The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories Read online

  – Oh, God, oh, God, she was saying. We were running.

  Nothing came to me. No thoughts. I could see a man on a motorbike going fast towards the makeshift hospital. I could see my hands and the mud on them, and I saw the small face and the crocodile teeth, and then the crowd had me out of the way and all was noise and mud and the colours of people’s clothes.

  And then we are at a bedside in the hospital. He is lying there, and his mother stands by him, silent now. His chest heaves. Her headdress and her wrap are made from fabric printed with Obama’s face in yellow and blue and green, Obama smiling black and white. I stare at him. I remember sweet bread rolls sold in Tanzania called Obamas. Obamas, why were they called that, was it a joke or an honour, Obama the Bun? I look up. The doctor stands at the end of the bed gripping the railing there and looking with unfocused eyes at the boy, at Sylvestro. I look, too.

  Again, his chest heaves. And then he is still. His mother speaks and even now I cannot say what language she spoke in, or for how long, or what the words sounded like. As she speaks she releases her boy’s hand and unwinds her headdress. Fractions of Obama’s face become whole Obama faces as she untwists it and unfolds it. Perhaps it takes a minute, perhaps seventeen, perhaps she is still there unwinding her headdress printed with the face of Obama, but it is not Mandela or Nyerere, it is Obama. When it is finished she pulls the cloth over her son and I watch her bare head bow. The boy becomes invisible under the green and blue and black and the thin line of text along its edge: URAFIKI TANZANIA PRINTED KHANGA FTC DES NO. 638.

  Talking to Mama Mfundisi

  Makhosazana Xaba

  She walked faster and faster as she turned the corner, her heart needing to escape her chest. When she pressed the buzzer, she noticed that her hands were shaking.

  ‘Have you just seen a ghost, Sebenzile? What happened?’

  Sebenzile swallowed, cleared her throat, tried to utter a word but it got stuck in her throat, looked down and started walking alongside Mrs Ndlovu. Today Mrs Ndlovu looked just like all the women who come to her husband’s church; she was wearing her church uniform. A humble woman indeed, Sebenzile thought. She never distinguishes herself as some wives of pastors are known to do. The front door was wide open. Mrs Ndlovu ushered Sebenzile in with her open hands.

  ‘Let’s go to the kitchen and have a cup of tea.’

  A much younger woman in familiar domestic workers’ clothes appeared from the back door, greeted them and started getting ready to make tea.

  ‘Thank you, Mama. I’m sorry for coming here so early. I just couldn’t sleep so I thought the sooner I came, the better it would be.’

  Mrs Ndlovu sat down across the table from Sebenzile and simply looked at her, a gentle smile on her face.

  ‘Ma Mfundisi, I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I really don’t know how this could have happened.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The death.’

  ‘Whose death?’

  ‘That little girl, Andiswa, Mama Mfundisi.’

  Mrs Ndlovu was used to this, women her age and older calling her mama just because she was married to a pastor. Sebenzile looked definitely younger than her, maybe five years? She liked Sebenzile. She had seen her many times in the church and she stood out because of her commitment to community work outside of the church. She always volunteered and worked hard whenever they had campaigns and big events. She arrived early and left late but Mrs Ndlovu had never had a personal conversation with her.

  ‘Andiswa who? Do I know her? Sebenzile, why don’t you start from the beginning.’

  ‘Andiswa’s mother, Lumka, works for those white people who are always going away. She says they work in other countries a lot so they leave her alone in the house with her daughter Andiswa. She has been thinking of looking for another job now because she is so afraid of being left alone in that big house. But abelungu bakhe were home for Christmas holiday and they stayed for a long time this time. They were planning to start their travels in February.’

  The young woman brought a tray and put it on the table. A plate of rusks accompanied the rooibos tea.

  ‘Siyabonga, Phaphamile.’ Phaphamile smiled and turned to leave.

  ‘Yes, Sebenzile, continue. And help yourself to the tea. I love Ouma rusks. I hope you like them too.’

  ‘Oh, I do, Ma Mfundisi. I can even bake them. My madam taught me how.’

  ‘Wow, I am impressed. You need to teach Phaphamile.’

  ‘I will do that happily, Ma.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘So on the first day of school, I went with my daughter, Khwezi, as usual to pick up Andiswa and walk them to school. They are in the same class, grade three, this year. Lumka and I always take turns walking the girls to their school, Observatory Girls’. One week on, one week off. We have been doing this since our girls started school.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a supportive system.’

  ‘On this first day, when Khwezi and I arrived at their gate, there was just chaos. Andiswa was lying down with a blanket over her and Lumka was weeping uncontrollably over her body and her madam and his husband were both on their cellphones. All four dogs were barking and we were just so confused.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes, Mama. When Lumka noticed me she started shouting in between her sobs: “The gate! The gate!”’

  ‘“The gate”? What did she mean?’

  ‘Oh, I can still hear her now: “The gate! It’s the gate! I told them about the gate!”’

  Sebenzile started weeping.

  Mrs Ndlovu stood up and came around the table to put her arms over Sebenzile and started to pray aloud. Sebenzile cried louder and louder at first and Mrs Ndlovu raised her voice to match Sebenzile’s volume and at some point simply repeated the words ‘Yiba nabo, Nkosi’ or ‘Hlala nabo, Nkulunkulu waphakade’ or ‘Yehlis’ umoya wakho, Nkosi yamazulu’ or ‘Bafukamele, Jehova.’

  Phaphamile, who could hear the conversation from the back veranda, walked into the kitchen when she heard the loud cries and Mama Mfundisi’s voice getting louder and louder over the wailing. She had heard about the girl who was killed in her school uniform by a big wrought-iron gate that fell on her. The women in Phaphamile’s stokvel had prayed for the girl and her mother. Since she heard the story, she stopped using the big wrought-iron gate at Mama Mfundisi’s home. She always used the small wooden, manual pedestrian gate which was locked with a padlock to which she also kept a key. Some Houghton homes have these smaller pedestrian gates just as some have small rooms for security guards. Mrs Ndlovu once said to Phaphamile that she does not ever want to have a security guard looking after their home because that would mean that they do not trust the Almighty.

  ‘But you have the big wrought-iron gate and a high wall, Mama,’ Phaphamile had challenged her employer.

  ‘We found those here when we moved in. The Lord chose this home for us.’

  Phaphamile remembered this conversation as she stood there. She watched the two women and started crying as well. She stepped close to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down to cry. In time Mrs Ndlovu shook Sebenzile’s shoulders in a comforting way, put her right cheek over her head, wiped her own tears and came round the table to sit. The three women sat around the table, each crying silently now.

  Phaphamile broke the silence. ‘Is it true that abelungu bakhe paid for the funeral and made her go home to Cofimvaba in an aeroplane?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘Oh, may the Lord bless them. How many white people can do that?’ asked Mrs Ndlovu.

  ‘Mama Mfundisi, what is the point of flying home to East London when there is no one with money to fetch you from the airport? What is the point of that?’ asked Sebenzile, her voice getting louder and louder.

  ‘Sebenzile, kubongwa okuncane, kubongwe okukhulu. But, you still haven’t told me how this accident happened exactly.’

  ‘The women in my stokvel said the girl was also bit
ten by the dogs. Is that true?’ Phaphamile asked.

  ‘Oh no, that’s a lie.’

  ‘Tell us the truth, Sebenzile,’ Mrs Ndlovu said in an encouraging tone.

  ‘Mama Mfundisi, what I know is that when I arrived that morning there was just chaos, as I said. Later, when things had calmed down, Lumka told me that Andiswa was so excited about starting grade three that she had been ready long before the time and asked her mother if she could wait for us outside the gate. Lumka gave her permission and as usual Andiswa opened the gate using the remote control button next to the front door inside the house and ran. The next thing Lumka heard were dogs barking. This was unusual because the dogs know Andiswa. They always walk with her to the gate and she plays with them sometimes. So when Lumka heard the barking she went outside to check what was happening. And there she was, Andiswa under this heavy, heavy, gate and the dogs all around, all five of them barking as if they had gone crazy.’

  ‘And where were the owners of the house?’ Mrs Ndlovu asked.

  ‘Sleeping, but Lumka cried so loud that they came out of the house. When I arrived, Mrs Lloyd was still in her nightie and gown and Mr Lloyd was in his jockeys, his chest bare.’

  ‘A woman in my stokvel said that Andiswa was dead before they could remove the gate from her body. Is that true?’ asked Phaphamile.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. When I arrived they had just, just managed to remove the gate. Mr Lloyd called the garden boy, Bhuti Menzi, who works for both families and lives in the cottage next door with his wife. He came quickly and the three of them lifted the gate while Lumka was kneeling, her head on top of her knees, crying. Bhuti Menzi is the one who went into the house to get a blanket for Andiswa.’

  ‘And the police? Did they call the police?’

  ‘What for, Mama Mfundisi?’

  ‘If there is a death, you call the police whatever the cause of the death is.’

  ‘No. As soon as I arrived, I took care of comforting Lumka and Mr Lloyd changed and got into his car with Lumka and me and Khwezi. We dropped off Khwezi at her school and went to Johannesburg hospital. It was so strange because we could all see that Andiswa was dead. There was blood flowing down her face but nobody uttered the word.’

  ‘Oh, you all must have been so shocked.’

  ‘Mama Mfundisi, even Mr Lloyd was crying as he drove his car to the hospital. I have never heard a white man cry but he just cried and kept saying words to himself that I didn’t even understand.’

  ‘Jesus Christ have mercy!’ Mrs Ndlovu interrupted.

  ‘I was sitting on the passenger seat next to him and Lumka was sitting at the back with Andiswa’s head on her lap.’

  ‘Mr Lloyd drove like a mad taxi driver. When we got to the hospital, he jumped off leaving us in the car and came back with a doctor who told us what we already knew.’

  ‘And what did you all do then?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mama.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know, Sebenzile? Phaphamile, can you make us more tea please, my child.’

  Sebenzile’s tears started falling again but she continued. ‘Because I don’t know what happened to me, I think I just died inside and lost consciousness from the confirmation of Andiswa’s death. When I woke up, it was late in the afternoon. I was in my bed and Khwezi was sitting next to me in her school uniform, my Bible in her hands.’

  ‘Shwele Mkhululi, that must have been such a difficult time for you all. But the Lord has saved you; here you are telling the story.’

  ‘Mama Mfundisi, I am not sure I have been saved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Remember what I said on the phone? I think there is a bigger problem in my hands, so I came to you to ask for help.’

  ‘Continue, Sebenzile.’

  Phaphamile walked back in with the same tray and a fresh pot of tea. ‘The rusks are finished. I brought the Romany Creams.’

  ‘Thanks, Phaphamile. Sit with us; the Lord wants you to be part of this conversation.’

  Phaphamile pulled a chair and joined them.

  ‘Sebenzile, you said earlier that Lumka kept saying she had told them about the gate. What was that about?’

  ‘Oh, that. Lumka had told me about it too, that it used to disconnect from its electrical motor. Once it did that when Mr and Mrs Lloyd were travelling and Lumka had to call a handyman to fix it. She kept telling them that the handyman had told her that they needed to put in a new gate and they kept postponing.’

  ‘That’s not a common problem, now is it? Our gate has never given us problems.’

  ‘Mama Mfundisi,’ Phaphamile interrupted, ‘I know nothing about how gates work. All I know is that I have never seen gates so big ever in my life. In KZN, I worked in many people’s homes in big, big, suburbs but not one had a gate so big and walls so high. It’s a Johannesburg thing.’

  ‘I agree with that, you know. My friend from Pretoria says the same thing each time she visits me: “Your gates and your walls.”,’ Sebenzile said.

  ‘That may just be true, although I have never thought about it that way,’ said Mrs Ndlovu.

  ‘When I told my friend from Pretoria the story of the girl who was killed by a gate she said: “Next a wall will fall over and kill someone.”’

  ‘Your friend may be right, you know. Look at the rains we have had this time around; it’s never rained so much for all the summers we have been in Johannesburg. Oh, Lord have mercy, just the thought of it makes me sick,’ Mrs Ndlovu said.

  ‘Remember the funeral story. After the whole transport drama, Lumka had a good funeral for her only daughter. When she came back to Johannesburg, Mr and Mrs Lloyd were packed and ready to go on their travels again, much sooner than the planned February.’

  ‘Oh, white people …’ Phaphamile interjected.

  ‘That’s an ungodly thing to say, Phaphamile.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, MaMfundisi, but that’s why I will never work for them. They have no hearts at all. None.’

  ‘Phaphamile, please!’

  ‘I’m sorry, MaMfundisi. What I have seen and heard about white people makes me believe that Satan lives on earth.’

  ‘Phaphamile, please! Honestly, I must pray for you. Continue, Sebenzile.’

  ‘Lumka returned from the funeral; a day later Mr and Mrs Llyod were gone. She has been alone ever since they left and she now she refuses to answer the phone. She won’t even open the gate when I go there. Yesterday I went to ask Bhuti Menzi when last he saw Lumka and he said he was not even aware that she had come back from the funeral. That’s when I panicked I decided to call you and come and see you today.’

  ‘So when last did you talk to her Sebenzile?’ Mrs Ndlovu asked.

  ‘I think it was about ten days ago because I remember I spoke to her once or twice after she came back from Cofimvaba. In fact, she called me to tell me she was back. Then I went to visit her and during that visit all she did was cry. It was very difficult, so I just prayed for her.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ Phaphamile said and stood up instantly. ‘We need to go and find her.’ She started untying her apron. ‘Ma Mfundisi, this is an emergency!’ her voice rose with each word.

  Mrs Ndlovu looked at Sebenzile and then at Phaphamile, her eyes widening as if she had just seen Jesus fall from the sky.

  ‘Mama Mfundisi, I think Phaphamile is right. This is exactly why I came to ask for your help and advice. If Bhuti Menzi has not seen her for so long, I am afraid something may have happened to her.’

  ‘Or she may have done something to herself, Ma Mfundisi,’ Phaphamile said.

  ‘Tell me again, when last did Menzi see her?’ Mrs Ndlovu asked as if she had not believed Sebenzile.

  ‘Ma Mfundisi, I think we need to pray quickly now, then call the police, then go and find Lumka,’ Phaphamile said as she reached out for the tray and disappeared into the pantry.

  ‘Where do you live, Sebenzile?’

  ‘We are in Observatory, Ma Mfundisi,’ Sebenzile said as she slowly sta
rted to stand.

  ‘I will wait for you outside,’ Phaphamile shouted as she shut the door.

  ‘Sebenzile, we need the good Lord to guide us in this. Let us go on our knees first.’

  They both kneeled, placing their elbows on the chairs.

  Before Mrs Ndlovu could finish praying, they both heard Phaphamile’s voice shouting repeatedly, ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Nkulunkulu onamandla, stay with us as we take this journey with Sebenzile. Let your spirits shine on Lumka where ever she is. Guide us now to do your will. Amen.’

  They rose slowly. Sebenzile adjusted her head wrap, knotting it tighter, wiped her tears, put her handbag over her shoulder and started following Mrs Ndlovu out of the house. When Mrs Ndlovu started the car engine in the garage, Rebecca Malope’s voice filled the car. She pressed the remote control and the gate began opening, Sebenzile put both her hands on her face. Mrs Ndlovu took one quick look at her and whispered to herself, ‘Be with her, Lord.’ Phaphamile was already pacing up and down the length of the gate on the street as the gate opened. Without a word, she joined the two women, made herself comfortable in the back seat and sang along with Rebecca.

  ‘Sebenzile, I know how to get to Observatory but you will have to direct me once we are there.’

  ‘Yes, Ma Mfundisi, it’s on Eckstein Road, I’ll direct you,’ Sebenzile was now moving her head from side to side to the rhythm of Rebecca’s voice. She let the tears stream down her face uninterrupted.

  ‘Eckstein. Which boer was that one now?’ Phaphamile asked and then continued to sing along as if she had never said a word.

  ‘Lord of Lords, bless Phaphamile. Stay with her, now and forever,’ Mrs Ndlovu spoke while looking straight ahead, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. In no time the white Mercedes-Benz emerged out of Houghton to join the numerous taxis on Louis Botha Avenue. Mrs Ndlovu adjusted the volume on the CD player to muffle the competing sound of hooting taxis.