‘You always knew so much about flowers, Toloki. What are these called?’
‘Zinnias.’
‘Thank you very much, Toloki.’
‘I am sorry they don’t smell nicely. . like roses.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Toloki. They remind me so much of the flowers you used to draw with crayons at school.’
‘I could have put a dash of perfume in each one. But I had left it at my headquarters when I picked them for you.’
‘They are fine the way they are.’
She tells him that she is staying with friends, until she can rebuild her shack. She explains that after killing her son, they came and petrol-bombed her home. She fled with only the clothes on her back. Toloki wonders about the identity of ‘they’. She talks as though she is talking with someone who knows the facts of this tragedy. But he will be discreet. He will not ask too many questions.
She touches his hand. Her hand is warm and slightly damp. Something stirs in him. Something he has not felt in his life. Could it be pity? No. She certainly is not a pitiful figure, in spite of those plaintive eyes. She exudes strength that Toloki can definitely feel. She looks beautiful, this Noria, standing surrounded by debris, holding flowers of different colours. For the first time in his life he sees her as a woman. Not just as Noria the stuck-up bitch, daughter of That Mountain Woman. What he is feeling now is perhaps akin to what people have described as love. But then he made up his mind a long time ago that he was not capable of such feelings. They are common feelings for common people. They are taboo in his vocation, since he has cast himself in the mould of holy men in remote mountain monasteries. He has not had a personal relationship of any kind with a woman since he became a Professional Mourner. Before that, when he had just arrived in the city, he had a number of intimate friendships with many women. He has long forgotten who they were and how they looked. Perhaps he has met some of them in the cemeteries, or maybe others have passed him at the quayside as he has watched the cargo ships clumsily disembark sailors into the arms of eager prostitutes. They wouldn’t remember him either, for the salty winds have ravaged his face, leaving deep gullies. There is one thing he never forgets though, by which he can identify each one of them: their moans and screams. Each steamy moan has a life of its own in his memory. These breathless sounds have sustained him through many a drought, and through them unformed children who would never know the warmth of the womb have been spewed on his hand.
‘I shall help you to rebuild, Noria.’
‘You are very kind, Toloki.’
‘Where I live, at the docklands, there is a lot of material that you can use for rebuilding.’
‘How would we get it here?’
‘Plastic and canvas would not be a problem. I can carry them in a bundle in the taxi. Sheets of corrugated iron would present a problem. But one can always find a way.’
‘Let us go to Shadrack’s place. He might help us.’
They walk to another part of the settlement, to visit Shadrack, who is known to his friends as Bhut’Shaddy. There are two shipping containers in his yard. One serves as his house, and the other one is used as a spaza shop. Noria explains that the spaza shop, which means pseudo-shop, because it is not licensed and operates from his home, sells essential groceries such as matches, candles, paraffin and mealie-meal. It is much more expensive than the stores in town, or even in the townships, but it serves a very useful purpose for the residents of the informal settlement as it is close and convenient. Toloki notes that Noria never refers to the area as a squatter camp, or to the residents as squatters. Shadrack, Noria says, is the wealthiest member of the settlement. That is why he lives in a shipping container, instead of a makeshift shelter of newspapers, plastic, canvas and corrugated iron sheets, like the rest of the residents. He recently bought a taxi that conveys commuters between the city and the settlement. He has been blessed with good fortune because he is a good Christian, and is a member of Amadodana, the men’s league of the Methodist Church.
The skorokoro van of the funeral is parked outside. From underneath it, the slight driver he saved from the wedding party bully yesterday emerges. He apologises for his dusty and greasy look, for he has been repairing his van. Then he reaches out and shakes first Noria’s hand, and then Toloki’s. Noria says, ‘We need your help, Bhut’Shaddy. Toloki knows of a place where I can get some material to rebuild my house.’ Shadrack says yes, he would like to help Noria, just as he did yesterday. But she would have to pay for the petrol. ‘I do not have any money,’ Noria says. ‘Even yesterday the burial society paid for the petrol.’ Toloki wants to know how much it will cost, and when he is told the price, he says, ‘I have some money. I’ll pay for the petrol.’ He thinks it is rather steep, but fortunately he can afford it.
‘No, I cannot take your money, Toloki. You need it too.’
‘Take it, Noria. Your need is greater than mine.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘As long as there are funerals, I’ll survive.’
Shadrack laughs. ‘How do people survive on funerals?’ he wants to know. Toloki explains to him, and also for Noria’s benefit, the intricacies of his vocation. ‘Oh, so that is how it works? I have never been to a funeral where there is a Professional Mourner,’ Noria says. Shadrack wants to know why, if his services are to the benefit of humankind, the people did not want him yesterday.
‘Those were people who wanted to hoard all the mourning to themselves. We do come across such greed sometimes.’
‘You did not know it was Noria’s child they were burying?’
‘I did not know. For Noria’s child, I would have mourned free of charge.’
‘I did not know of your profession, Toloki. Homeboys and homegirls say you work as a beggar in the city, and you go to funerals to mooch food off the bereaved.’
‘Those are people who want to dirty my name, Noria. You know that even back in the village they never liked me.’
‘You will have to excuse me, people. We can talk while I repair the van. Then I can drive you to the docklands.’
He gets under his skorokoro van again, and while he is tinkering away, he tells them about the occupational hazards he encounters on a day-to-day basis while trying to improve his life, and the lives of his fellow residents. When he bought the kombi, he says, he was sure that he had cursed hunger away from the door of his house forever. But that kombi has caused him more problems than it is really worth. First he had to struggle to get a taxi licence. He had to join one of the two taxi associations that are at loggerheads with each other. He had to pay bribes to middlemen and to government officials. Then he got the licence, and thought that all his problems were over. They were not. Taxi wars erupted, with the two taxi associations fighting over routes. His driver was gunned down in one of these clashes.
As if this was not enough, his own son was killed by migrants from the hostels. They abducted him, together with three other people they picked up at random in the streets. They took them to the hostel where they set them free and asked them to run away. As they ran, the inmates fired at them to test their guns. His son, who was a matric student, and another young man were instantly killed. ‘They don’t know me, and they don’t know my child. Why did they do it?’ Noria tells him that indeed all our deaths are senseless. ‘And you know, what is worse is that I am of the same ethnic group as those hostel dwellers. The tribal chief who has formed them into armies that harass innocent residents merely uses ethnicity as an excuse for his own hunger for power. I am from the same clan as this blood-soaked tribal chief.’