Zakes Mda - Ways of Dying

Toloki cursed under his breath, and left. The Mayor remained sitting there, with a look that clearly told of the sorrow he felt for the poor foolish man.

That night, Toloki suddenly felt hot in his sleep. When he woke up, his shack was on fire. He was only able to save his venerable costume. He stood at a distance, and watched as raging flames consumed all his dreams.

Then he walked away in a dazed state. He did not know where he was going. But his feet led him to the docklands, where he had used to work when he first came to the city, and where he had slept in waiting rooms and in toilets. He was going to establish his home in one of the quayside waiting rooms, and eschew forever the company of men. And of women.

It is strange how things don’t change in these shanty towns or squatter camps or informal settlements or whatever you choose to call them. The same vigilante groups exist today, protecting the residents the same way they did eighteen or so years ago, when Toloki still had his shack. The situation is even more complicated these days, what with the tribal chief wreaking havoc with his hostel-dwelling migrants. But today people are strongly united. None of these groups are ever able to gain any lasting foothold in the settlements and in the townships. People fight back.

Toloki’s eyes roam the pictures on the wall. It is a beautiful house, even if he who had a hand in its creation says so. If you don’t praise yourself while you are still alive, no one else will. They will only praise you in their funeral orations when you are dead.

He wonders why Noria has invited him to stay with her. And why he agreed, turning against his vow of living the life of a hermit for the rest of his days. Things have happened too fast for his comprehension. He only met Noria on Wednesday, at the Christmas funeral of her son. And only four days later, on this memorable Sunday, he is sitting with her alone in her shack. He has moved all his worldly possession from the headquarters that have been his home for eighteen or so years.

What power does this woman have, who has dragged him into communion with live human beings, when he had vowed to dedicate all his life to the dead? What is the secret of her strength? Only four days ago she was burying her child. But here she is now, taking this tragedy in her stride. She does not carry her grief like a cross, but goes on with her life. And she says Toloki knows how to live! Only once has she mentioned the dead child, that time they fetched building materials from the docklands on Boxing Day. Who was the father of this child anyway?

She is looking at him with her penetrating eyes. Her poppy-seed skin glistens in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp. She breaks the silence.

‘Why don’t you ask me, Toloki?’

‘Ask you what?’

‘The questions that are racing through your mind.’

‘You read minds, Noria. How did you know about the questions?’

‘Go ahead and ask.’

‘Maybe it is personal, Noria. But I want to know about your second child, the child we buried four days ago.’

‘You want to know about Vutha?’

‘You are confusing me, Noria. You told me that Vutha died and was eaten by dogs even before you came to the city. . perhaps fifteen or would it be seventeen years ago now. . well, the exact years don’t matter. But it was many years ago. If he were alive today he would be a young man, maybe with children of his own.’

Noria smiles at the thought of grandchildren.

‘I would have been a young grandmother, don’t you think?’

But Toloki is not in the mood to discuss grandparenting.

‘Who was the father of this new Vutha?’

He is ashamed of himself for asking the question. Issues of this nature are sensitive, especially since we know how Noria used to be free with her favours to men back in the village. But Noria is not at all angry with him. She smiles and says the child had no father.

When she first arrived in the city she had no intention of giving up her old ways. Instead, she intended to enjoy the city and all its opportunities to its fullest. But a turning point in her life came when she learnt of the death of her son, and of Napu. From that day onwards, she lost all interest in men, and her body had not, to this very day, touched that of a man. The cruelty of the world killed not only her uplifting laughter, but all human desires of the flesh.

Then one day, seven years ago, she discovered that she was pregnant. The homegirls did not believe her when she told them that she did not know how it had happened, as she had eschewed all contact with men. Although they had not seen her with any man, they believed that she had been seeing someone secretly.

‘I do not expect you to believe me either, Toloki. But that is how it happened.’

‘I believe you, Noria. I believe you absolutely.’

And he genuinely believes her. Noria, as Jwara used to say, is a child of the gods.

She explains that she had not slept with any man, except for the strangers that visited her in her dreams, and made love to her. Some of these dream figures began their existence on top of her as strangers, but by the time they reached their fourth ejaculation, they looked and acted like a youthful Napu. The Napu of the aloes.

Just as with her first child, Noria was pregnant for fifteen months. When the child was born, he looked exactly like the original Vutha. He even had the same birth marks. Noria decided to name him Vutha, against all the advice of the home-girls and homeboys. They said it was not wise to name a child after one who had died such a painful death. Meanings of names tended to fulfil themselves, they added. But Noria was adamant that her child would be called Vutha. So, homeboys and homegirls called him Vutha The Second, or just The Second, so as not to confuse him with his dead brother. But to Noria, he was the original Vutha who had come back to his mother.

During the few years that Vutha The Second lived with his mother, her life was blissful. She struggled to survive as before, but she wanted for nothing. When he died, he was five years old, going on for six. He had not started school yet. Noria had once taken him to the school made of shipping containers, which in fact was the only school in the settlement. But they refused to enrol him as a pupil. They said they only accepted children from the age of seven onwards. Perhaps if they had taken him at this school, he would still be alive today.

Noria’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this, Noria. I am sorry I brought it up.’

‘It is painful to remember. But we cannot pretend it did not happen.’

Toloki is longing to hear how The Second saw his death. But he will not add to Noria’s sorrow by pressing the matter.

‘Tomorrow I must find a funeral. My body needs to mourn.’

‘I would like to go with you. Please let me go with you.’

‘Was it not unsettling for you when you went with me yesterday? I did not hear you say anything about it.’

‘I have not yet come to grips with it, Toloki. Please give me time to come to grips with it.’

‘You know you don’t have to go. I go because I cannot live without it. Not only for the money. But it is something that is in my blood. I am an addict, Noria!’

‘I do want to go, Toloki. I want to participate in your world.’

Toloki is beside himself with joy when he hears this. Perhaps Noria will end up being a Professional Mourner as well. She would make an excellent Professional Mourner. And a beautiful one, too. Indeed, this would advance his long-cherished goal, that of being the founder of a noble profession.

They are both quiet for some time, lost in their thoughts. Toloki dreads the time that seems to be approaching with undignified speed, the time for sleeping. Noria crawls to the corner and gets more scraps of pap. She puts them on a piece of paper in front of Toloki, and they both eat in silence. Toloki enjoys the food, especially the slightly burnt parts that occupied the bottom of the pot when the flames licked it. It is quite a change from his cakes and green onions, or from the tinned beans which he ate when the going was not too good. Then out of the blue, Noria is distressed.