Zakes Mda - Ways of Dying

Toloki knew immediately that wealth had had the very strange effect of erasing from Nefolovhodwe’s once sharp mind everything he used to know about his old friends back in the village. He wanted to turn his back, and leave the disgusting man with his fleas. But the pangs of hunger got the better of him, and he made up his mind that he was not going to leave that house without a job. He knelt on the floor and, with tears streaming from his eyes, pleaded with the powerful man to come to his rescue.

‘I lost my business, sir. I need a job. You are the only one who can help me. Even if you don’t remember me, sir, or my father, please find it in your good heart to help one miserable soul who will die without your help.’

‘One miserable soul! Every time I am asked to help one miserable soul. Do you know how many miserable souls are in this city? Millions! Do you think it is Nefolovhodwe’s job to feed all of them? Go to the kitchen, and tell them that I say they must give you food. Then go away from here. I do need my peace, you know.’

‘It is not food I want, sir. I want a job. So that I can feed myself, and send some money to my mother. I do not want to beg, sir, or to get something for nothing. I want to work, sir, so that I can be a great man like you.’

Nefolovhodwe loved to hear that he was a great man. Although it was ridiculous to imagine that Toloki would one day be like him, he liked the part about his own greatness. Unknowingly, Toloki had pressed the right button, and he was offered a job.

‘But what you’ll earn depends entirely on you. I’m employing you on a commission basis. I want you to do guard duty in the cemeteries at night.’

‘Guard cemeteries, sir? Who would want to steal from cemeteries?’

‘You are to go to cemeteries only after funerals where a Nefolovhodwe has been used. Your task will be to hide, and wait there until someone comes to dig the coffin up. I want to catch all those undertakers who are making illicit profits from my sweat. You must admit it’s an ingenious profit-making scheme, this digging up of my coffins. I should have thought of it first. If anyone is going to profit from a Nefolovhodwe, it should be Nefolovhodwe himself, don’t you think so, young man?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Toloki was happy that he had found a job at last. He was asked to report directly to Nefolovhodwe, and not to personnel managers in his offices in the city. He was employed directly by the great man, and was going to be paid from his own pocket, rather than from the funds of his company. This meant that he was Nefolovhodwe’s personal employee. He was going to impress this big shot. He was going to catch as many thieves as possible, and earn a lot of commission in return. He pictured himself recovering from his financial difficulties, and recapturing his old life-style. But of course this time he was going to be more careful about the friends he chose. No more of the kind that loved you only when you had money. Homeboys and homegirls were the worst of the lot in this respect.

However, things were not as easy as Toloki first thought they would be. To begin with, he did not know how to find funerals where a Nefolovhodwe had been used. He went to cemeteries during the day to attend funerals, and to spy on the type of coffin used. In most cases, he found that people were using the Collapsible. The Collapsible was too cheap for anyone to dig up. He went back to report to the great man that in all the cemeteries he had visited, no one was using a Nefolovhodwe. It did not dawn on him that the sort of people who would use a Nefolovhodwe De Luxe Special would not be buried in the popular cemeteries he frequented.

‘Stupid boy! You will never find a Nefolovhodwe in cemeteries in shanty towns and townships where the rabble are buried. Go to private cemeteries, ugly boy, and to church yards, foolish boy. That is where you will find a Nefolovhodwe. In the suburbs, ugly boy, in the high-class suburbs.’

Toloki was beginning to hate this new Nefolovhodwe. In many ways he reminded him of his father, Jwara.

He went to graveyards in the churches and to private cemeteries to do more spying. But they drove him away, and called him a tramp. So he stood outside the graveyard, and hoped that the coffin that was being used was a Nefolovhodwe. At night he went back and hid himself behind the trees. Months passed without his catching a single undertaker. Once a week or so he went to report back to the great man. The guard at the gate would open up for him without further ado, saying ‘Come in, homeboy. Your homeboy must be expecting you.’ At first Toloki thought that the guard was a homeboy. But later he realised that he was merely mocking him.

Sometimes instead of Nefolovhodwe, Toloki would find the woman who was called his wife. Toloki knew Nefolovhodwe’s wife in the village, and his nine children. He had fought battles in their defence. And in defence of the honour of their now ungrateful father and husband. He refused to accept that this tall, thin girl, with straightened hair, red lips and purple eyelids, and a face that looked like that of the leupa lizard, was Nefolovhodwe’s wife. She was kindhearted though, poor thing, and gave Toloki some food every time he came to report on his lack of progress in the investigations. Toloki promised himself that one day he was going to refund every cent’s worth of food he had eaten at the despicable man’s house.

His luck turned one night. He was waiting among marble tombstones in some posh graveyard as usual. Four men came in a van, and parked just outside the gate of the graveyard. They went to a fresh grave, and began to dig with their spades and shovels. Toloki suddenly realised that in all the briefings that he had received from the great man, there was absolutely nothing on what he should do if he caught undertakers digging the graves. He decided to confront the grave-robbers. He leapt out from his hiding place, shouting.

‘At last I have got you, you dirty thieves!’

‘What the hell is this? Who are you?’

‘I have been looking for you for many months. I am taking you to Nefolovhodwe. You have been stealing his coffins!’

‘Do you see any coffin that we have stolen here?’

‘Ha! You think I am a fool. You were going to steal it.’

One man hit him hard on the head with a shovel. He fell to the ground, and spades rained down on him. The men left him for dead.

Toloki lay unconscious throughout the whole night. In the morning, he woke up with a gash on his head. His clothes were all bloody. He stood up and staggered to the grave. It was intact. He was not sure whether the thieves had continued with their digging. He went to the suburb to report to his master.

‘You ugly boy, I ask you to bring me thieves, and you come with a foolish story instead. You are fired!’

Toloki had wasted months working for this man, with nothing to show for it. He was a very bitter young man. He went back to his shack and locked himself inside while he thought very hard about what to do next. Such thinking sessions usually paid off. When he had come up with the idea of selling boerewors from a trolley, it had been after he had spent days in the shack, his mind incubating new ideas. Even when he had come up with the idea of seeking Nefolovhodwe’s help, it was after the same process. Well, Nefolovhodwe was a loss. But how was Toloki to know that homeboys who did well in the city developed amnesia?

Toloki observed that Nefolovhodwe had attained all his wealth through death. Death was therefore profitable. He made up his mind that he too was going to benefit from death. But unfortunately, he had no practical skill to market. Unlike Nefolovhodwe, he had no material items that he could make and sell that concerned death. But he had the saddest eyes that we had ever seen. His sad eyes were quite famous, even back in the village. We used to sing about Toloki’s sorrowful eyes. Slowly he reached the decision that he was going to mourn and that people would pay him for this service. Even the fat Nefolovhodwe had told him, ‘Your face is a constant reminder that we are all going to die one day.’ He was going to make his face pay. After all, it was the only gift that God had given him. He was going to profit from the perpetual sadness that inhabited his eyes. The concept of a Professional Mourner was born.