Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

Thabisa (five)

I go back home. I meet Mandla sleeping, so I go to my bedroom and lay down. Sleep does not come easy. There are many thoughts swimming in my mind. Once again, I think of my family back in Nigeria. I do not imagine I will ever return. Many times, my father declared I am no son of his. My mother avoided me like the plague. And my sisters—my dear sisters—they are the ones I miss the most.

Mandla enters to my room in the morning. 'The nurse called me,' he says. 'You must have many questions.'

I sit up on my bed. 'Just one. Where is Thabisa?'

Mandla walks to my bed, and sits right beside me. 'Tunde, there is no Thabisa. Come on, have you ever seen a wedding ring on my finger? Or wedding photos? No, because there is none.'

'Why would you lie about something like that? And have me take food to that nurse all this time?' There is so much anger within me, so much anger that I need to let out, and it keeps piling up. I try to remind myself: Mandla is the same man who helped me get out of Nigeria and took me in. He is the same man who feeds me and gives me shelter. He is a nice man.

Mandla sighs. 'Come to my room. Let me show you something.' He gets up and exits my room.

I follow. Mandla pulls out a small box from under his bed. He opens the box. 'Look,' he says.

I look. It is filled with a white powdery substance. 'What is that?'

'Cocaine. I sell cocaine, Tunde. Do not look at me like that. Do you think all your meals, your fine clothes, and that hair on your head, comes just from repairing motorcycles? I sell drugs. To the nurse. And yes, I use you to get the drugs to the nurse.'

This is too much for me to process. My brain is spinning, and I cannot control it. The locals are out there terrorizing Nigerians, and I'm living with the real drug dealer? 'So, I'm just your mule? That's why you keep me here.'

'Tunde,' he places his hand on my shoulder, 'you are more than my mule. You are my friend.'

I nod, and he smiles. He takes his hand off me, and immediately he does, I dash out of his room and out of his house. He yells my name behind me, but I ignore him and keep running. I do not know where I am going. I do not have anywhere to go, but I will rather sleep on the streets than live him. Nigerians are being handled with violence in South Africa—I do not know how long I will stay alive before they come for me, a gay Nigerian. Many Nigerians are returning back to our homeland, but I cannot do that. My kind is not wanted there.

I keep running until I near Madam Kholwa's territory. I stop running. There are many people gathered around a tree near Madam Kholwa's store. They are all facing the tree. It is under the same tree Jabu and his friend mostly stay. I walk through the crowd, pushing people aside. When I get to the front of the crowd, I hear people wailing. I push one more person aside, and I can see the tree now. I gasp and fall to my knees. Jabu is there, hanging by a rope attached to a low branch on the tree. Dead. His eyes are bulged. I look around, and see Madam Kholwa sitting on the floor and crying her eyes out. She sees me

'You!' she spits. Her sorrowful look vanishes, and in her eyes, I see the harshest look anyone has ever shot at me.

I gulp.