down below. The cars. The pigeons. The people. I can see what haunts them and I can see who will live, thrive and who will soon be swallowed by this city and die.

  Gone sounds like shone. I never shone, but now that I am gone I can do as I wish. I start each day by putting myself back together. Dead hand, dead heart, dead leg, dead head. From head to foot I make the puzzle of me fit, and that which in life I found ugly I now find beautiful.

  Alone. Lone. Lonely. I am never lonely. Apart from my memories, I have my own ghosts for company. My brother. Sometimes I visit him in the small hours, when he is lying awake on his crumpled blanket, his latest girlfriend sleeping beside him. He cannot see me, but he can feel me, and then my Coca-Cola-brown brother goes pale, as pale as I am, and it is good, for that moment, to be close to him again.

  And not only him. If I want, I can visit the stadium too, where that last soccer game was played. The famous final. I am the now still grass and the ants marching determinedly over the sand, beneath that grass. I am the empty stands and the sweat and stains in the players’ changing rooms. And I am the memories of hope and of loss, of victory and of despair, which lingered there, like damp morning mist, not so long ago. I travel further. Leave Johannesburg’s blushing, bruised skyline. Over its crackling electric fences and yawning security guards, until I find Jean-Paul. I want to tell him that I am sorry. Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, David and Peter sit at a corner table. All around them carefree revellers laugh, joke. But the brothers do not hear. Peter’s bottle of beer is warm, still untouched. And David? My darling David now drinks like a fish.