in the hospital for five hours. Fikile would repeat this procedure many times. After each treatment Fikile came back as if a small part of her was taken away; she appeared a little less complete. She complained of constant waves of nausea and vomit that threatened to pull her guts out, mouth sores, and hot flushes that left sweat marks on her bed. And pain, she was overcome by pain, in her back, her legs, her head. She lost her sense of taste. Fikile slept for hours, sometimes days at a time. She stopped going to work fulltime, leaving her assistant to manage the early childhood development centre, a three-roomed structure she had opened adjacent to the church a couple of years before her diagnosis.
“I will not bow down to this disease. I have a life to live, kids to raise, bills to pay,” Fikile said each time after recovering from the chemo session, full of optimism, ready to resume her life. “I can’t die. This cancer must be defeated. No, this cancer will be defeated.”
Fikile also refused to move in with us during her treatment, even after Ma threatened her in our dead father’s name. My sister was defiant, said she was capable of looking after herself and her family. But she couldn’t. Lesihle called, sometimes in tears, to alert us to another dizzy spell that left her mother crawling on the kitchen floor. So, for a couple of days after each session, Ma packed up her life and deposited herself at Fikile’s doorstep and took over the household.
By the end of her third chemo session, a wedge of hair had fallen off in the middle of Fikile’s head, leaving a bald dry patch that even thick braids could not conceal. Fikile asked Sizwe to shave off the rest. When he was done, he gave Fikile a mirror. I stood watching her, my belly knotted.
Fikile gasped when she saw herself, then a broad smile spread across her face. I exhaled.
“I’m too beautiful for New Hope, I should have been a superstar.”
“You are a superstar.”
“Maybe. All I need is red lipstick and some blush, don’t you think?” She started wearing lipstick every day after that.
Radiation therapy followed. Fikile said those few weeks were like living under earth. Only after she completed her radiation therapy did she have a good cry. She couldn’t stop, as if every scrap of tension was breaking loose from her body. And with that, she believed, the cancer was too. We slaughtered two goats and brewed sorghum beer to thank our ancestors and the doctors and God, and everyone who prayed for Fikile’s recovery.
the burial business is big in new hope
An unexpected calm descends upon our house as we gather in the family room. Although nobody says it, we are all thinking it: Fikile is finally resting. The children, in their animal print and Afro-rocking princess inspired pyjamas, watch the morning’s programmes on a national television channel on low volume, and dip buttered bread into sweet milky tea. Lesihle has taken to policing Bafana and Mvula, she tells them to keep their voices low, that there is death in the family. Mvula wants to know who has died, and why, and if that person has gone to heaven like her friend from school. She was devastated when that happened. Although she knew that heaven was a good place, where children sang “Jesus Loves Me” songs all day, she worried that soon it would be her turn to go and she was not ready yet. She refused to leave the house for days, afraid a big, bad car would knock her down just as it did her friend.
“Don’t be stupid, Mvula,” Lesihle hisses. “The hearse came to take my mother’s body away.”
“What is a hearse?”
“A car that takes dead people away.”
“To where, heaven?”
“No, to the mortuary until their relatives collect their bodies to bury. The hearse came just now to take my mother.”
“Mama Fikile?”
“Yes. Gosh, you’re slow.”
“What happens if the people do not have families to bury them?”
“Everyone has a family to bury them,” Lesihle answers.
“Well, what if one person does not?”
Lesihle stares at her cousin with a mixture of annoyance and contemplation. After a couple of minutes, she responds with an air of victory, “The government will bury that person. Now stop asking me questions and keep quiet.”
Bafana looks pensively at his sister as if processing her words, leans over to Mvula, and speaks in a muted tone, only meant for his cousin’s ears. “My mother is dead. We will never see her again.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Mvula says, turning to her tea, swallowing the rest of the mushy mix that has collected at the bottom of the cup.
In the kitchen, Ma randomly calls out names of people that still need to be notified – distant relatives whose names I don’t recognise, friends, the church members, parents of the children who attended Fikile’s crèche, the entire section of our location, Ma’s friends. She is worried she has left out important names, but I tell her people will find out on their own, they always do. Ma’s face is laced with premature wrinkles and there are dark circles under her eyes, the havoc of alcohol abuse blatantly showing each time she is under strain.
“I should have called Reverend Madida to deliver a prayer soon after Fikile returned from the hospital,” she laments.
“You didn’t know she would die.”
“I know, my child. It’s just that Reverend Madida was fond of your sister. The whole congregation – they were all so fond of her. They will be devastated.”
We agree with Ma to bury Fikile on Saturday, early before the sun is high. I debate whether to wait for Thiza or go to the funeral home to sort out the details of Fikile’s funeral on my own. I am wary of causing an even deeper rift between us, but we also can’t wait for him forever, we need to confirm Fikile’s funeral date and time or forget a Saturday morning burial. As it is, we will be lucky to be on the waiting list. The burial business is big in New Hope.
After the cancer returned, Fikile had insisted on being buried within three days of her death. She said she wanted the ordeal over and done with, no prolonged fervour of mourning. Ma would not hear of it.
“You want people to think we’re trying to get rid of you? You want people to think we’re embarrassed by your death?” Ma protested.
“I don’t care about people, Ma. Whoever needs to see me off will make an effort to come,” Fikile asserted. “You keep me frozen for a long time, I will cause an uproar. I swear, Ma, chairs will fly. The earth will move, crack in all places, thunderbolts like you’ve never seen in your life before.”
“Fikile, stop it, we hear you,” I said, suppressing a laugh.
“You think this is a joke?” Ma passed a solid look from Fikile to me. “You think death is funny?”
“No, Ma, death is not funny, Fikile is telling us what she wants, surely we must honour her wishes?” I said. “She doesn’t want her body to rot at the mortuary. Do you trust their refrigerators? Do you think they work properly?”
“Yes, Ma, let me speak now,” Fikile said. “I haven’t had much of a say in many things in this life, allow me at least to plan my funeral. Better yet, why not get cremated? You know, white people are so clever, they don’t spend money on absurd things like coffins, things that rot anyway.”
“I don’t appreciate the way you two are talking, it’s hurtful. Fikile, take back everything you’ve said.” Ma was on the verge of crying; the corner of her mouth began to quiver. She pushed her reading glasses up and turned her gaze away from us. I had not seen her shake like that since the time she was admitted at a government detoxification facility.
“Ma, you know I’m dying. Look at me.” Fikile’s tone was serious. She gestured with her hands at her wasted body. “This is not a body of someone full of health, I’m sick. My body is at war with itself and there is no medication to help me. No cure. There is no point for us to teeter around this issue anymore.