Women Writing Zimbabwe

Everything is Nice, Zimbulele

Everything is Nice, Z Zi im mb bu ul le el le e Gugu Ndlovu THE STENCH OF DEATH HUNG low in the air of Mbubi. The fumes overpoweredcookingfiresandfedlifeintothefilmof toxic black dust that blew over theancientrubbish,permeatingtheairbreathedinbysnot-nosedchildrenand skinnydogs,andawakeningintoxicatedmenandnauseated,pregnantwomen. The informal hillside settlement clung like a wart to the outskirts of northern Johannesburg. A shanty town without a plan, it sprawled haphazardly across the ridge and over the former municipal rubbish dump. A treasure trove to its three hundred or so inhabitants, the dump fueled their daily existence. Their homes were primarily assembled from an assortment of discarded billboards, signage, metal scraps, plastic bags and cardboard placards. This last-chance settlement stretched over an area of about five hundred square metres. Over the years, many dwellings had sprouted up beside the path from Paul’s house to the only water tap near the road. From behind an old office door, (a lucky find), with Dr P Van Rensburg General Practitioner MB PHD Wits University, embossed in chipped gold paint on the glass, Paul sat up in his bed. Shivering, he was drenched in a feverish sweat. He tugged at his damp blankets, shifting the aroma of sour sleep and stale alcohol. The smell from outside, assumed its territory in the small room, finding it’s way through cracks in the cardboard and plastic boards that lined the room’s interior. Like an elephant in a cramped space, the smell trumpeted its offensive presence. The room was small and dark. There were no windows. What light there was seeped through the glass of the office door. The east wall was made from an old Coke Is It billboard with a picture of a blond boy sitting on a soccer ball and drinking a Coke. The remaining walls and roof weremadefromaninterestingcoalitionofplasticsheets,corrugatedzinc,fencing wire and wooden panels, each reflecting the occupant’s odd encounters 86 with employment. Paul gagged and pulled the blankets over his head, saliva dribbled down the corner of his mouth. ‘Wyk Satan loop duiwel,’ he cursed, wiping the dribble from his chin. The stench imprisoned his being. Long fingertips of the setting sun filtered through the glass pane as if trying to reach him. The sick man groaned and cursed again, before his attention was caught by a spider spinning a web in a crevice above the door. He marvelled at how nimbly it ran back and forth along the door’s hinge creating its home. ‘MaThonisa! A child’s voice from outside interrupted his thoughts. ‘MaThonisa!’ It was Maggie’s nickname. She was on the other side of the road making her way ‘home’ with his friend Charles, who was pushing a wheelbarrow laden with crates of beer. The child, a small girl of about four, called again as she ran towards them. Their figures disappeared from her view for a moment as a garbage truck drove by. ‘MaThonisa did you buy me sweets?’ The child shouted across the road. Paul felt the truck rattle the room, raising black dust and shaking the web to which the spider clung. Maggie, shaking her head, waved at the little girl, momentarily diverted from her discussion. The child retreated sadly into the inconsistent arrangement of the settlement. Originating from the depths of rural Limpopo, a little over a year previously , Maggie had recently claimed the informal title of Paul’s ‘wife’. It had happened after one of his regular month-end, beer-buying binges, which had attracted the usual crowd of drinkers gathered outside his gold-lettered door on plastic chairs. It was then that Maggie and her sister , freshly washed and made up, had sauntered over in dresses that revealed enough flesh to tongue-tie the drunken conversation and replace it with drooling stares. ‘Hey guys,’ Maggie’s sister had shyly twisted her body in the innocent schoolgirl way that men find irresistible. Maggie, the red dust of her father ’s kraal still in her eyes, had stood stiff and uncomfortable beside her. ‘We’re very thirsty,’ the older girl continued, thrusting a finger into her mouth, ‘for some cool, brown drink.’ Giggling and smiling, she had slowly rubbed her spit-covered digit over her exposed thigh. The tongue-tied men had burst into a chorus of laughter. 87 Everything is Nice, Zimbulele ‘Oh brown cool drink, you like it too!’ ‘Ha!Charles,gettheladiessomething,they’rethirsty,’Paulhadordered. ‘Eh, you, woman, come thit here on ungkel...