The Descent

For  a  while  after  first  coming  here,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  count  them  from day  to  day.  She  had  been  too  busy   teaching  hygiene   and  caring  for  the   ill  and distributing  food  and  arranging  the  drill  for  a  well  and  the  tin  sheeting  for  roofs.  But after  a  couple  of  months  she  had  grown  more  sensitive  to  the  dwindling  numbers. When she asked, it was explained with a shrug that people came and people went.

It  was not until she had caught them red-handed  that the terrible  truth  surfaced. When  she  first  had  come  upon  them  in  the  bush  one  day,  Ali  had  thought  it  was hyenas working over  a  springbok.  Perhaps  she  should  have  guessed  before.  Certainly it seemed  that someone else could have  told her.

Without  thinking,  Ali  had  pulled  the  two  skeletal  men  away  from  the  old  woman they  were  strangling. She had struck  one with  a  stick  and  driven  them  away.  She  had misunderstood everything,  the men's motive, the old lady's tears.

This  was  a  colony  of  very  sick  and  miserable  human  beings.  But  even  reduced  to desperation, they  were  not without mercy.

The  fact was, the lepers practiced euthanasia.

It  was  one  of  the  hardest  things  Ali  had  ever  wrestled  with.  It  had  nothing  to  do with  justice,  for  they  did  have  the  luxury  of  justice.  These  lepers  –  hunted,  hounded, tortured,  terrorized  – were  living out their days  on the edge of a wasteland.  With  little left to do  but  die  off,  there  were  few  ways  left  to  show  love  or  grant  dignity.  Murder, she had finally accepted, was one of them.

They  only  terminated  a  person  who  was  already  dying  and  who  asked.  It  was always done away  from camp, and it was always  carried out by  two or more people,  as quickly  as  possible.  Ali  had  crafted  a  sort  of  truce  with  the  practice.  She  tried  not  to

see  the  exhausted  souls  walking  off  into  the  bush,  never  to  return.  She  tried  not  to count their numbers. But disappearance had a  way  of  pronouncing  a  person,  even  the silent ones you barely  noticed otherwise.

She  went  through  the  faces  again.  It  was   Jimmy   Shako,  the   elder,   they   were missing. Ali hadn't realized Jimmy Shako was  so  ill  or  so  generous  as  to  unburden  the community of his presence. 'Mr Shako is gone,' she said matter-of-factly.

'He gone,' Kokie readily agreed.

'May he rest  in peace,' Ali said, mostly for her own benefit.

'Don't t'ink so, Mother. No rest  for him. We trade  him off.'

'You what?' This was a new one.

'This for that. We give him away.'

Suddenly Ali wasn't sure  she  wanted  to  know  what  Kokie  meant.  There  were  times when  it  seemed  Africa  had  opened  to  her  and  she  knew  its  secrets.  Then  times  like this, when the secrets  had no  bottom.  She  asked  just  the  same:  'What  are  you  talking about, Kokie?'

'Him. For you.'

'For me.' Ali's voice sounded tiny in her ears.

'Ya'as, mum. That  man no good. He saying come get you  and  give  you  down.  But  we give  him,  see.'  The  girl  reached  out  and  gently  touched  the  beaded  necklace  around Ali's neck. 'Ever'ting okay  now. We take  care of you, Mother.'

'But who did you give Jimmy to?'

Something was roaring in the background. Ali  realized  it  was  bluebonnets  stirring  in the  soft  breeze.  The  rustle  of  stems  was  thunderous.  She  swallowed  to  slake  her  dry throat.

Kokie's answer was simple. 'Him,' she said.

'Him?'

The  bluebonnets'  sea  roar  elided  into  the  engine  noise  of  the  nearing  Casspir.  Ali's time had arrived.

'Older-than-Old,  Mother.  Him.'  Then  she  said  a  name,  and  it  contained  several clicks and a whisper in that elevated  tone.

Ali   looked   more   closely   at   her.   Kokie   had   just   spoken   a   short   phrase   in proto-Khoisan. Ali tried it aloud. 'No, like this,' Kokie said, and repeated  the words  and clicks. Ali got it right this time, and committed it to memory.

'What does it mean?' she asked.

'God, mum. The  hungry God.'

Ali had thought to know these  people, but they  were  something else. They  called her Mother  and  she  had  treated  them  as  children,  but  they  were  not.  She  edged  away from Kokie.

Ancestor  worship  was  everything.  Like  ancient  Romans  or  modern-day  Shinto,  the Khoikhoi deferred  to their dead in spiritual matters.  Even  black  evangelical  Christians believed  in  ghosts,  threw  bones  for  divining  the  future,  sacrificed  animals,  drank potions,  wore  amulets,  and  practiced  gei-xa  –  magic.  The  Xhosa  tribe  pinned  its genesis on a mythical race called xhosa – angry  men.  The  Pedi  worshiped  Kgobe.  The Lobedu  had  their  Mujaji,  a  rain  queen.  For  the  Zulu,  the  world  hinged  upon  an omnipotent  being  whose  name  translated  as  Older-than-Old.  And  Kokie  had  just spoken the name in that protolanguage. The  mother tongue.