Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

Thabisa (two)

I go home to Mandla's house—my friend who helped me settle in South Africa. Mandla is about ten years older than I am, and he treats me like a small brother. He lives in a small house with me and Thabisa, his newly wedded wife. I see him working in his workshop in front of his house, where he repairs motorcycles. He sits on the dirt, with a disfigured motorcycle before him. Mandla is the best with motorcycles in the community, and he works hard, but business is always slow. He gets frustrated sometimes, trying to raise money for his small family, and I can't help but think it is my fault. He keeps me in his house rent-free, with free apprenticeship, and all I have to do is assist him in whatever.

I try to sneak past the shop, into the house, but he spots me.

'Hey bra,' he calls. 'Where have you been? Come here; come and help me with that tire.'

I go into the workshop. It reeks of machine oil, and anything I touch stains my hand. 'Any news from Thabisa?'

Mandla bows his head. 'Tunde, Thabisa is not looking good at all. I went to see her last night with her meal, nothing has changed.' He turns to look at me. His black face scrunches. 'What... Eishh! What happened to you?' He gets up and walks closer to me.

'I am fine,' I say, looking away.

I grab the tire and pass it to him, but he leaves my hand hanging. 'You went there again, didn't you?' he says. I stay quiet, so he continues: 'Why do you keep doing this? Can't you just stay away from those people, huh! Do you enjoy what they do to you? It will kill you before it makes you stronger.' His South African accent always thickens any time he is angry. 'You better open your eyes. This isn't Nigeria.'

'Exactly!' I yell. 'This is not Nigeria. This place is worse.'

Mandla scoffs. 'Oh, come on, you were miserable in Nigeria. Bullied and hated, even by your own family. Always in fear of when the police would take you away, just for being who you are. Isn't that why you left everything in Nigeria? You came here to be free. Ehn, to be free! Here in South Aflica, you are free to express yourself. The police cannot stop you, but you have to be smart. How can you be walking around with that kind of hair, in this kind of community—looking like a black Barbie doll.'

'What good is the freedom here, if I can't express myself? I just want to be free somewhere. Why is that too much to ask?'

Mandla places his hand on my shoulder. His hand is rough and heavy. 'Easy. You know you must crawl first, before you run. How long have you been here? Just a month? It takes time to blend with a society. You just have to use your head, and you will be fine.' He retrieves the tire from me and gets back to work.

I go into the house and cook a Nigerian meal—fufu with egusi soup. But first, I buy the pepper from a big shop opposite Mandla's house, owned by a Nigerian man—Onyebuchi. Onyebuchi always calls me his brother, even though we are not from the same tribe, and he gives me the best discounts. I do not know why I keep going over to Madam Kholwa's shop—why I let my wild thoughts lead me there. Onyebuchi tells me his shop was raided in the morning, by the locals. They came searching for hard drugs. Apparently, someone is selling hard drugs in the community, and the Nigerians are the prime suspects.

I am sad, and my head aches, but I try not to let my mood reflect in my cooking. When the sun goes down, Mandla closes his workshop for the day and comes into the house to eat. I serve him, while he watches television. When he is done eating, he prepares to leave the house. I ask him where he is going, but he doesn't say. Instead, he tells me to take some food to his wife in the hospital. This, I do.

Thabisa has been in the hospital for over a month. Treatment is slow, because the money is crawling in, and it is driving Mandla mad. It makes him angry a lot, and he leaves the house for many hours. The hospital is not in the slum where we live. It is miles away from the community, in a fine town. It is surrounded by trees that beautify its environment, not like our trees that the only purpose is to provide fruits for the locals and shelter from the burning sun. The roads are tarred, and it makes the cars fly. It has gutters on both sides of the roads. In our community, the roads are sand filled, and there are no gutters on either side of the roads. The portholes fill up anytime rain falls. I wonder how Mandla is able to pay Thabisa's hospital bills.

I take a bus and head out.

When I reach the hospital, I meet Thabisa sleeping. She looks pale and frail, and her face and hair looks thin. I wonder if she has been eating the food we bring at all. Most times, when I come over, I meet her sleeping like that, so I always end up leaving the food with her nurse. I do not like her nurse. She is mean and fat, and I suspect she eats the food herself. This time, I will wait until Thabisa awakes, then I will feed her myself. I sit, watching her sleep, with the flask of food on a table by her bedside. Soon, I feel drowsy and decide to take a short nap.

Hours later, the nurse wakes me up from a deep slumber. Thabisa is still sleeping. The nurse tells me to go home, so I have no choice but to leave the food with her again. By the time I leave the hospital, it is nighttime already and rain is falling hard. I run down the street, seeking for a temporal shelter until the rain subsides. I turn into an alley and stay under an old zinc. The rain still hammers down on my feet, but at least the rest of my body is safe. The alley is dark and lonely, save a street dog shivering at the corner.

Five minutes later, someone comes into the alley, laughing. I recognize the laugh, and I tremble. It is Jabu, Madam Kholwa's son. 'Again, I catch you,' he says, walking to me.

Is he stalking me?

I should run. I want to run, but I do not. My feet stay stuck to the ground and wait for him to come close enough. I do not know for sure, but maybe a stupid part of me likes being around him—even though he treats me like shit. Even though I hate how he slaps me around, I keep going back for more. His body is drenched in rain and his shirt is glued to his body.

He pulls out a pocketknife and places it on my jugular. I gulp. My heart thumps my chest and my body shivers. He is not laughing anymore but bites his lower lip. His eyes are murderous, and his grip on the knife tightens. 'I hate you so much,' he says.

The blade of the knife touches my skin, holding the drops of water crawling down my neck. I want to beg him to stop, but I stay mute. I shut my eyes. The knife moves up my neck and down again; the silver blade feels icy against my skin.

Jabu's lips touch mine and lingers there. My eyes open wide in shock, and I see him kissing me. He withdraws his lips, leaving me stupefied. I stare at him with my mouth agape, and my mind blank. The knife is still on my neck.

'If you tell anyone, I will kill you,' he says.

I say nothing, but I nod to assure him, even though my legs are trembling like noodles. He kisses me again, and this time I kiss him back, with my eyes shut. His lips are full and soft, like chocolate candy. He kisses hard and sucks on my lower lip; sometimes he bites, gently. He pushes me against the wall and presses his body against mine. His hands are in my hair, but not aggressively anymore. He caresses the locks, still kissing passionately, like in the movies.

There are no other thoughts in my head, except the joy of this moment overwhelming me. Soon, other thoughts fill my head. I recall how he bullied me, since I arrived in South Africa. I recall the first time I encountered him. I recall how he slapped me until I cried. Anger fuel my hands. I push him away from me, and I flee. Tears fill up in my eyes now. I do not fight the urge to release it, I let them crawl down my cheeks and mix with the rain.