my finger in the blood and was surprised by its warmth. Auntie Ntombi in her freshly manicured nails, and long black pants and pink silk shirt stood by the kitchen door the entire time, watching and wincing and making funny noises and teasing them about how farm life would always be part of them. Ma and Auntie Betty ignored her. They proceeded to skin the goat, hanging the skin to dry, cutting off the head, carefully separating the bile, and cleaning the offal and organs and the carcass. By the time someone at the back shouted, “Imbuzi,” Ma and Auntie Betty were preparing the fire to boil the tripe.
“What did you get, a casket?” Ma asks, her voice full of expectations. “I was telling your aunt about the coffin in which my friend Ma Mlambo’s child was buried, like a castle. I’m convinced the young man is going straight to heaven and he never even set foot in church.”
I drop the groceries on the floor and pull out the picture of Fikile’s coffin from my bag.
“It is fine,” she says with a hint of disappointment. Not quite the palace of a casket she was expecting. She passes the brochure to Auntie Betty who says it’s perfect. I smile at my aunt. Ma’s outrageous demands for finer things in life were a wonder to us. She has not worked for more than twenty years, and has gone through life living on hand-outs and people’s mercies. Yet this did not alter the perception of what she thinks she deserves, her family deserves.
“I suspect our mother was a queen in her previous life,” Fikile once joked.
* * *
Mbuso, the prodigal son, is calling. I walk out of the room before Ma or Auntie Betty’s prying eyes can turn my way, before they know it’s him on the line. It’s too soon to mention his name and evoke emotions, open unhealed wounds. I can imagine how coming home after such a long time must be nerve-racking for Mbuso, like a Khumbul’Ekhaya episode.
“In today’s episode of Khumbul’Ekhaya, we bring you Mbuso Mabuza, who is returning home after many years of absence.” Camera zooms to a nervous-looking but determined Mbuso, in a crisp pink shirt and khaki cargo pants, trendy brown loafers. Ma runs out of the house into Mbuso’s hesitant arms. “Why, my child, why have you forsaken us?” She wails. Mbuso glances at the camera, aware of the attention, attempts a response, but when none manifests in his mouth, tightens his arms around his mother. The end.
Except for the time Mbuso came to see Fikile at the hospital during her mastectomy and a few follow-up calls afterwards, Mbuso exists in photographs: Mbuso in a khaki shirt and shorts at a school outing at a game reserve; on his tenth birthday, blowing out a candle on his homemade chocolate cake; in torn jeans and a white T-shirt, shoes visibly bigger than his feet – Thiza’s old shoes – flashing a peace sign. Occasionally Mvula asks about the young boy in a grey tracksuit, holding a tattered backpack and staring mischievously at the camera. Mbuso exists in things around the house: the old boombox that he played until Ma screamed at him to turn it off, rusting medals, the fossil BMX bike with its loose chain in the garage that Ma refuses to throw away. But mostly my brother exists in our memories.
“Bhuti, where are you?” From the kitchen window I notice Lesihle sitting on the boulders near the outdoor washing sink. Fikile’s rocks.
It is behind these rocks that Fikile, later joined by me, snuck ice-cold ciders, or sometimes, when there wasn’t enough money for ciders, cheap, boxed, dry white wine. The alcohol burnt our mouths and eyes, leaving us with wobbly knees, speaking slurred words to imaginary friends, nursing splitting headaches and hangovers that lasted for days, and occasionally burning dinners so that young Mbuso had to go to bed fed only on bread and tea. But Ma was too drunk to notice. Some years later, when it was Mbuso’s turn to experiment with alcohol, he did not go behind the boulders; he brought home ingudu and gulped it in front of Ma. He was fifteen, and had started bunking school. Ma went inside her bedroom and cried.
“What is her problem? Is she upset because I won’t share my beer with her? Has she ever given you a sip of hers?” Mbuso laughed. I scolded him and took the bottle from him. Mbuso continued to laugh, an evil laugh so mean and raw it left my skin tingling with fear. Later that evening I found him passed out on his bedroom floor, next to him a half-smoked joint. Panicked, I called Fikile; we were losing our younger brother.
“I’ll be there soon,” Mbuso says now on the other end of the line.
“Good. Mbuso?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re coming.”
“How is Ma?”
“Okay under the circumstances. Fikile’s illness completely sobered her up, Fikile’s illness has sobered all of us. Well, except maybe for your brother-in-law. He hasn’t shown his face, I don’t know if he’s battling with the loss or if he is being a prick, hard to say with Thiza.”
“I won’t be long now, let’s deal with Thiza when I get there.”
“Ma will be happy to see you. She still cries for you, after all these years. There are days when she wakes up only wanting to talk about you.”
There is silence as if the line has gone dead.
“Mbuso?”
“I’m here.”
I realise my mistake. “We will see you when you get here. Drive safely.” I hang up before my brother changes his mind, turns around and returns to his beautiful family and white double-storey house in a gated community, a life far from his past. Only when I get off the phone I realise my second mistake: I have not asked Mbuso if he is bringing his wife. I wonder now if they have children, nephews and nieces, little Mabuzas. Mbuso has kept his private life away from us.
I sneak into Fikile’s room to collect clean linen to prepare the outside room for Mbuso and his wife and maybe children. Fikile’s house in the other section of the township is the place of formal bereavement from where the funeral proceedings will be conducted. But there will be too many of us to fit in Fikile’s house. I open the thick lock of the outside room and let myself inside. Dust and stale air wafts off, triggering a coughing spree. I move quickly to open the only window and unhook the curtains and take them down, red with dust. I can’t recall when last someone cleaned this room; Fikile’s condition single-handedly managed to reorder our lives, draw up new agendas for us. I remove the beige sheet and the denim duvet cover Mbuso bought with his first pay cheque as a student tutor during his first year at university. I run the feather duster over the giant wall posters of 2Pac with his signature bandana and charm, framed school certificates, a few trophies from the debate club, from before Mbuso withdrew his membership in grade ten to the horror of his English class teacher. By that time, getting a word out of Mbuso was like squeezing water out of a cactus.
I sweep and mop the floor and when I’m satisfied with my efforts, I lie down on the freshly made bed, shut my eyes, and feel for a moment the burden of grief lift off and drift away.
* * *
I am awakened by Thiza’s call. It takes a moment to establish my surroundings, to register the numbness in my heart.
“Thiza, where are you? Did you get my message about Fikile?”
“Yes, I did.” Thiza’s voice is muffled, as if coming from a hole a thousand kilometres below ground. “I’m trying to make sense of everything that has happened. I need time.”
“Time for what? You do realise that people here are waiting for you? Your children are asking for you. Ma is getting restless, wanting us to call you every five minutes.” I lower my voice, and speak with obligatory calm, “I understand you’re dealing with the loss your way, but I’m asking you to be thoughtful towards others.”
I hang up not knowing what Thiza needs time for. His wife is dead and he should be here planning her burial. I collect the dirty linen and join the women in the lounge. Auntie Maria has returned, now fully dressed, from next door.
“Where is the children’s father?” Auntie Maria asks as soon as I walk in. “Your aunt tells me he is yet to come pay his respects to his wife.”
“He