This Thing Called the Future

Mama sits in the kitchen singing while I chop vegetables for Saturday’s supper. All afternoon I’ve been cooking, trying to tempt her appetite, but she pushes each dish away with one word: “Ngisuthi.” How can she be full when she eats nothing?

Zi leans against her, hand in her mouth, while Mama picks out the knots in her hair and sings. “Siyahamb’ ekukhanyen’ kwenkhos’. We are walking in the light of God.”

During Mama’s absence, Zi’s hair tangled up in thick knots. I fill a basin with warm water so that Mama can wash Zi’s hair while I cook. Zi lies on the floor as Mama pours water over her hair into the basin. She washes it three times while I chop vegetables.

“Zi, are you trying to grow dreads like those tough guys that hang out in front of Mama Thambo’s shebeen? Are you trying to be a tsotsi?” Mama jokes, her eyes shining at us. Zi giggles. “You’re such a sweet, pretty girl. You don’t need to be a gangster.”

“It isn’t just tsotsis that wear dreadlocks,” I say, thinking of Little Man. “There are some nice young men with dreads.”

“Does this nice young man with dreads have a name, hey, Khosi?” Mama asks.

“Mama! No! Don’t be silly!” The last thing I want is for them to find out about Little Man. That’s just the thing to get me in trouble when I haven’t even done anything wrong.

“Sho! Look at this.” Mama holds up a big chunk of Zi’s hair, dripping with soap and water.

Zi struggles to sit up. “I’m going to look like Uncle Richard,” she says, seeing her hair dripping in Mama’s hand. We all laugh even more. Uncle Richard is completely bald.

“You need to take better care of her hair while I’m gone, Khosi,” Mama chides me, cutting one of the knots off with scissors. “And she needs to wear a scarf at night.”

“I know, Mama,” I say, like I always do. But we both know Zi won’t let us touch her hair when Mama’s gone. She won’t wear a scarf to bed. She won’t even listen to Gogo when Gogo tries to get her to behave.

I slice up a big pumpkin into a large pan, fill it with water, and put it on the stove to boil. I chop tomatoes and pepper, take rice off the stove, and dish everything up with chicken and gravy, placing one plate in front of Gogo and another in front of Mama. “See, Mama? All your favorites so when you go back to work, you’ll go with a nice full stomach and good memories of home.”

“Shame, all this nice food,” she says. “I wish I could stay here always, where my daughter takes such good care of me, instead of going back to Greytown where I must work so hard. I wish I had a better appetite.”

That sounds like an invitation, so after I set a plate in front of Zi, I boil some water and steep the herbs in it, as the sangoma directed. I strain the herbs out, pour the tea into a mug, and set it near Mama’s plate.

“It’s supposed to help you eat, Mama.” I glance from her to Gogo. I’ve always been taught to be obedient to both of them, but what do I do when they disagree? Who do I obey first—Mama or Gogo? “It’s just herbs. It’s nothing to worry about. Completely natural!”

Mama watches my face carefully. “Well, I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm. Perhaps it might do some good. Herbal remedies have some value.”

She gulps it down, just as if it tastes bad. But I’ve already tasted it and it tastes delicious, just like peppermint and lemons.

Mama hands the mug back. “I’ll drink this,” she tells Gogo. “But I don’t want you sending Khosi to the sangoma again. I don’t want her head filled with nonsense.”

Gogo starts whispering to me, so that Mama won’t hear. “Your mama is a very wonderful woman but she doesn’t know everything,” she says. “Eyes do not see all. The sangoma can see things that we cannot see.”

“Stop whispering,” Mama snaps. “I know exactly what you’re trying to do but I want Khosi and Zi to be modern Zulu women. I don’t want them dependent on superstition—or on men.”

Gogo’s mouth is one long thin line, like she’s sewn it shut from the inside. But she doesn’t say anything else.