9

There's something about love that makes you not see straight, not think straight and not even care that you are not thinking straight. I am talking about that love that's settled deep inside, unshakable and unmovable. A love we don't choose but chooses us. The love that stays even when we hate, even when we don’t create space for it, it chooses a corner to sit unseen in.

Family love.

I don't think we have a choice in it, I strongly believe we're simply wired to love our families no matter what. Even when we hate them and sever all ties with them, it will always be there. we wont even know its there, but it never goes away.And sometimes, it makes us do very stupid things. Like meet our mothers when we know we really should not even try it.

Maybe that is what pushes me to dress up for my mother like this. I lay out the clothes on my bed neatly. To anyone else I won't be dressing up. It's the same white that seems to wrap around my body everyday. I,too, sometimes feel like I am drowning in it. These are just way too many folds of white.

It is white white and even more white.

But it reflects who we are inside.

Pure, true and untainted.

Am I that though? With all the nicotine I have been subjecting my body too. All the feelings and thoughts I have been entertaining in my mind when all I should be thinking of is the great kingdom of God.

I look into the mirror.

All is vanity.

I hear my mother whisper in my mind, crouching next to me. I am five again. I am learning to live a Godly life, breath by breath. I nod and smile at my mother. Eager to please. And maybe it is this good dose of eagerness that sees me in a flowing long white shirt.

And a long sleeved blouse.

Carefully I wrap the white scurf around my head. My hair is hidden, my skin is hidden. Nothing I am wearing suggests 'naked'. Nothing I am wearing is tempting enough. And that is the point.my mouth drops moment in an epiphany moment. I have to be like this, so that I may not tempt men-because its never men’s fault when they are tempted. I gasp from this realization. My hands reach for my skirt and I lift it up to stare at it, for what I am not sure. But why really, is it my fault when someone is tempted?

I leave my room, letting the hem of my skirt sweep the floor.

In this moment I feel nothing. Which is what I should feel. A well of nothingness.

In the living room, by the lonely coffee table, I hear Summer giggle in Tsitsi's room. Why did she follow us here last night? And why haven't they come out since morning?

I say a prayer, so that I may be freed from these ungodly thoughts lest the Lord comes and finds me unprepared.

My father's black Merc whisks me to Rainbow Towers.

Isn't this vanity too? The luxury lunches, the luxury cars? Shouldn't we be denying ourselves the luxuries of this world and look up to the everlasting ones God is preparing for us.

You don't question.

My mother is dressed just like me. And like me she walks stiffly, as if all these clothes are suffocating us. We stop in front of each other. We are mirrors. My mother is me from another world, from the future as I stiffle my daughter's voice under the pretense of a holy life.

I am a reconstruction of what my mother's life should have looked like. And she seems pleased with herself.

I swallow, hard.

"Shalom, sister,"the words escape her lips with a sucking sound. It is a whisper. There is no judgement laced in her tone. Or at least I cannot tell. There is no hint of the anger from the other day.

There is just my mother, the saint.

"Blessed be the chosen,"I respond, the words escaping my lips in a hiss too. I, it seems, have somehow reduced myself to what is expected of me. To be what my mother failed to be. In the seconds I have met with her, I have shrunk back into nondescript place. How much programming have I absorbed into this body and mind to so easily slip into my old ways?

"We may sit,"she smiles. It comes out as a stretch of her lips, pulling up her cheeks giving her a curious expression. I wonder if she would have smile lines if she laughed often. If everything she did was not so carefully calculated.

I don't point out how vain it is that we are having lunch at this luxurious hotel. I take my seat.

Stiffly.

**********

"The pastor says it would do your soul good if you would spend a week praying with him," I knew at some point she would mention Masimba. Not in a direct way. Not to mention him as a man. But as the one who sits closer to the son of God. As the one who intercedes for us. Even without intending to, when she talks about him her voice drops a degree, she takes the inferior position of someone talking about someone who has something way greater than she has.

"What does God say?," I do not know where it comes from. I clamp my mouth shut as soon as the words escape my mouth. I think I can feel them, heavy and thick, lingering between us. I duck my head.

What I have just said shows how unclean I am. I have spoken like someone who doesn't know the light. Who doesn't know that the pastor is the only one who speaks to God directly.

"I am sure He forgives you, child," is all my mother says. I can feel her eyes on me. Burning and accusing.

If we were normal she would say "I don't recognize you anymore. What have you become?,"

And I would throw a fit.

Tell her how much of a burden it is to try to live someone else's life and stomp out of here.

But we are not close to normal. We are robots in some way. We don't own ourselves. We can't afford to.

So we pick up our cutlery like I didn't just slip a second ago and continue eating. My mind wanders, but I remain alert. I am aware of every sound, so that I may hear when Mother whispers something to me.

It is a good thing I didn't tell Tsitsi where I was going.

She might have insisted on coming. And she would have made it everything worse. I start counting the seconds until I can get out of here.

********

"Where is Summer?," I ask as I stand by my door. I am just coming from the longest lunch of my life. I am tired but with too much adrenaline at the same time. I just need to sit down, and stare at Tsitsi's painting for hours.

She is standing by the kitchen door, in tiny shorts with flour on her face. She is , in a word, messy.

I envy her.

But then I envy everything about her.

She knows what she is, I am still trying to find out.

"Left hours ago. Where are you coming from," she asks casually. I can tell she doesn't care where I am coming from. To her it is a perfunctory question. The answer doesn't matter.

Or maybe it would matter if I told the truth.

But I don't.

"Praying,"

"Oh.. take me with you next time, "she turns to go back into the kitchen, whistling. "Qhawe? Are you okay with Summer spending the night here last night?," She asks, stopping.

"Why wouldn't I be," with that I turn my doorknob and step into my room. Maybe if I owned my voice I would tell her that no I am not. That I hate how Summer is free and happy. How she looks at me with those glistening eyes and say "Lighten up Qhawe!,".

Most of all I hate how she hangs on Tsitsi's every word.

But I don't say it.

I somehow miss how my room back home is for nothing else but sleeping. And of course my secret hours spent sitting on the window seat smoking. Hours stretch on forever but I hardly notice.

I mean I don't even have a mirror back there.

There is nothing you might want to keep up with. Not your appearance. Not the time because it was only punctuated by the private tutors changing. I step out of my clothes and go sit on the window seat with only my panties on.

I wonder if Mother has arrived home now, I wonder if she is giving Father a feedback of our lunch together.

I wonder if across the living room Tsitsi is cooking something. Probably shaking her behind to one of her loud songs openly singing about her private parts.

I roll the blunt, slowly and methodically with the ease of someone who has been doing it since the beginning of time. Here I can tell time.

I can tell if I am gaining weight or not. Here, there is awareness. Of my surroundings, of Tsitsi's cooking and painting.

Of my sad, sad life.

I look out of the window at the static life out there. I imagine I am a tree, standing rigid there. My leaves fluttering every now and then. I imagine I am a tree, now knowing when someone will come with a saw and cut me down and give me a new life.

I am aware of my door opening. She tries to be quiet about it but in this silence you can hear a pin drop. Somehow she can tell I am aware of her presence. Maybe she thinks it's the smell of cheese that gave her away.

But it is her contrast to the quiet sad life I live that gave her away. She walks towards me, the smell of cheese becoming stronger and stronger. I pull on the blunt.

This is heaven.

As I imagine it.

"Macaroni cheese,"she announces as she sits opposite me. I finally look at her. I will myself to ignore her beauty but it is difficult close to impossible. Maybe it was the steamy kitchen, but her cheeks have a sweaty glow to them. The tips of my fingers tingle with the urge to touch that smooth skin.

I pull on my blunt.

"I can share if you promise to share that,"she cocks an eyebrow at me. I smile. I pull.

Then I hand her the blunt which she takes willingly. She pulls as I spoon a good size of the macaroni and toss it into my mouth. I am, in my mind, trying to make sense of my lunch today with Mother. I am trying to reconstruct everything, to lay it before me and straighten it out. And make out a meaning to it.

Obviously she wants me to talk to Masimba.

I don't blame her, to her he's the pastor. Our only answer to salvation. To me he is so much more. The father of my dead children who forced me to kill them. Would it have made difference had he asked for my opinion? Had he asked if I wanted to keep them? Or maybe he already knew I wanted to keep them.

But I had no choice. I never had a choice in everything that went on between the two of us. So there's no making sense of today's lunch. There is just moving on and waiting for the next time I hear from my mother. Which will probably be for a cleansing. Maybe she wants to bond?

Impossible.

"You went to see her,"Tsitsi says. It is not a question. It is not an accusation either. She has spoken it in a very low voice, so unlike her. But it communicates that she understands. That she understands why I went to see her. And she doesn't blame me for anything.

"I am sorry I didn't tell you,"I whisper and look back outside. We are on the fifth floor? Is it? But we are high enough to feel above the world. To feel like there's something we can look down at.

"I understand,"she blows the smoke into my face. I smile, for no good reason really. I take another mouthful of my food.

We are quiet again.

I wonder what she is thinking. Who she is thinking of. Maybe her parents. She is at least friendly with her mother so she can obviously think of her without falling into a deep sadness like I do. I feel like there is a gap inside me that can be filled by my mother alone.

Which means it will always stay empty. I feel the plate being taken from my hands. She sets the plate on the floor. I stare at her the entire time. She throws away the blunt without putting it out. I watch it as it floats in the air, I think I make it float in my mind. Then it is very tiny on the sidewalk down there. Like a dot.

Insignificant and unwanted.

Like me.

I feel something soft on my cheek. I turn my head and Tsitsi's mouth covers mine.