“When I was about ten years old, me and my friends called this one girl into the back room in my house. We took turns sleeping with her. I was young and I did her on top of her panties. I met her later in life; she looked like a prostitute. She died from AIDS. Guys always blamed me for Bulumko smoking weed because he first smoked with me. But then they started smoking every day. Every day after school they’d go to the park. He got expelled. I don’t think he even passed matric. Whenever I met him, he was unkempt.”
One at a time, Tongai and Nhlakanipho go outside with the doctor. I sit quietly with the female nurse and one of my friends. I still have my Bible in my hands. What worries me is that I’m the only one with a Bible here. Don’t they realise that they need the holy book for reference? Before the doctor decides whether I’m going to heaven or hell, I have to get it all off my chest.
The doctor returns, followed by my friends.
“I went to a Portuguese church on Sunday,” I tell the doctor. “It was such a surreal experience. It was like the service was custom-made for me. The preacher spoke of the issues I’ve had for a long time of doubting God. He said we should yield to the music of the creator. I went to meet the pastor in his office after the service. Holding his Bible, he asked me my name. It felt like he was reading from the book of life. At the flat later in the evening we were watching South African crime stories. I was scared watching the programme.”
“Yeah, what was going on?” Tongai interjects.
“I thought that guy who had raped was going to turn into me. In the end I feared his face would transform into mine. I was also concerned that you, Tongai, were going to die. While in bed I had flashes of my life. Throughout my life it seemed everything had been a battle between good and evil. Is that what happens before you die, your life flashes back?” I ask the doctor.
The doctor shrugs.
I remember how I mistreated Nhlakanipho, how arrogant I was. At least Tongai was humble enough to apologise. I was walking with Nhlakanipho at about five in the morning. I was angry with him. I told him not to walk with me, to go home. I felt he was not fit to walk with me . . . That was my problem. I judged people too harshly.
“You, you speak ill of people.” I confront Nhlakanipho.
He scratches his head.
“Why are you looking down? That’s what you do. You never have anything positive to say about anyone. You gossip about everyone – even your own brother, Mpumelelo. That day when you were at my flat and you left thinking I was not in a good mood, what really happened was that I realised that your heart was steaming with hatred. I dreamt we were fighting that night, I was pushing you in the corridor, yelling ‘In the name of Jesus’. But I did not even believe in God at the time.”
Nhlakanipho only scratches his head again in reply. I address the doctor: “There’s so much about Nhlakanipho that tires me. This desire of his to be the king of the castle, whatever is on offer on the table, whether it’s food or liquor or cigarettes or attention, he wants the biggest chunk of it. Who gets drunk and wants to be the centre of attention? Spending time with Nhlakanipho became dreadful. He’d dump on me . . . all the problems he had with people. By the time he was done, I’d feel drained. I realised that I didn’t need this in my life. I did not have to go through it; it’s not like he was someone I worked with, whom I’d have to interact with.”
The doctor nods in agreement.
“I did not show up for my last day of work. That was very rude of me. My contract was due to expire at the end of the year. I did not want to go back to Trilce Health anyway, so I resigned. I felt wasted there. Every day was like detention, just waiting for the day to come to an end. It’s funny, afterwards, even though I was not working, I felt my time was better spent. I could do the things that I really wanted. I started writing a story. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than writing. I deleted the story five chapters in. I allowed Tongai to read it once and immediately regretted it.”
“But I told you it was good,” Tongai says in a gentle tone.
“Why did you regret showing it to Tongai?” the doctor asks.
“He was not being sincere. He reacted like we were at a hip-hop gig, shouting ‘Blaka blaka’. I had decided a long time ago not to share my work with Tongai and Nhlakanipho. With young people there’s a lot of competition. It’s hard getting an honest response from them. Guys easily feel threatened.”
The doctor’s hand does not stop moving; he writes down everything I say. The nurse looks at me with sadness. In the hospital we passed what looked like a waiting room. The people there looked like they were in mourning.
“What was this story about?” Nhlakanipho asks.
“The theme was success. I looked at the world around me and how people measured success. To me it felt empty, the dry notion of getting a job and almost worshipping money. I was also fascinated by Mfundo: how someone could make a living out of crime; once money was in his hand it did not matter how it got there. But I deleted all of it. I thought, who am I to be telling people how to live their lives? Maybe I was trying to make a name for myself.”
Nhlakanipho nods slowly.
“I hate this about Nhlakanipho, the condescension. Look at how he nodded when I said maybe I was trying to make a name for myself. He has a sharp nose for other people’s weaknesses. Nhlakanipho once told me that the real poets do not get published, that the ones who perform have been told that they are good.”
I am running out of breath. My heart is beating fast. I think that tonight I have to die. But life is precious, I have to fight. I used to think very little of people who feared death. But life has to be cherished. I cannot give up.
“That lady you invited to the flat was a sangoma,” I say to Tongai.
“Normal life coach . . . normal life coach,” Tongai grunts with a slight grin on his face and with his right hand laid over his left.
“Barefoot with dreads,” I remark. “From the very first time Tongai asked me not to be around the flat, I became suspicious. I had this feeling that he was going to invite a faith healer who would sprinkle water all round the flat.”
“Do you think you have any special powers?” the doctor asks me.
“No, no, I refuse that. God is God,” I reply in consternation.
“One Saturday Tongai walked into the flat with a whole fried chicken,” I continue. “He offered me some but I refused. I feared that the fat would clog my creativity. He seemed disappointed and said, ‘Why don’t you want my chicken?’ I did not want to seem disrespectful so I cut two pieces for myself. When I was done eating I asked if he wasn’t going to eat. He said he was not hungry. The following day the chicken was not in the house any more. I started seeing strange things at Tagore’s . . . That’s when this started, when I ate the chicken . . .”
No one else speaks. Tongai does not say a word. There isn’t anything else that I can say.
The nurse says: “No, another one.”
It seems I am preventing the doctor from attending to other patients. The doctor also seems restless. He wants me to make up my mind. If I sleep here, I do not believe I will wake up. The hospital air is freezing.
After a few moments of reflection, the doctor says: “I strongly suggest that he stays over.”
I fear being hospitalised. This will surely lead to Valkenberg. But I certainly need help. I cannot sleep on my own at the flat. I grope for my Bible, read the verses I turn to. The others all stare at me coldly. The doctor grows impatient. “Look, you have to decide,” he says. I understand, he is needed elsewhere. The nurse sighs; another patient has been admitted. I close my eyes, say a quiet prayer: “Lord, I